Capture of a Heart (3 page)

As he sank down the wall of his hut to the wet ground, he hoped that he had rid himself of the bout of madness that had overtaken him but was so afraid that the desire would return back home to his blood.

Chapter Three

Her father had been proud of her craftsmanship. She could still recall the glint of pride in his amber gaze upon looking at the two swords she had fashioned. They were slender tools with ornate hand guards which could fit around the back of a hand or be free at a moment’s notice. Her creations were different from the thick, blunt weaponry many of their clan tended to carry. Her swords could never have been mistaken for axes, shovels, hammers, or even giant battle-sickles favored by mountain warriors.

Her father had even mentioned so with a wry smile as he’d raised them high for examination by torchlight.

As Shoraya thought upon her father, she realized that the day she had shown her crafts to her father must have been the moment when he had realized he would lose her. So long did he stare at her blades, lifting one for scrutiny and then the other, that she believed him to be searching for flaws.

He returned her swords to her with his only comment being that she must craft fitting sheaths beautiful and sturdy enough to hold her blades. Nothing was spoken about how she was well into the time when she should have chosen a husband, had her own cavern, and certainly nothing was said about children. No, those notions had all been for Shoraya’s mother to harp upon, and she did.

Her father had kept his tongue, even on the day when Shoraya said good-bye to the mountain range that had seen her birth.

The scent of rich vegetables and meat permeated easily through a nostalgia built of high, rocky peaks and labyrinthine depths, prodding her to stir. Memories of racing through a forest, thick with vines, roots, and limbs, returned to her. She had been on the run from yet another contingent of errand boys sent to retain her skill. The shark had been more cunning than most, however, using projectiles to bring her down.

Shoraya couldn’t recall how long she had run to get away from them, but when her vision became cloudy and her legs began to feel like nervous twigs, she knew that she hadn’t gotten far enough away.

She dreaded opening her eyes, knowing one thing for certain: she had been captured. There was no other explanation for the soft blankets she lay beneath, the warmth and crackle of a fire not far off, and certainly the sumptuous scents carried to her nostrils.

Lifting her lids proved a far more arduous task than it should have been as she took in the sight of the dwelling. The walls were made of intertwined branches of thick green leaves and flowering buds of various types, prevalent in random copses. A few weak rays of sun shone through, but the true illumination came from the center of the den and the stone-rimmed fire pit in the center. Suspended from two spokes was a good-sized cauldron, undoubtedly the source of the enticing aromas. Such was her focus on the pot that movement just on the other side of the fire pit caused her to gasp in alarm.

She saw the table, but what she had thought of as a pile of robes stacked upon it rose up to reveal a man. Among locks that could have been either burnished gold or green, a fair face with flashing silver eyes like a night cat’s turned toward her. The man smiled, and it was as if the sun were inside of the den shining with an aura that could have only belonged to one of the
faeyanin!

Earth, wind, water, and fire; there were said to be magical guardians of each, and Shoraya was sure that she was looking at one of them.

“You’re awake,” he said, pushing the thick cloak from his broad shoulders.

Shoraya nodded and immediately regretted it. Her skull pulsed angrily, stimulating pain centers behind her eyes. Her entire body trembled angrily in warning as she held still until the wave of aches dulled.

The faeyanin, tall and lithe as the legends decreed that he should be, stood up from the table. Sympathy was etched in his handsome features. “Yes. You will want to take it easy. You have survived the worst, but there is still much healing to do.”

That much she understood as she tried her voice. “Who… W-where? Where are my… What happened?” she questioned weakly.

He lifted his discarded cloak and settled it on the chair back before going to the fire pit. There he took up a stick to stoke the fire beneath the kettle. “You are safe. Don’t worry. There was no sign of who may have been chasing you, but the probability of them making it this far into my forest is highly unlikely.”

Shoraya thought of the warriors who had been chasing her and the reason. A stark worry rose within her as she realized the scope of danger she had been in…was still in. Faeyanins were supposed to be kind-hearted, benevolent beings, but nothing was certain for her in life. Save for one thing. “Where are my blades?”

“Beneath the pallet you are lying upon, along with the rest of your things.”

Shoraya was thankful but wary as her gaze moved over the circumference of the room. There was only one bed in the space of the den, and it had to be his. He didn’t seem to be put out. The dwelling was warm, and the pallet comfortable, but Shoraya was never one to impose. Trying her arm and hip, she attempted to shift to the edge of the bed. It wasn’t high off the floor, and if she could just get her fingers upon the steel…

“I should get them. I should be off. I…” She groaned as the exertion woke the angry dragons of pain stirring to life within her veins. Challenging the vertigo and the pain, Shoraya felt that if she could just see the threshold of her agony, she could push past it. She tried to lift a trembling shoulder, but her body simply stole the reins of control from her, and she collapsed.

The faeyanin added another log to the fire before standing. He walked around the hearth to a wall, which held bottles suspended in the latticework of branches, a living larder. Removing a long, slender glass bottle, he started toward her bed. “You are suffering the effects of a very debilitating poison used too haphazardly. If there is anything you
need
to do, it should be to drink your medicine,” he said as he crouched down before her.

He withdrew a leaf from among the folds of his robe and single-handedly rolled it tight before fitting it into the neck of the bottle. He then moved the tip of the leaf toward her lips.

Shoraya eyed the contraption warily. “What is that? Who are you?”

“My name is Gavenas,” the faeyanin spoke. “And if I wanted you dead, you would be, so don’t worry. This is no more than enchanted salts and water with a bit of long mint, whisper lotus, and pink berry for taste. It will help you to fight the toxins still coursing through your veins.”

Shoraya touched her lips to the makeshift straw and drew in a short swallow of the elixir. The taste was refreshing, and the flavor of berries upon her tongue was invigorating. She sampled more as the pain within her seemed to quiet under some liquid spell that was only enhanced by Gavenas’s proximity. So close to the man, Shoraya’s taste buds were not the only sense stimulated.

His scent was like that of a forest blossoming with fruit and flowers, rich earth and crisp, rain-plump leaves. Nothing could be done for her exhaustion; in fact, her desire to move had vanished entirely, but then so had her pain. It could have been the result of his potion, but then it could have been because she was lost in fascination. Up close, Gavenas was all the more stunning. His hair was indeed a mix of gold, brown, and green, but his eyes were actually dark green, his skin a flawlessly healthy shade of peach, and his lips—broad and shapely as they were—had a deep vermillion hue that any berry would envy.

Shoraya felt a greater warmth than that provided by the hearth and chose to look away from Gavenas’s face to the intricate fabric of his robes. The topmost layer looked to be made of connected leaves and feathers with a second layer of some soft scale. Pulling at the straw again, she took a greater amount of the liquid. “My name is Shoraya. And I thank you.”

“No need. Shoraya,” he replied. “May I ask how you came to be injured?”

Shoraya struggled to comprehend his question while the faeyanin’s potion coursed through her. With every sip, she became lighter, her lids heavier.

He pulled the straw away.

She blinked, breathed deeply of his fragrance, and concentrated in order to compose her answer. “I fled from capture. I shouldn’t have. I should have taken lesson from the storm, stayed and practiced. I did not want a test, and more importantly I did not want to be made to teach.”

“And here I assumed that you wished to protect that precious metal you possess,” he said with a shrug. “Dragonspine steel is not an easy ore to come by. But I suppose it would be for you, being a child of the Deipma.”

Shoraya smiled warily, her heart swelling at the mention of her home. “You know about my people?”

He nodded reverently. “I do, with their skin like obsidian, purportedly honed by the breath of dragons. They are those who took the mountain’s depths as their home, larder, and playgrounds. Such gems and ores as surface walkers would kill for, raise kingdoms to attain—your kind play about as if they are game tokens. I know. What I don’t fathom is why one would have wandered so far alone.”

“The mountains can give much, but they can only teach me little.”

He looked down for a long moment, as if contemplating her words. “About the blades, yes?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed, pleased that he could understand what her parents and friends could not. Ah, but then a faeyanin
would
know, she thought as she imagined them traipsing about and communicating with nature in ways she could only dream of. “They sing so differently outside of the mountain, my swords. They move differently in the air, even. They aren’t so intimidated by the sternest of the mother mountain.”

Gavenas offered the straw to her once more. “I imagine not.”

With another drink from the bottle, Shoraya felt herself truly fading, yet within the presence of the faeyanin, she felt no worries. That he understood her soul’s passion was a calming relief to carry to the dream world, and that his beauty might haunt her in ways she could keep locked away from the physical was not a bad outcome to have.

Chapter Four

Watching Shoraya drift back to sleep for the fourth time, Gavenas could sense the change in her mood. The beaming, proud warrioress had become sullen and brooding. There was gratitude in her eyes when she was awake, but it was darkened by a sadness that Gavenas could only guess was self-pity. He had spoon-fed her broth with leeks and carrots, a simple but fragrant mix that her belly held down successfully. When she attempted to take both bowl and utensil into her shaky grasp, however, her grip was not so sure.

Both fell from her fingers and would have spilled upon her lap had Gavenas not used a sudden spell of levitation.

The bowl hovered in the air until he could take hold of it.

“Do not rush your progress. Your strength will return,” he promised, but the tears gathering in a glossy film over her beautiful amber eyes were filled with frustration.

Initially she had been eager for conversation. While he prepared their meals, she had inquired about his kind, how long he had lived within the forest, and what he knew of the outside world. The act of being fed didn’t improve her mood any, but eventually her spells of lamenting independence passed. She would slurp away at the spoon he proffered her, never meeting his eyes, but her cheeks shinned with gratitude all the same.

Gavenas had begun to look forward to her wakeful moments, few and diluted as they were, but that had changed the next night when she realized just how far his care had extended.

He kept her clean, caring for her as a mother might a babe. The bedding and the pallet’s leafy stuffing were changed as needed and accidents were taken care of. That she had awakened during one such instant seeded her decline.

His actions had chipped away at her fierce independence and pride, necessary as they were. She had struggled to help as he ran a cleansing cloth between her thighs, but Gavenas had told her that there was no cause for shame. He did not lament the intimate tasks. His thoughts ran only to her comfort and care…at least while he was in her presence.

That night she insisted on feeding herself. Much to Gavenas’s surprise, she managed to prop herself up and accept the bowl of mushroom broth. Her movements were slow and careful as she ladled each spoonful to her lips.

He watched her carefully for any sign of weakness, but Shoraya’s grip was firm upon the handle of her utensil and even surer around the base of the bowl. He was aware of the warrior’s spirit, the determination for control growing within her. Still, even as he left her side pretending as if other matters needed to be tended to, cleaning, organizing around the den, he kept his attention keen upon her.

In a matter of days, she would regain her strength, and while it was certainly something to look forward to, Gavenas did not. Five days she had been with him under his care, and Gavenas had enjoyed every second. He looked forward to preparing her meals, washing her long, muscular limbs, and clothing her… He looked forward to having someone to pamper. Of course he had his forest and all its inhabitants to care for, but it simply was not the same.

He heard the sound of the spoon rattling in the empty bowl as she set it down upon the earthen floor. Eagerly he returned to the pallet and was surprised to find the bowl empty. He thought to ask her if she wanted more, but with a whisper of thanks, Shoraya had already slid back down on the pallet, looking ready for slumber.

He leaned over and took the bowl with him back to the table. Behind him, he could detect the evenness of her breathing as she sank into dreams.

With darkness showing itself through the small openings of the den’s ceiling and walls, Gavenas dreaded another night out in the open. Sleeping on the earth and beneath the stars was no struggle, but dreaming had become an issue. Shoraya may have been asleep within the den, but her presence followed him, haunting him with needs he could not suppress. Of course there were tasks that he could have busied himself with and had. Since the night of her arrival and that initial slip, he had gathered several cords of firewood, picked enough vines, vegetables, and fruits to stuff his larder. He had arranged his potions and cleaned the den several times. He had even made busy with the few animals that needed healing, but there was no task that would erase his longing to check on her, to be near her and feel her warmth.