Dark Lady's Chosen (45 page)

“Gratitude? It thinks?”

“Something like that.” She reached out to touch his cheek. “There’s so much to tell you. But there’s time.”

Just then, a servant opened the door from the sitting room. “M’lord, your bath is drawn.”

Jonmarc grinned. “There are only two things I want right now: you, and a bath. But I’d better take the bath first.”

Carina was waiting for him when he toweled off from his bath, and from the way she drew him to her, Jonmarc knew Carina had missed him as intensely as he had longed for her.

They made love with a ferocity that rocked him to the core of his being, and Carina let her magic slip against his mind, twining their thoughts. Afterward, they lay tangled together, and he ran his fingers through her short, dark hair, breathing in her scent. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he confessed. “Not this side of the Gray Sea.”

She gently touched the newly healed puncture wounds on his throat. “I saw this,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I saw you fall. I felt him burn.”

“It’s not fair,” Jonmarc said, kissing her forehead. “You can heal my memories, but I can’t do the same for you.”

Carina snuggled into his shoulder. “Taru can. Maybe I’ll ask. But not today.” She drew his arm around her. “You’re here. That’s enough to keep the bad dreams away.”

A knock at the door startled them. “M’lord?” It was Neirin’s voice. “I’m sorry for the interruption, but it’s not something that can wait.”

Jonmarc frowned and disentangled himself from Carina with a quick kiss. He sat up, pulled on his clothes and belted on his sword as Carina reluctantly dressed in a shift and her healer’s robes. Jonmarc was quite sure Neirin could guess what he’d interrupted, although his grounds manager was discreet enough to pretend otherwise.

“This had better be important.”

“There’s a regiment of the king’s guards at the gate.”

Jonmarc followed Neirin downstairs and across the courtyard with Carina a few steps behind them. He gestured for the guards to open the sentry’s door, leaving the massive gates barred. Outside, he found one hundred mounted soldiers in King Staden’s livery armed for battle.

Carina and Neirin remained inside the walls. With his hand well away from his sword, Jonmarc stopped a few paces outside Dark Haven’s walls in front of the ranking officer’s horse and looked up at the captain. He was a large man a decade or so older than Jonmarc, his hair short-cropped beneath his helm and enough scars visible on his cheek and forearms to convince Jonmarc the man was a seasoned fighter.

“What brings you and your men to Dark Haven, Captain?”

“I’m Captain Gellyr, commander of the king’s force at Jannistorp,” the man replied. Jonmarc knew the place. It was an outpost at the edge of Dark Haven’s lands, on one of the major roads leading to Principality City. “In the last two days, we’ve been overrun with villagers asking for protection. Something about a war between
vayash moru
and mortals. You know anything about that?” He glanced up at the gray flag that snapped in the night wind.

Jonmarc motioned for the captain to come with him. With a nod to his men, the captain dismounted and gave his reins to one of Jonmarc’s guards. He followed Jonmarc into the guardhouse, where Jonmarc offered him a chair and a tankard of ale. Gellyr sat down and waved off the ale.

“You may change your mind after you’ve heard the story,” Jonmarc warned. The captain accepted the tankard. Grimly, Jonmarc told the captain about Malesh’s attacks and the battles that had followed, omitting only his Bargain with the Lady and Carina’s healing of the Flow.

“You’re certain Malesh is dead?”

“Quite.” Both Jonmarc and Carina answered in unison.

The captain set down his tankard and bit his lip as he thought. “So you’ve got a keep full of refugees?”

Jonmarc nodded. “I don’t have enough guards to assure a safe return to their villages. The battle took a toll on the
vayash moru
and the
vyrkin
who fought to preserve the Truce.

They’re in no shape to protect their families, and they could be in danger themselves if they return. It’s not a
vayash moru
attack I’m worried about now. It’s the mortals, out for vengeance.” He grimaced. “I fought off some on the road, and I stared down a mob at the gates, but frankly, captain, I’ve been at war for seven days and I’m tired.”

“I dare say we can help with that.” Captain Gellyr grinned. “You’re liegeman to King Staden, which makes your problems his problems. My men and I are posted out here to keep the king from having problems. Without being heavy-handed about it, I’m betting things would cool down really quickly if my soldiers were to patrol the roads, make ourselves very visible in the villages and let it be known that
all
of Dark Haven’s residents—living or dead—are under the king’s protection.” He leaned forward. “For the record, Staden absolutely hates raiders, whether they’re home-grown or outlanders. I’d say the mobs you’ve faced down qualify, so this duty is well within my charter.” He held out his hand. “Pleased to be of service, Lord Vahanian. A few weeks of

seeing my men keep the peace, and I’ll bet money your troublemakers will think twice and fade away.”

Jonmarc shook the captain’s hand and watched as Gellyr returned to his soldiers. Carina slipped an arm around Jonmarc’s waist as they made their way back across the snowy courtyard toward the manor house. “Do you think it will work?” she asked.

“If there aren’t any new incidents, maybe. We’ll have to do our best to make sure the refugees don’t go looking for vengeance or we’ll have a whole new war on our hands.” He turned as they climbed the broad front steps and looked at the shadowed mountains.

“Gabriel and Riqua will have their hands full seeing to the
vayash moru
. Their broods have lost a lot of good people. As for Uri, he’s scared more than repentant, but I think even he will keep his mouth shut—for a while.”

Jonmarc and Carina walked back into Dark Haven, closing the heavy door behind them.

“Now I have a question,” Jonmarc said. “How long does the mourning last?”

“Eight days, starting yesterday. Why?”

In answer, Jonmarc took her in his arms. “I made a vow at Winterstide that we’d make a ritual wedding. And I have no intention of letting little things like a war, the Goddess or the Flow get in the way.”

DAY 14

Cam of Cairnrach stirred as consciousness returned. His mouth tasted of old vomit, and he doubted he had the strength to lift himself from his bed. When he opened his eyes, it took a moment to recognize the room as his own. He was back inside Aberponte, and he was alive.

“He’s waking up.”

The voice came from somewhere near his left shoulder. Cam managed to turn his head far enough to see Rhistiart’s broad grin.

“Glad to see you, sleepy head,” the silversmith teased. “You’ve given us a right scare.”

Trygve came into Cam’s field of view. “Good to have you back with us,” the healer said.

“Get your bearings, and we’ll bring up some food. We’ve managed to get some broth into you, but if you don’t eat, you won’t keep up your battle weight, that’s for sure.” Something in Trygve’s eyes told Cam that the teasing covered serious concern.

Cam heard Trygve speak a few muffled words to the guards outside his door. After a while, he heard bootsteps in the hallway and the door swung open again.

“He’s awake? By the Lady! That’s good news. Let’s see him.” King Donelan strode into the room, and Rhistiart scrambled out of the way. Donelan bent over Cam and grinned broadly.

“Good to see you, m’boy. You’ve given us all a scare.”

“Good to be here,” Cam croaked, his throat dry.

“Trygve says he’s patched you up as best he can,” Donelan continued. “But as soon as the roads are passable and you’re up to the journey, we’ll send you to Dark Haven, where Carina can fix what’s left. Do you some good to get away from here for a while, I wager.”

“What of Alvior?”

Donelan cursed. “Seems your brother caught wind that my men were on their way. He disappeared across the Northern Sea on a ship with markings no one seems to recognize.

Found your younger brother, Renn, locked in the basement. By the look of him, he and Alvior had disagreed.” Donelan stroked his beard. “With Alvior a fugitive and wanted for treason, the title and lands would go to you as the next oldest heir.”

Cam’s head spun at the thought of it. “What about Renn?”

Donelan shrugged. “Everything my men uncovered says he opposed what Alvior was doing, and Alvior nearly killed him for it. He’s not the baby brother you left behind. Renn’s a grown man, the same age as Tris Drayke. He asked after you and Carina, and he sent this back with the guards for you.” Donelan reached into his doublet and withdrew a sealed parchment letter. He laid it on the bed next to Cam.

“And the divisionists?” It was taking all of Cam’s will to maintain the conversation, and from the look on Trygve’s face, the healer disapproved.

“With Ruggs and Leather John dead, the rest folded with little more than a whimper,”

Donelan said with a predator’s smile. “Hell of a thing you did there, blowing yourself up.

Remind me to give you a medal once you’re up and around.” He cleared his throat. “Which reminds me. The brewer’s daughter has refused to leave the grounds without seeing you.

She arrived the night we brought you back. Bit of a firecat, that one,” he said with a wink.

“Rhosyn?”

Donelan shrugged. “That might be the name. Looks like a healthy lass. Shall I let Trygve clean you up and then give permission for them to let her in?”

“I’d be grateful.”

Donelan chuckled. “Figured you’d end up with a girl who could keep you in ale. Maybe she’ll be good for you.” He nodded toward Cam’s injured leg, still immobilized in a splint. “It’s going to take a bit to get you up and around.” Donelan looked to Trygve. “Send down for the girl when you’re ready. And keep me posted on how Cam’s doing. I want to be the first to know when he hauls his sorry rump out of bed.” With that, Donelan turned and strode from the room.

Trygve cleared his throat. “Well, then. Where were we?”

“How about telling me whether I’ll ever walk again, for starters. And whether my left hand is still attached.”

Trygve took a long breath. “Ah, about that. Yes. You haven’t lost either the leg or the hand, but it was close as a whisker. I may not be quite the healer Carina is, but I wager that any less magic would have lost you both. What do you remember?”

“Freezing my ass off in the snow outside the fuller’s mill,” Cam replied. “Waking up here.

You said you were going to make me sleep.”

“That I did. You slept for three days, and then I brought you up to consciousness long enough to sip some water—most of which you spat back at me—and a bit of broth. You’ve been

down for another three days, and I don’t dare keep you under longer or you’ll starve. You’re not fixed up yet.”

As he awakened more fully, Cam became aware of a dull ache in his left arm. His broken knee throbbed despite Trygve’s efforts to blunt the pain. “I feel like my head’s full of wool.”

Trygve chuckled. “That’s because of the drugs you’ve had for the pain. You needed more than my magic could do for you. The potions are hard on the stomach, but they’re far better than the alternative.”

“Will I heal?” Cam was sure Trygve could hear the apprehension in his question.
I’ve seen
soldiers banged up like this. Most of them never were any use for soldiering again. I can
fight with a bum left hand, but if I can’t walk, my fighting days are over.

“Heal? Yes. And before you ask, I think you’ll be able to walk, tho’ I won’t guarantee you won’t have a limp. Your knee looked like a smashed piece of crockery. Took me several days just for that working, not counting the mess they made of your hand. That’s why I asked Donelan to send you to Carina once you can travel. I’m nearing the limit of what I can do, but I’m certain someone with her skill can do more.” Trygve grinned. “Besides, if you’re in Dark Haven, you won’t be tempted to sneak back on duty before you’re ready for it.”

Cam gestured with his good hand to the letter Donelan left behind. “Please. Read it,” he requested as two servants came to change his clothes and sponge off his face and the parts of his body not covered in bandages.

Trygve frowned in thought as he picked up the letter and broke the wax seal. “How long has it been since you heard from your brother?”

“Eleven years.”

Trygve drew a deep breath and paused to make out the cramped writing. “Dear Cam and Carina. With father dead and Alvior gone missing (may he rot in the Crone’s belly), I’m finally free to write to you. For years, I didn’t know where you’d gone. We only learned you were with the king a few years ago. I tried once to get a letter through, but Alvior found out and told father, and he beat me for the effort.

“I know your last memories of Brunnfen weren’t pleasant. Mother never forgave father for sending you and Carina away. She took fever and died shortly afterward; I always thought she lost the will to live.

“I wanted you to know that the nobles who had such a fit about you being twins are long dead, and the issue about magic was mostly in father’s head. What I’m trying to say is that you’d be welcome here if you’re of a mind to come back, seeing as how you’re the eldest living son and the title is vacant.

“I’m taller by half than when you left, with more than a passing resemblance to Carina. I’d had a farmer’s tan from helping in the fields (it kept me out of Alvior’s way), but when he found out that I suspected he had ties to the divisionists, Alvior locked me in the basement.

Now I’m pale as the
vayash moru
, and likely to stay so until spring.

“The last few seasons have been hard on Brunnfen. As with most of Isencroft, the harvest has been middling and the wheat got blight. It’s no real prize, but the house is sturdy (though still as cold as I wager you remember it). Until you make up your mind, I’ll do my best to keep the servants directed and start the planting as soon as the snows melt.