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"Four Stars! This fantasy is totally captivating and the multifaceted story appeals on many levels. Fantasy is woven into the romance in a way that will satisfy even the most demanding reader of both genres." Romantic Times Book Club
MARIAH’S LOVE
By
Louise Crawford
© copyright Louise Crawford, March 2002
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my husband and daughter for living with a writer--not an easy thing to do. Also, thanks and gratitude to my writing buddies who read this book (and many others) and offered not only their criticism but their support as well. Thank you, Jennifer Helgren, Susan Scheibel, Suzanne Suzuki, Cleo Kocol, and John Vester.
Louise Feaver Crawford
Prologue
In the final minutes of daylight, Chadyk Commander Rathyn scrambled up the forested knoll, forcing his way through the tangle of vines and tree limbs. They scratched his arms, stung his face. He silently cursed his height and bulk, sure he'd lost half the skin on his forearms. The tall, slender Syrithian warriors fighting against his men in the clearing below were better suited to this canopied terrain. A limb caught his hair and yanked several ebony strands from his scalp. A black beetle buzzed by his ear. He swore under his breath.
The spot had seemed ideal to watch Captain Stephanos command over a thousand men, to assess the men as a fighting unit, and finally to witness a triumph against the determined Syrithians.
"Victory! For Commander Rathyn! For the Emperor!" Carried on the chill breeze, the cheers of his men rose like a distant echo from two hundred feet below.
Maybe after today, the stubborn Syrithian queen would deign to meet with him and listen to his peace proposal.
"She'd rather die than parley with a Chadyk," Captain Stephanos had informed him before the battle. Rathyn's throat tightened. He did not want the blood of a woman on his hands ever. Not even one rumored to be a barbarian enchantress, a Spirit-woman.
At the top of the knoll, he spied a clearing, then heard a whisper of movement from the other side. Reflexively, he dropped to the thick bed of damp winter leaves. Though his armor breastplate dug into his hips, he took a slow, quiet breath, noting the sharp scent of eucalyptus and the more subtle, pervasive odor of mold.
From the tangle of vegetation a figure emerged: tall, graceful, face shadowed by a hood, swathed in a belted sky blue robe with a white-circled insignia on the shoulder. By Tyryk, a Syrithian council member! Alone?
The curves beneath the robe bespoke a woman's shape. With quick, lithe steps away from him, she strode to the bare patch he'd meant to claim, and peered down at the battle.
A captive member of the ruling council would be a great advantage. He tensed his arms, lifted his hips and brought one leg up beneath him, ready to spring.
He froze as her belt slipped to the ground, then the hooded robe. His breath caught in his throat. Here stood the moon goddess his men whispered of, the enchantress of the night that none could withstand, a sensuous combination of muscle and taut skin, the tiniest of waists sloping into the seductive curve of supple buttocks and long slender legs. Her braided silver hair was wrapped about her head like a thick crown which glowed in the dying light. Her alabaster skin, like pale, glimmering satin, appeared dusted by stars. His hands tingled at the thought of touching her, and he thirsted to taste her perfection. Lightning seared through his veins and engulfed him in a fire unlike any he'd ever imagined. Heat wove through his belly into his groin.
He blinked. Sweat dripped into his eye and stung, yet he remained still, lest the vision of beauty vanish like a twilight mist, become only a dream, tormenting him forever.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, the sound filled with such sorrow, that he was tempted to show himself to comfort her. She would never accept the solace of a Chadyk. She stepped sideways, turning slightly, her gaze fixed on the battle below. He lifted his head higher to better see the rise and fall of her full breasts, high and proud as the tilt of her head, the strong line of her jaw. His gaze slid lower and his mouth went dry as the sun-burnt grass of his distant home.
Lust and obligation warred in his brain. He'd learn more by watching than by taking her prisoner - Syrithian captives never talked unless tortured, which unlike his predecessor, he refused to allow.
His pulse raced with a passion that reminded him of the first flush of manhood and desire. I'm thirty-three, not some love-sick youth, he reminded himself. Yet the woman's presence staggered him, filled him with images of lovemaking. But she was Syrithian. He was Chadyk. He should capture her. Now.
He rose to his feet like a man caught in a dream, strangely reluctant to disturb so perfect a vision. Was he under a spell? Did she have the power his people feared? Four quick strides and you will have her in your arms, a part of him whispered.
A twig snapped under his boot and he cursed his luck. His heart hammered in his chest as she whirled toward him, eyes wide, lips parted. On her forehead shimmered a silver crescent - the fabled shapechanger's mark! His mind reeled. Was she a Spirit-woman? He shoved down alarm.
For a few seconds their gazes met. Like a man might do to a woman he admired, her slightly tilted, wide-set eyes drank him in, their silver-blue hue darkening to azure. Though obviously defenseless, she stood firm, chin set defiantly. Suspicious, he drew his knife and stepped toward her. Desire fought with duty. "Surrender and you won't be harmed."
Her full lips curled with disdain. "Surrender to a Chadyk dog?" she scoffed in his tongue, her voice full and rich as the purest gold.
The knife slipped from his grasp as white light seared his vision. He staggered backward, shielded his face and squinted into the array. The woman vanished into a white haze. Then a new form emerged.
By the gods, the stories were true!
A great white horse reared before him. Hooves large enough to crush a man's chest thundered to the ground, barely missing his toes. Distant cheers of Chadyk victory rose from the clearing below.
He should draw his sword, defend himself, but the steed's fierce majesty immobilized him. Her nostrils flared, warm breath grazing his throat. For a moment she studied him, then she leaped past him and crashed through the undergrowth, her silver mane flashing before she vanished into the trees.
Rathyn stifled the urge to run after her. By now, she was halfway down the knoll.
Annoyed with his own inaction, he bent and traced the hoofmark in the hard, cold earth and vowed softly, "The next time we meet, you will not escape."
Chapter One
"So you think this must be a trick," Rathyn said to Captain Stephanos as he eyed the foreign landscape. Perhaps he'd made a mistake in accepting the Emperor's commission.
The young Captain muttered, "The Syrithians hate us. They're not interested in peace."
Striding through his army, Rathyn nodded at faces he recognized from other wars, other places. Three weeks here and he'd barely spent any time among the men; what did it matter out here in the farthest reaches of the Empire? He might as well be dead. His predecessor, Marcus the Butcher, had driven their age-old enemy, the Kahns, back into the desert, then created a new enemy of the mysterious Syrithians, allies in that struggle. Bordered by ocean and rock on one side, river valley, forest, and desert on the other, this newest battleground was a massacre waiting to happen. He tried to tell himself he didn't give a damn, but some small part of him insisted he did. He glanced at the captain. "Marcus's reports said the Syrithians are incapable of lying.” He didn't add that Marcus had tortured hundreds of captives, all of whom screamed prayers to their Goddess with their dying breaths, but nothing else. "So we must be safe enough."
The captain nodded, his face tight.
At the edge of the battleground, Rathyn gestured to two men, his aide and Gathias, to join him. Gathias had fought with him many times against the Kahns and had been here under Marcus's command.
Crossing the neutral plain on horseback would have taken only minutes, but on foot, even with Rathyn's long strides, the field stretched out around him in unending green. Before him, the scurrying movement of silver in sunlight grew larger and more ominous as the blur became individual bodies, faces.
Flanked by the three men, his gaze fixed on the round tent-like shelter three hundred feet behind the enemy ranks. Gathias carried the white flag of truce, and held it aloft as they drew closer. His tone higher-pitched than usual, he said, "Strange the Syrithian queen would change her mind now."
Rathyn answered soothingly, "Maybe this latest loss gave her a taste for peace.” His thoughts suddenly veered to his unearthly vision during the last battle's final moments. Half convinced he'd imagined the goddess-woman and the white horse she'd become, the spurt of hope that he might see the woman today irritated him. This infatuation with a dream was ridiculous.
Gathias grinned. "She must have heard of your handsome face."
Rathyn snorted, dark thoughts of his dead wife and son plowing through his mind. His physical attributes had not saved them from the risks of birthing that had taken them. He forced his thoughts back to the queen. He, too, was surprised she had agreed to meet with him.
Wanting to ease his own tension and that of his men as they neared the Syrithian camp, he jested, "By all accounts the queen is a goddess, a witch, a Spirit-woman, a demon, a horse.” He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "More likely she's stubborn as a mule and looks like one too."
His men chuckled. Seconds later, they crossed the enemy line. The Syrithian warriors, men and women, closed in behind him. Daggers of hate shone in their silvery-blue eyes, but not one uttered a disrespectful sound or lifted a threatening hand.
Admiration and curiosity surged through him for a queen who commanded this fierce fighting force with such discipline. He found it hard to believe a woman ran an army and managed complex battle strategies; yet for three years she had successfully resisted Marcus's best efforts to conquer them. The beginning of a headache prickled at his scalp. By the Gods, he had no wish to war against women. She must agree to the Emperor's peace treaty.
Stephanos leaned toward Rathyn and whispered, "The female guard with the crescent mark on her forehead is a shapechanger, sir."
Rathyn swept the area surrounding the tent with his gaze. He found the female guard, felt the sting of disappointment. She bore the striking silvery hair and eyes all Syrithians possessed, but she was not the one. He murmured, "Witches, shapechangers, demons," he snorted derisively, "tales to explain Marcus's failure to defeat a race led by women."
The flicker of fear in the young Captain's eyes said he remained unconvinced.
Over the tent, a blue standard flapped in the autumn breeze. From what Rathyn understood, blue represented the queen's tribe.
Gathias, still holding the white flag, stepped forward as Rathyn halted. "Remember, the rest of the council will be with the queen, watching and measuring your conduct," Gathias said. "They, too, must agree to the treaty."
Rathyn nodded to the grizzled soldier, then gestured to Stephanos to follow him. Stephanos had learned some of the foreign tongue from a Syrithian slave sent back to Chadyk by Marcus. The captain could translate.
The two male Syrithian guards at the entrance were almost Rathyn's height. Although their physical build reminded him of slender saplings, their fierce, unflagging strength and determination in battle more resembled the tenacity of bulldogs back home.
Hand on the hilt of his sword, he bent and shoved aside the tent flap. Inside it was nearly bright as the day, despite only one opening to the tent. Inhaling the scent of oil and wood, he stood in the large circular space, gaze skidding from the torches, to the mail-clad woman flanked by four men and three women. The queen and the ruling council.
His heart skipped a beat as the queen stepped forward, the close-fitting chain mail and leggings accentuating her full breasts, tiny waist, and rounded hips. His blood thundered in his ears. He blinked, his mouth suddenly desert dry.
By Tyryk, it was her! His dream woman. The goddess that had transformed into a great white horse and joined the battle. The queen!
In the flickering light, her silver hair glowed, a thick braid that trailed below her hips. He imagined it undone, a waterfall of silk cascading to her knees. His pulse raced. Her silver-blue eyes showed a flicker of surprise, then regarded him in silence. He drank in her oval face, flawless skin, rosebud lips. Too easily his imagination painted her at his disposal, clothed in fine garments as a woman of her status should be, or better, naked in his bed. By the Gods, the stories of the barbarian enchantress's beauty were true. He wanted to spout poetry, not peace treaty doctrine.
Like a green shoot pushing through the crumbling bark of a dead tree, he felt a quickening, a fire spark in his soul that he'd thought extinguished. He bowed, amazed that at thirty-three he could suddenly feel like an adolescent with his first love. Could she have cast a spell with merely a look? The shapechanger's crescent glittered on her brow. He felt a trickle of fear that he quickly squelched. Spells and witches were for the ignorant.
The queen's set expression challenged his manufactured calm. She inclined her head to him only enough to acknowledge his presence, as one acknowledged a servant. An insult?
His jaw tightened as he gripped his sword hilt, but he forced a tight smile. "I am Commander Rathyn, second in power to the Emperor. Please understand that I speak for him.” A man he didn't like. He pushed the galling thought down. "I thank your Majesty for this meeting, and hope we can come to amicable terms of peace.” Did she understand? She knew enough to call him a Chadyk dog, he recalled. Uncomfortable because he knew only a few Syrithian words, he stifled the impulse to pace the tent's interior. He motioned to Stephanos to hand over the terms of peace he'd had written and translated. A male council member stepped forward and took the scroll, glanced at it, then handed it to another council member behind him, where Rathyn lost sight of it. Now what? He locked eyes with the queen whose name he did not even know.
She said nothing. The proud tilt of her chin remained, her cool silver-blue eyes measuring him, making him feel like a horse at market. Was she so unimpressed?
Irritated, he murmured to Stephanos, "Maybe she'd like to see my teeth."
For a moment, he could have sworn amusement flashed in her expression. Surprised, he squelched his annoyance and forced a grin. If she wanted to see his teeth, so be it. It would be a cheap price for an end to this war.
Her lips curved the tiniest bit, reminding him of their first encounter, before she'd transformed. Now, as then, the air between them stirred. His skin tingled, heightening his awareness of her. He heard every whisper of breath that escaped her lips, saw every beat of her heart, every blink of her silver-tipped lashes. The only hint of anxiety lay in the way her hand tightened and relaxed around the hilt of her sword. For a moment he found himself wondering what kind of world created such a formidable woman? More astounding, he found her unfeminine attire and confident stance as seductive as every enticing curve. Something shimmered briefly in her eyes. Admiration? Or had he imagined it?
It was all he could do to keep his hands from encircling her waist and drawing her to him. But he was not twenty in some tavern with a willing wench.
One of the councilwomen glided forward, shorter than the queen but with the same voluptuous curves beneath her robes. Hatred burned in the woman's eyes, marring her beauty. As though expecting some signal, the queen glanced at the woman. What were they up to?
The queen's lush lips parted and she murmured something to the councilwoman. Rathyn couldn't tear his gaze from the Syrithian leader. Her mail glimmered in the torchlight, emphasizing her curves, distracting him with thoughts that had no place here. His fingers itched to span her waist, his palms to cup her breasts. He would need to lower his head less than a hand's-width to capture her mouth with his, taste her lips and more. Her proximity fired his blood and he swore he could smell the scent of her skin, like the wild roses in Spartyk. He reminded himself of her position and his. Lovemaking was not a part of the treaty.
The councilwoman spoke Syrithian to the queen. Rathyn caught Marcus's name but little else. Stephanos stepped close and whispered, "The woman, Salia, reminds the queen that you are worse than a Kahn dog, for you are Chadyk and cannot be trusted, that any treaty you offer is worthless.” Rathyn felt his jaw tighten, but kept a bland countenance.
The queen gestured at the woman. "This is our Seer."
Her voice teased his ears with its sensuality. A voice made to sing a man's praises and murmur endearments of love.
Her tone hardened. "She believes you to be as evil as Marcus. But I would see for myself if you lie like the Butcher.” She spat the last and something in him recoiled at the abrupt angry fire in her eyes, as though the half-smile and admiration had been a mirage brought on by his desire... maybe so. Now, her fingers gripped the hilt of her sword, as though begging for a hostile act to end the truce. The Syrithian council and queen suddenly reminded him of unleashed dogs, fangs glistening, bodies ready to leap and tear out his throat at the slightest provocation. All were swathed in the blue council robes that could easily hide weapons. Only the queen openly wore a sword and knife and battle dress.
After three weeks of attempting to reach her and convince her the Chadyk Emperor wanted peace, every muscle in his body tensed with the apprehension he might instead trigger further war.
"The terms I've given are negotiable. Look them over, then we can discuss any changes you desire.” He had the attention of the entire council, could see from the queen's face she had not expected his conciliatory tone. No one spoke. Now came the hard part, an apology that he knew was a damned lie. He said, "Commander Marcus was sent here to drive back the Kahns and keep our borders safe. The Emperor asked me to tell you Marcus disobeyed him in warring on your people and taking slaves. Now that he is dead - "
"Liar!" The councilwoman Salia leaped toward him, yanking a knife from the folds of her robe.
Her blade scraped his brass chestplate. Adrenaline shooting through his veins, aware he could destroy the possibility of peace if he hurt the woman, he sidestepped and caught her arm. Stronger than he'd imagined, she twisted like a serpent. The blade jabbed his wrist, drawing blood, hitting bone, stinging like a snake bite. He cursed as she pulled free.
Suddenly weapons were in everyone's hands except his and the queen's. "Salia, no!" the queen ordered, reaching toward the councilwoman.
In that instant, sword drawn, Stephanos lunged at the Seer.
Rathyn choked out, "No!" caught the captain's arm too late.
The blade pierced the woman's shoulder. She gasped as blood seeped like spilt wine down her blue robes.
Two Syrithian guards appeared. One swung his sword at Stephanos. The clang of metal rang like thunder in the enclosure as the two swords met.
Furious, Rathyn commanded, "Captain, put down your sword!" But the captain's blade had already opened the man's chest.
"Curse it all!" Rathyn lunged toward Stephanos as the second guard swung. The blade missed Rathyn's head, clanged against the captain's chestpiece, then nicked Stephanos's shoulder.
Like a whip, the queen's voice snapped "Stop!” Everyone stilled. The guard bowed his head and sheathed his weapon.
Rathyn grabbed Stephanos's arm and dragged him back a step. "Put away your sword, Captain!” The captain glared, but obeyed.
The queen gestured to a gray-haired councilwoman who knelt beside the wounded guard. Her gnarled fingers probed around the chest wound, and the man moaned. What was she doing? The blood oozing from the wound slowed and the man seemed to sleep. What kind of healing was this? Was it magic? She looked harmless enough as she addressed the queen.
The queen glanced at Rathyn. "She says he will live."
Salia, clutching her arm, fingers bloody, moved to the queen's side, her whisper venomous.
He glanced at his wrist, wiped the trickle of blood on the edge of his undertunic.
The two women continued conversing in low voices.
Rathyn cast a questioning look at Stephanos, who shook his head.
Finally, the queen nodded and stepped forward. Only an arm's-length away, her gaze speared his. "What good is a treaty if your men don't obey it? What if a new commander comes who cares not about this piece of paper?"
"That paper can only begin to build trust between our peoples," Rathyn said. Give me a chance, he entreated with his gaze.
"Trust?" she scoffed, the council members all spoke at once until she silenced them with a look, then listened to each in turn. The talk came fast, angry.
Rathyn glanced at Stephanos who again shook his head.
The queen addressed Rathyn. "The council says the same blood as Marcus the Butcher runs in your veins. You and your men. Only when all of your race are gone, or your blood drunk by the land and your bones trampled into dust shall peace return."
Did the queen agree with the council? Rathyn stood tall, straight, searched for words that might convince her to support the treaty. Before he could speak, the other old woman on the council stepped forward, whispering with quiet conviction. As the queen listened, the lines around her eyes hardened and her lips compressed. Then she said, "Go back to your Emperor and tell him there will never be peace until all Chadyks have left our land."
Rathyn felt as if she'd slapped him. He said in a deceptively soft tone that hid his frustration, "From this day on, the blood of your people and mine is on your hands. I would have your trust and claim peace. This time you are the one who chooses war."
A grim smile stole across her face, the blue in her eyes hard as stone. "No, Commander. The Butcher drew first blood three years ago.” She held up her sword as though daring him to draw his own. He didn't move. The blade and its swirled markings glimmered as bright and cold as her eyes. "Marcus represented your Emperor and betrayed our trust. He ravaged and murdered my twelve-year-old sister, the princess Terah.” Her voice cracked, pain now pulling at her lips. She took a breath as though to steady herself. "He and his men forced us to take up our swords. The same men you command.” She sheathed the blade. "I have given my word you will not be harmed while under the white flag of truce.” Her tone held regret. "Blood has been drawn on both sides. Go."
Salia hissed something to the queen, her tone curdling Rathyn's blood. If anyone was a witch, the Seer fit the part.
Shoulders tight, wondering if he and his men would really be allowed to leave, he whirled without a word and stomped from the tent. His aide and Gathias snapped to attention.
Furious, Rathyn ordered, "Stay close and be alert.” His long stride carried him through the armed throng quickly, his men hurrying to keep up. All the while he felt the queen's eyes on his back, burning like hot coals between his shoulder blades. The next time they met, he would have the upper hand, no matter what.
#
Mariah watched the new Commander leave, his long raven hair and muscular frame distinctive even at a distance. She should have trampled him upon their first meeting. She told herself her attraction was utter insanity, she was queen, and he the enemy.
A part of her twisted with such longing that she wondered if the dark God Kleyeth's evil had touched her during this parley with the Chadyk leader. For her pulse had raced when he'd entered the tent, torchlight gleaming off his brass chestplate, his purple cape hanging nobly from his broad shoulders, a perfect backdrop for his body, a thick-muscled tree trunk. His hair, jet black, fell below his shoulders in waves, and reminded her of night's velvet mantle. A brutish beauty, she thought again, upset at herself for admiring him.
The words he'd spoken about the war had been a lie, she'd sensed it just as Salia and the others. Had she also sensed his reluctance to speak those words? Sensed a true desire for peace? She told herself it was her imagination.
But he had not drawn his sword as Salia had foreseen, and both sides had spilled blood.
For the first time, doubt about Salia's abilities chewed at her. This Commander had brought written terms and offered to listen to any changes they would require for peace. Another deception, the Seer claimed.
Now, Salia touched Mariah's shoulder. "Cousin, the future is like a pool of water, always in motion. But this I know, the Emperor's heart is black as the charred bones of our dead, and neither he nor those he sends in his stead can be trusted."
The council members murmured in agreement. Mariah worked to keep her voice calm, bothered by the fact she seemed to be the only one who wanted peace. "Why did you draw your blade first? You said my words would be enough to provoke him."
The Seer lowered her eyelids, her tone regretful. "The new commander had his hand on his weapon. I... I was sure he meant to attack you."
Jarad, her friend from childhood and now a council member for the Water Tribe, stepped forward. "The Chadyk Captain wanted to kill Salia and the guard. They are all murderous, lying dogs!"
Then why had she sensed a difference in this Commander? Why had she felt peace within her grasp? Surely her attraction to the man swayed her senses. Yes. She remembered the lust shining in his dark eyes as he studied her. He was an animal like the rest of his kind. He cared nothing for what a woman might think or feel. Like Marcus. Like all Chadyks. Salia spoke truly. No Chadyk could ever be trusted. They took by force what they wanted and respected nothing.
Her husband, Ishian, shuffled toward her, the deep furrow across his brow showing his fatigue. The council had spent the night debating whether to meet the new Commander under truce or attack at first light and take them by surprise. Mariah had won the argument to at least hear the man speak, but now it was for naught and she wished they'd attacked, for this Commander - Rathyn - put treasonous thoughts of passion in her head, made her feel giddy as she'd been at thirteen before her disappointing betrothal.
She pushed thoughts of the Chadyk away, a flush of guilt warming her cheeks under Ishian's gaze. Although not the lover and husband she'd imagined in her youth and twice her twenty- seven years, their marriage bond had healed old wounds between the Wind Tribe and the Fire Tribe. Now the war against the Chadyks bound all four tribes together even more securely. Yet at what price?
Every tribe had losses, but none weighed on her more than the death of her sister who might one day have taken her place. Murdered on the verge of womanhood without blessing or prayer to guide her to the Goddess's light, Terah haunted Mariah's dreams. Her sister had been more a daughter than sibling, and as the years passed, she wondered if she'd ever have her own child.
A wave of sorrow washed over her. Still, she summoned a smile for her husband, touched his arm, grateful he was not yet totally lost to the Kahn drink Khalento. Perhaps this day he would resist its lure, she thought half-heartedly. She'd hoped for fourteen years. Now she saw the Khalento was killing him, just as it had killed any hope of lovemaking in their marriage. His only passion was for his next drink. Would she ever know more than the touch of a man compelled by duty to consummate his marriage? She closed her eyes, unwilling to remember that night. Unbidden, the image of the Chadyk Commander filled her mind. She pushed the ebony-haired giant from her thoughts, told herself he might look different than Marcus, but inside he was the same. She glanced at the others. "Prepare for battle."
"So it shall be," they all agreed in ritual manner.
"So it shall be," she echoed. Something within her rebelled, tempting her to call the council back as they filed out. What would she say, her inner voice scoffed. That they should trust this Commander because she said so? Salia's voice carried as much strength as Mariah's because Salia was a trained Seer, could sense truth and lies, touch another’s thoughts, open the future with her vision, talents Mariah knew she possessed in some small measure, but had never sought to develop. Such skills had frightened her as a child, and as queen she'd had other duties to learn.
"What is it?" Ishian asked, his haggard face concerned, his hand trembling, his next drink overdue.
Surprised he had not rushed off, she shook her head, kissed his cheek in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection.
His gaze searched hers. "I know I have not been a true husband to you... have not given you a child...."
She put her fingers to his lips. She had accepted him and their lack of physical passion just as she'd accepted the responsibility of being queen.
He gently took her hand away. "I must speak."
Her stomach tightened. Never before had he looked so grave and determined. Did he wish to resume their physical relations now? He was older than her deceased father would have been. After fourteen years of letting him play a fatherly role, she had no desire to couple.
"When this war is ended I will free you from our bond and you may choose another."
His offer astounded her. Only the lowest of the low, to be shunned by all, broke the marriage bond and shirked the responsibility of a vow. Emotion choked her. In his own way he had tried to be good to her. She shook her head. "I gave my vow to you and to the tribe. Only death will break it. And I wish for death on neither of our heads. For I am only as honorable as my actions and my words.” She hugged him, pressing her cheek against his cool face. "No greater sacrifice could you offer. I thank you, my husband.”
A glimmer of relief showed in his eyes. He put his arm through hers and together they left the tent.
Only later, in the midst of battle preparations, did she wonder why her husband made the proposal now. Had he sensed her strong attraction to the Chadyk commander?
No, she told herself as signal horns blared from one end of the battlefield to the other. What she'd felt was but a brief flame quickly extinguished. She lifted her sword and the warriors surged forward around her, the roar of their battle cry filling her ears and blotting all worries from her mind.
Chapter Two
Mariah scraped the edge of her hoof against the wood flooring to mark another day. Twenty days now since Ishian had fallen and she'd been captured trying to give him time to escape with the retreating forces.
Imprisoned in the castle tower, she clung desperately to the horse form that protected her from the Chadyks. If she resumed her woman shape she would be weak, unable to fight, and she could change from woman to horse only once every moon cycle. Over and over in her mind, she replayed the first meeting on the knoll with the Chadyk commander, wishing she'd trampled him, killed him.
But each time in the past few months when she'd met him on the battle field he'd stayed his men, forcing her and her people to begin the fight, draw first blood. To her chagrin she'd found herself admiring him more and more, doubting Salia, and wondering if he had spoken true in his message for peace, or if it could be a trick. But Salia had foretold Terah's death - and her latest prophecy, that of Ishian's fall in battle also had come to pass. Now concern for her husband's welfare plagued her. Was he dead? A prisoner? Tortured?
She stirred restlessly, the fresh straw rustling under her hooves. The chains on her legs clinked as she tested their strength. They held. The soldiers had tightened the ropes that kept her head still - Commander Rathyn would come soon. To tell her more lies. He pretended to be gentle, caring, but he lusted after her as Chadyks always lusted after the women of her race.
Oh how she craved freedom, if only long enough to crush his skull with her hooves, make Salia's prophecy of peace come true. Her own death would be small sacrifice.
Through the high window a cold rain-drenched breeze blew, making a soft mournful sound. Would she live to see the Spring? Another day?
The bolt scraped, metal against metal, and the Chadyk Commander flung the heavy door open and strode in. His midnight hair and bronze chest armor gleamed under the torchlight. He threw his purple cape back over one shoulder as though readying for battle.
Two soldiers remained at the entry. They wore chest armor, brass helmets topped with red plumes, and red capes fastened at the shoulders.
"Spirit-woman." Commander Rathyn acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head. The two soldiers shifted their gazes as Rathyn approached her, his powerful hands outstretched. She moved back the few inches her chains would allow, hating him as she hated all Chadyks. Her earlier attraction to him mocked her now.
He ran his fingers through her mane, stroked her neck. She shivered under the heat of his touch, strained against the cross-ties that held her head immobile. His stormy eyes glittered, hiding the lust she knew lurked beneath their dark hue.
If she resumed her natural shape, how many Chadyks could she kill before they dragged her down, used her to satisfy their lust? Would she die as her sister had, killing herself rather than bear a Chadyk's bastard?
The commander loosened a leather bag from his belt and dumped a small bit of what his people called sugar into his palm. He held it out.
Did he really expect her to eat it? If she could speak without resuming her woman's shape, she might have called him a fool. Stretching the few inches the ropes allowed, as if to take the sugar, she snapped at his hand. He was too quick.
His mouth became a murderous line as he brushed what was left of the white granules from his palm.
She felt a flicker of amusement, but despair lurked deep in her heart. Her twenty-seven years felt like a thousand. Married at fourteen, disappointed in her union, she'd yet grown to care for her husband like a mother would care for an errant child, to appreciate the friendship he offered. Now, the uncertainty of his fate and the fate of the council, her own captivity, all threatened to break her like an impossible weight. She was so tired of being strong! Yet she could not vent her grief, or expose her fear. If her emotions ran free, her horse shape would dissolve into the woman she truly was until the next moon cycle.
He stroked her neck again. "Most beautiful of women... Spirit-woman," Rathyn repeated as if to reassure himself. "I only wish to talk. Talk to me....”
The previous Commander, Marcus the Butcher, had said such things before setting his soldiers free to ravage, kill and burn. Flaring her nostrils, Mariah snorted and flattened her ears, wishing she could bite his hand. His plea remained the same as the day before and the day before and the day before that....
For twenty days he'd kept her here. Would his calm turn to anger as quickly as it had the previous day? Could she goad him into making a mistake?
She felt his warm breath on her forehead. He caught her muzzle and forced her to look at him. His obsidian eyes flickered with gold in the torchlight, anger and frustration in their depths. Determination was etched in the chiseled lines of his face. I will never let you go, his hardened expression promised.
Then I will kill you, she whispered in her mind.
His hand dropped to his whip. "I am running out of patience," he whispered. "I have no wish to harm your fellow prisoners. But I will if I must."
Like the previous butcher, Commander Marcus, who had no wish to hurt anyone - least of all the princess Terah? Helpless rage engulfed her, threatened to overwhelm her. No. She must stay calm.
Rathyn turned away, then nodded at the two soldiers. They left, Rathyn remained near the door.
Soon a woman's screams echoed from the bailey. Mariah's stomach clenched. Tears burned in her eyes. She stared out the tower window to the foaming sea below. Her throat constricted and for a moment she lost control, felt her horse shape grow shadowy and weak. No!
She clung to her equine shape while the sound of the whip carried on the wind, hissing and snapping like a twisted leather snake, its fangs drawing new tortured screams. Closing her eyes, she whinnied softly, as the woman below whimpered, "Mercy... mercy...."
The cries stopped.
She must not give in. She felt nothing. But the silence convicted her. As long as she refused to take her natural shape, Rathyn would punish her people.
Had it only been three years since this madness began? She remembered the first Chadyk ship's arrival, their fierce fight to drive the Kahns back across the mountains and into the desert beyond. How quickly her hope of an alliance had died as the Chadyks took the Kahns' place in enslaving, imprisoning, and killing her people, calling them witches, and worse. How many more of her people would die before she believed Rathyn's lies that it would stop when she gave in? That he wanted peace. Never, she prayed.
Wet tears dripped like hot wax down her muzzle. She fought to hang on to her horse shape.
Rathyn stepped closer and brushed them away. "I have no wish to break you, Spirit-woman." His deep voice sounded deceptively kind, not at all matching the threat in his eyes. "But there is only one way we can end this war. We must talk. I know there can be peace between our people. Let us find it together.” He brushed her forelock back. "Transform. Talk to me.”
Did he really expect her to believe him? She remained still.
He swore, holding her mane with his fist. "You will learn to submit... if that is the only way to forge a bond between our peoples....” He broke off, his mouth compressed into a frustrated line.
Her throat tightened. Violence and force was all Chadyks understood. His very words proved her cousin Salia right.
Pacing the room, he clenched his hands as if searching for something to hit. She watched him cross the small interior with five strides, turn and cross again, then again and again. For nearly an hour he paced, locked in some inner turmoil she couldn't read. Finally, returning to her, he shook his head, his hand absently stroked her mane, her neck, his gaze cloudy. The intimate touch of his large, callused hands disturbed her.
An unexpected gentleness entered his voice as he murmured, "The silver in your hair shimmered like a crown of diamonds under the waning sun when I saw you on the knoll. Your skin shone like a mantle of stars....” A look of puzzlement shadowed his eyes. "Did you cast a spell on me? Or is it the memory of your beauty that distracts me so? I don't feel or act like myself.... Ever since I first met you in your woman's shape you have haunted me. Do you remember?”
She didn't want to remember. Although Syrithian men were tall, Rathyn was taller, broader. Face-to-face that first time, Rathyn had seemed a darkly handsome giant compared to the men of her tribe. Despite the fact she had a husband, Rathyn's magnificent body, his strongly chiseled facial features, his ebony hair framing his face like a black waterfall, had attracted her, overwhelmed her. She should have killed him. If only he'd drawn his sword, she would have trampled him, would have escaped capture later.
He paced the room again, his gaze returning to her. She strained at the ropes, hoping to break free, now, while they were alone. The bonds held. He crossed to her side, stroked her mane, patted her neck, gestures meant to soothe, while his dark eyes burned into hers - burned for that which she withheld.
"I was close enough to touch you.” His eyes looked glazed as he spoke. "But the light of your body blinded me and when I could see again you were as you are now... And after that you taunted me, appearing in battle in your horse shape, a warrior on your back...."
She blocked out images of her husband slipping down her side, fingers clutching at her mane, his warm blood splattering her coat.
Rathyn touched the crescent shape on her forehead. She jerked vainly. "Talk to me," he whispered. "Please. I know you understand."
She flicked her tail, sensing the tension building in him at her stubbornness. His jaw tightened. He took the whip from his belt and twisted it around her neck, as though proclaiming his domination. "What must I do?" he threatened.
She smiled inside, sensing that he was near losing all control over his emotions. Kill me, she thought. How she longed to die in battle, but Rathyn would hold her here until he'd either bent her to his will, or she killed him. But if he did release her? If she were wrong about him? The idea shocked her. She rejected it. It would never happen.
His hands fell away.
Her muscles trembled, needing movement, relief. She shifted her weight, the chains clanking, her breath ragged in her ears, the cross-ties holding her head up.
A disappointed frown on his face, he replaced the whip on his belt. Surprising her, he unfastened the lead lines that held her head immobile - a chore he always left to his soldiers - and moved away. "Bring him in!" Rathyn commanded loudly. The key turned in the wooden door and it opened on squeaking hinges. Illuminated by the torchlight, the body of her husband hung limp between two soldiers. No! Mariah screamed, the sound within her mind. How had Rathyn found out?
Ishian's hair, the same silver as hers, shimmered like moonlight. His star-dusted skin was pale and his eyes were wide, their brilliant blue hidden behind death's whiteness. Guilt ripped through her. He had paid for her refusal to transform.
"A Syrithian caught trying to help the prisoners escape," Rathyn said, his tone aggrieved, frustrated.
Ishian. She struggled to tear herself from her chains, wanted to crush Rathyn's head with her hooves. Yanking against the steel, she tried to rear but her bonds held, jerking her back to the floor each time she strained against them. Fiery pain bit into her flesh.
"Hold her still!” Rathyn's order brought the two guards to her side, snatching at the loosened ropes. She jerked her head and tore at the chains.
Ishian. She remembered his gentle touch as she prepared for battle, his offer to break their bond. His gaze would never look trustingly at her again, his lips never smile that childish grin that came with a funny story well told. And it was her fault.
His chest looked like butchered meat, rent with several deep sword wounds. Abruptly, she stopped fighting her bonds. She'd lost! She wanted to scream, Take me instead! but it was too late. The two soldiers tossed the body at her feet. She pressed her muzzle into the crook of his neck, smelled the faint but unmistakable bittersweet odor of death, like fruit rotted on the tree.
"By the Gods, how many more must die, Spirit-woman?” Rathyn asked, his words piercing her heart with arrows of guilt.
Her grief exploded. The heat of transformation burned, an uncontrollable raging fire, robbing her of strength as the familiar white light shot from her skin. For a moment she was the fire of the moon, the flames of the sun, giving painful birth to her true self.
On her woman's legs she pulled free of the manacles, then staggered, weak from the change. But desperation lent her power. She cast off the halter and ropes now loose about her neck. While the soldiers were temporarily blinded, she lunged at the commander, and grabbed his knife. She slashed toward his jugular.
His strong fingers closed around her wrist. She strained against his hold. Before she could pierce his neck with the blade, he shifted his weight, forcing her to turn. His other arm caught her at the waist, yanking her toward him as he shoved away the dagger. Her back suddenly tight against his unyielding chest armor, she struggled to hang onto the weapon.
"Damn it, Lady, stop fighting me!” His grip tightened above her hand, forcing her fingers to open. The knife clattered to the floor.
With a last effort, she jerked free and stumbled to her knees. He kicked the knife away before she could reach it. She bent her head before him. "Kill me and let me join my husband!” She gestured toward Ishian's body.
"Your husband?" Rathyn's incredulous voice repeated her words like a far off echo. He rasped, "Lady, it cannot be...."
So he would deny her an honorable death. Mariah swallowed. So be it. Oblivious to her nakedness, she moved to where her husband lay. She cradled his head in her lap. "Ishian," she crooned, her body racked with sorrow. Guilt squeezed her chest, she was unfit to be queen. She sucked air into her lungs. In the tongue of her race, she sang his favorite song, a song of peace and stroked his hair, her throat tight, her tears bitter rain splashing on his dead flesh.
Purple cloth gently covered her shoulders. She shrugged it off, barely hearing the soldiers and commander withdraw, the door softly close. "Soon I will join you," she promised. "And I will take Commander Rathyn with me."
#
Stunned, Rathyn felt rage replace his shock. A red, seething fury expanded behind his eyes until the pressure became unbearable. On the stairs, he shoved one of the soldiers who had brought the man in, sent him sprawling to the bottom. "A Syrithian spy! You fool - he was her husband - a king!" Rathyn yanked the whip from his belt. Snarling at the other soldier, Rathyn struck him with the grip. He would flay the man alive! The soldier, eyes wide with terror, dodged the leather’s bite, missed his footing on the stairs and fell.
Rathyn jumped after him.
The first soldier ran away. The second rolled clear of Rathyn's next lash and scrambled to his feet, his face ashen. "She's got you under a spell! She's a witch! Burn her and the others!"
Rathyn advanced. "A witch! She cries over her husband as we speak - so where is her power?” A man who prided himself on control, Rathyn felt it being sorely tested by this woman, and her stubborn people. And now this. "How can I ever make peace now, you damn fool!" he swore.
The soldier continued to back away, his mouth working like a pump, first nothing, then a torrent. "He killed one of the guards in the dungeon. There was no way to take him alive.” He ducked as Rathyn's lash snapped over his head. "We didn't know who he was!”
The soldier's reasoning tone only increased Rathyn's fury. "He was a king!” The whip hissed, caught the man's arm and drew blood. His next blow cracked against the stone wall behind the man's shoulder. Rathyn raised his arm again, heard the sounds of running footsteps and whirled. A crowd, mostly soldiers, had gathered. The shocked faces of his men stayed his hand. Was a Syrithian king worth so little? Or did they believe the false rumors that the offer of treaty was only a lure to find out the Syrithians weaknesses and wipe them out?
Still, he'd never lost control like this, shown such a poor example of leadership. My God, what was happening to him? He turned in a circle and saw his men move back. Several made X-ing signs over their hearts with their index fingers - signs against enchantment. Rathyn threw the whip down.
He caught the soldier by the scruff of his tunic. "Tell me exactly what happened and who is responsible!"
Cringing, the soldier replied, "Lieutenant Annias found a guard dead, his throat slit. Then he caught the man trying to help the prisoners in the dungeon. Annias defended himself. You said you wanted a Syrithian body brought to the tower...."
"A body from the battlefield!"
“He was dead. None of the prisoners admitted to recognizing him.” Rathyn heard the recrimination in the soldier's tone. Many of his men thought him too soft on the prisoners, especially on the Syrithian queen he'd kept locked away in the corner tower for the past three weeks. They speculated that she was a goddess, or a witch.
Reining in his anger, willing his fingers to relax, he released the soldier. "Disperse," he said. The crowd slowly faded back into their normal routine.
Perhaps she is a witch, he thought. Because ever since he first saw her, he'd been besotted with lust.
In battle, when he'd spotted the blue banner of her tribe, he'd searched for her as he fought to get closer. A rider held the banner and he'd realized she was in her horse shape, her mane flying like a silver flag as she whipped this way and that to avoid harm. Rathyn had fought like a madman, trying to reach her, save her from his own men. Then her Syrithian rider had fallen and she'd reared and kicked to protect him from their approach, her eyes wild, hooves lethal. Even as the rest of her people pulled back and regrouped, she stayed in front of the fallen man, giving her people time to drag him to safety.
"Catch the horse. Don't hurt it!" he'd ordered. He'd told no one that she was one of the Spirit-women, a term his people used for Syrithian females who changed shape, yet his own behavior had sparked rumors. Word spread that she was the Syrithian Queen.
Several hours each day, he talked to her, watching and waiting for some sign that he wasn't insane talking to a horse. But his gentleness availed him nothing. And the lack of response... his hands tightened again. Just the thought of her drove him crazy. He'd threatened, begged, even lied - told her just now he was torturing a spy when it was really a Chadyk camp follower who'd stabbed a soldier and stolen his silver. The woman had passed out after only seven lashes. His desire for the Syrithian queen made him feel like a fool with a fool's mission.
Hatred now consumed whatever admiration the Spirit-woman, queen of the Syrithian tribes might have held for him, yet he couldn't get her out of his mind. She was fair, tall and strong, nothing like his petite, dark-haired wife had been. Yet she obsessed him, filled his dreams, ignited his senses, made him feel alive as he had not in years. God, her husband! Cursing aloud, he picked up his whip and fastened it to his belt.
He started across the bailey, the huge interior of the castle occupied by farm animals, women and children, and many soldiers on leave from their posts.
Past the guardhouse, ignoring the dark looks the men cast his way, Rathyn strode. So they disliked him and the rules he enforced. So what? His hand rested at his sword hilt; he itched for a fight to release the tension in his body, to help him forget the Spirit-woman, forget his dead wife and son, forget the male needs he'd so long denied.
"Commander Rathyn.” Stephanos, the fair-haired captain that reminded Rathyn of his long-dead brother, stood beneath the parapet near the main castle gate. He strode over, his boyish features drawn in concern.
"Perhaps the men prefer Marcus the Butcher," Rathyn growled. "God, what a miserable thought.”
"They don't like the lash, nor seeing a Chadyk woman punished while the Syrithians remain untouched in the dungeon.”
"Whatever happened to common decency, Stephanos?” Aggravation welled up in Rathyn's chest. He'd crossed a vast ocean with his men to take over this outpost and negotiate for peace - only to fail. And Commander Marcus's men preferred their old commander to him. At least that was what Stephanos reported.
He gestured at the captain to walk with him along the inner wall. "If only the Emperor hadn't kept Commander Marcus here after he drove the Kahns back to their desert."
Stephanos offered a grim smile. "The Emperor could hardly retire him. Marcus's brutality was effective. He saved us when we needed more land, more slaves, and more wealth to pay our debts.”
"Saved the Emperor, you mean.” Rathyn wondered if he would now be on the throne had he stayed in Spartyk, instead of here in the Emperor's employ. A pointless thought, he told himself, since he'd made his choice. Yet, he felt a twinge of regret.
At Rathyn's acerbic reply, Stephanos shrugged, but his tone was defensive. "Marcus was useful to the Emperor. This outpost is expensive. The Emperor has an abundance of slaves, even some Syrithians Marcus sent back - none of which have changed shape, mind you, despite Marcus's claims. Although he did send back a great white steed like the one in the tower...."
Rathyn stared. "Did it have the shapechangers mark?"
Stephanos shrugged. "I don't know. That was two years ago. The horse is supposed to be the Emperor's favorite.” He said the last with a wry smile.
Rathyn dismissed the notion that the horse could be a Syrithian shapechanger. From what he'd learned, they could not sustain their horse shape indefinitely - certainly not for two years. He turned his thoughts back to the Emperor and animosity flared in his gut like he’d swallowed poison. "So our ruler rides a white horse and eats off gold plates while we rot in this territory with the ridiculous mission of holding back the Kahns, and settling with the Syrithians. The Emperor's last letter stated that he wanted this outpost to remain staffed after we've accomplished both. The land will be our payment.” Rathyn grunted and gestured beyond the gates toward the green meadows and forests in the distance.
Stephanos eyed him, obviously surprised by his vehement tone.
Rathyn scoffed, "Does he really believe I'd stay here and farm? Soldiers prefer fighting to farming, or have you changed your boots?"
"Me, wear farming boots?” Stephanos laughed. "No thanks. That's one step up from slavery. When I leave the military I'm moving up, not down."
"You must have a noblewoman in mind for marriage then," Rathyn commented offhandedly. Stephanos never said much about his family, or his women.
"You married a noblewoman.”
Momentarily stricken, Rathyn stopped walking. When would he forget his wife's agonized screams, his stillborn son, the blood....
Stephanos immediately looked contrite. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mention - "
"No.” Rathyn felt his jaw tighten. He and his wife had talked about their forthcoming child with such joy. He had not been prepared for the pain that had torn her apart. Pain he could do nothing about. "It's been nearly three years, Stephanos... another lifetime....” He'd left everyone and everything behind. Yet he still dreamed about her. In his dreams she was dead, but her eyes were open and she screamed for help, demanded vengeance. But against whom? Who could he blame for something so commonplace as death in childbirth - except himself?
After a brief silence, the captain cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Some say the Syrithian women are witches and we ought to throw them into the sea or burn them."
Rathyn watched Stephanos eye a young Chadyk serving girl who'd come out on the last ship.
"Jealous women and undisciplined men have loose tongues," Rathyn snapped, but he shook his head, thinking of the woman in the tower. "Our men lust for the Syrithian women because they look like... goddesses. When they catch one who is unable to change to a horse, they use her for their pleasure, and the Syrithians hate us even more.”
"The women in the dungeon remain untouched," Stephanos said.
Yes, Rathyn thought, he had installed a semblance of law and order among the soldiers since his arrival four months before. An edge to the captain's voice hinted that he too might disapprove. "Fear of the whip," Rathyn commented, watching the captain's face. "But how long will that work?" he mused aloud. The battalions - first under Marcus, now under him - did not appreciate his brand of law. Many backs bore the whip's mark for unnecessary brutality with prisoners, including taking a woman against her will, which some soldiers considered their due for fighting.
"They may not like you, Commander, but they respect you.” The captain stopped near the flanking tower. They had walked nearly half the castle's perimeter. His voice dropped. "Perhaps if the Syrithian changes to a woman and you release her unharmed...."
Rathyn stared down at the captain. Damned if he'd tell him she'd transformed - he'd discover it soon enough. "So she can lead her people to battle again?" he challenged. He had no intention of letting her go until he made her see reason. "After over three years of war with Marcus the Butcher, do you really think one kind act will win them over?” He shook his head. "They use the trees as cover, attack us whenever we leave the castle. They fade into the foliage like praying mantis's in a garden. They know this land as we will never know it and have every advantage. Why should they risk giving it up?"
"What will you do?” Stephanos asked, his green eyes watchful, his expression guarded.
"Treat her as visiting royalty," Rathyn said, but heat threaded its way through his loins. Bed her, make her yours and drive this madness from you once and for all, his mind hissed. The thought shocked him. She was a queen, not some willing serving wench. Had his self-imposed celibacy affected his mind?
The need to possess the Syrithian queen filled him with images of lovemaking, her silver hair spilling over his chest as her lips met his, her kisses and her body warm, eager. He stifled a groan. She hates me.
When he thought of the Syrithians he'd met in battle, every one had met him with courage whether woman, horse, or man. They fought to the bitter end, costing Rathyn too many men and too much blood for every foot of ground won.
He had no way to assess the natives' losses. The people remained too elusive. Under Marcus, torture had brought excruciating death to the Syrithian captives with little information.
Suddenly, realizing that Stephanos still stood beside him in silent observance, Rathyn asked, "Do you trust the Syrithian woman you captured?"
"To spy for us? For gold?” Stephanos kept his gaze straightforward. "It is said that Syrithians speak only the truth - when they speak at all. Salia is the first who has offered to help us - for any price.
The name triggered a flicker of recognition, the memory of a face - but from where?
"She claims to be a Seer.” The captain's tone was skeptical.
"A Seer?” Rathyn wondered if such abilities were true. He'd come out here expecting the rumors of transformation and witchery to be only superstitious nonsense and had found at least partial truth. He matched Stephanos's skeptical tone. "Too bad she didn't foresee her capture, isn't it?” He paused, wondered for a moment if she'd wanted to be captured, then dismissed the idea as ludicrous. "You think she has some genuine gift?"
Stephanos raised his eyebrows, "Who can know?"
"When is she to make her escape?”
"She will escape with the other prisoners in her cell in the morning. I've set up a rendezvous in seven days. If she does not show up, the next time we meet I've promised to kill her."
Rathyn told himself the women here were warriors, just like the men, but the notion didn't ease the uncomfortable knot between his shoulder blades. Women did not belong in battle. They were to be protected, sheltered, guided.
He continued to walk with Stephanos around the outer perimeter of the bailey. At the back of the castle like a huge wooden barn rose the main eating hall and living quarters for the soldiers and their families. Livestock were penned next to the horses underneath a second-story walkway. A chicken pecked in the dirt, and Rathyn stepped around it, then turned back toward the battlement. He couldn't get the Spirit-woman's silver-blue eyes out of his mind. "Why did he have to be her husband?"
"Who?"
"The Syrithian caught attempting to help the prisoners escape."
"Is that what you were fighting about back there?” Though the captain's face remained impassive, his tone implied incredulity.
Upset, Rathyn automatically lengthened his strides as if to walk away from his inner turmoil. "He was not just anyone, Captain. He was the Spirit-woman's husband. A king. She cries over his body as we speak.”
"She has transformed? To a woman?” The wonder in the young soldier's voice brought Rathyn up short.
"How else would I know?" Rathyn said, dismayed that he had let the captain trick him into a confession.
"By all the Gods, you saw it with your own eyes?"
"I'm not used to being questioned," Rathyn warned. Had he let his favoritism go too far? Given Stephanos too much leeway?
"Sorry, sir.” Doubt flickered in Stephanos' eyes.
Rathyn bristled. "For three weeks I have tried to gain her trust - "
"By having her chained?"
Feeling guilty, he ignored the sarcasm. "She nearly trampled me. Now she thinks I purposely had her husband executed.”
"What does she look - "
Rathyn glowered at the young Captain.
Stephanos asked, "What do you want me to do now?"
Rathyn shrugged, not ready to answer. Climbing to the top of the battlement, he looked over the land beyond the moat and footbridge. The surrounding hills were green from recent rains. Although Marcus' men had cut down all the white birch trees surrounding the castle, the forest beyond was thick with oak and eucalyptus, white birch and sycamore. Sounds of birds and other wildlife drifted on the breeze.
Overhead the clouds continued to darken, and he felt a drop of rain. Reaching for his cloak, he remembered he'd put it over the Spirit-woman's shoulders.
Stephanos joined him at the wall. "If you don't wish to release her, then burn her and the others."
Rathyn stared. "By the gods, you don't believe that superstitious dung, do you?"
Stephanos's jaw jutted forward. "Obviously, it doesn't matter what I believe. You are in command."
Rathyn felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He didn't like Stephanos's tone. The young man had yet to witness someone burned to death or he wouldn't look so ready to set the fire. He gave Stephanos a cold look of appraisal. The captain shifted foot to foot. Rathyn warned, "Talk about witches and burnings is to be discouraged, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Stephanos went rigid.
"Make sure the queen is covered with my cloak. Ask her what she wishes done with the king's body. Then escort her to my quarters. Have one of the women stay with her and see to her needs. Have her dressed properly. Assign two men to stand guard outside the door.” The brief image of her, her eyes like daggers cutting out his heart when she'd lunged at him, invaded his brain. But her silver hair had brushed his arm, a cascade of silk only rivaled by the smooth flesh of her wrist caught in his grip, the soft swell of her breast against his biceps, and the sweet scent of her female body. And her voice had been so beautiful, he could hear it in his mind, a siren's song of indecipherable words. Rathyn felt a trickle of anticipation. How he longed to hear her talk to him... touch him.
"She will join me for dinner. Have something prepared and brought to my rooms.”
"Yes, sir.”
"Stephanos?” The captain halted on the first stair, half-turned. "I'll kill anyone who touches her."
Stephanos frowned, his response carefully neutral. "I'll tell the men, sir."
Rathyn sighed and watched from the battlement as the captain strode purposefully toward the flanking tower. By the gods, he was obsessed. He had to stop this insanity, one way or another. He took a breath of the damp air, smelling the ocean and wondering again if he'd made a mistake coming here. His thoughts churned. Was this some trick of the gods, or did some purpose lay in his presence here?
A flash of metal drew his gaze to the bailey. Captain Stephanos and one of the tower guards flanked the queen. Rathyn's long purple cloak covered her from head to foot. People in the bailey stopped and stared as the captain, the guard and the woman passed. Some made X signs against her.
As they passed the guardhouse, Rathyn stiffened, alert for any signs of disrespect from his men. Their silence pleased him.
As the escort approached the battlement, the woman's hair glowed in the torchlight. She suddenly glanced up. Did she see him? Or was she merely studying the battlement and the only way out of the castle?
An unfathomable shadow of emotion flashed across her features before she lowered her face and was led into the keep.
The scattered rain became a downpour. Rathyn let the rain wash over him, hoping for a cleansing of his thoughts, but at the anticipation of seeing the queen in his bed chamber, his body betrayed him with a renewed hardness that made him feel like a boy on the threshold of manhood, with no control over the aching need pressing for release.
With a curse on his lips, he strode down the stairs to the corner tower where he might find a willing woman to ease the heat in his loins and give him back some semblance of sanity. He would not lower himself to Marcus's standards with the Syrithian Queen. Yet since his wife's death, he'd not taken a woman.
Perhaps that was all this infatuation was, a need too long denied. He would find a woman and in her arms forget the one waiting for him in the keep.
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