Firestorm (21 page)

***

The meal was a surprisingly sumptuous one, consisting of one large hammered metal plate filled with a bed of cooked grain upon which had been placed chunks of roast cerva marinated in herbs and spices, and another upon which sat flat pieces of a traditional circular bread. Nearby, along with a tall, curved pot used to boil the deep, dark, rich faba, sat a smaller plate filled with baka cakes flavored with a sticky mixture of apis honey, syrup, and nuts.

Teague ate well, keeping pace with Bahir as they scooped up mouthfuls of the grain and meat dish with pieces of the flat bread, then washed it down with liberal amounts of cerevisia, a hearty, fermented liquor brewed from the tubers of the asphodel bush. Raina's appetite, on the other hand thanks to Najirah's startling revelation about Teague, was barely adequate to avoid an outright insult to the Tuaret couple's hospitality.

She entered little into the conversation of the two men, which she imagined pleased at least Bahir. Though Teague sent her occasional questioning glances, she pretended not to notice, concentrating on keeping her eyes cast down as befit a desert wife. After a time, as the consumption of the cerevisia increased she was left more and more to her own thoughts.

Was it possible? she asked herself over and over. Was Teague the son of the old king? She searched her memory for any hint of his past, any nuance or shading in his words.

She recalled the first time she'd seen him, that night at his hermitage, outside the Bellatorian royal city of Rector. Even then, there'd been something special about him, from his magnificent body, his endless stamina and power as he'd carried out the repetitive movements of the strange blade ceremony he performed, to the terrible, anguished beauty of his face. He was a man among men in her eyes, but that didn't make him the king's son.

Yet the sense of a secret torment, a barely contained fear even that day when he'd reluctantly accepted the call to go to Incendra, had moved her, plucked at her, until Raina, too, had agreed to a mission her mind, if not her heart, told her was foolhardy and potentially fatal. Even then, her instincts whispered that he shied from the journey not out of cowardice or indolence, but something far deeper, something that had happened long ago . . . perhaps even on Incendra.

There had been other incidents as well, none meaning much in itself; but when they were woven, bit by bit, into the tapestry of the past weeks . . . Like his comment that night on the spy ship, after they'd landed and she was still ill from the effects of the radiation sickness. He'd admitted to guessing she'd been ill treated at the hands of some man or men. That her hatred of men had arisen from some horrible experience . . . perhaps as terrible as his. And when she'd struck out at him in her anger and shame and accused him of having his own sordid, secret past, he hadn't denied it.

What Raina remembered most vividly of all, however, was later that night, when Teague had taken her out into the thunderstorm to cool her fever. When he'd sunk to his knees, whispering in an agonized voice that he couldn't take it anymore. Even then, Raina had wondered what he couldn't take. Wondered what haunted him so badly that it roused such abject fear in a man she'd already suspected, even then, to be brave and strong and good.

The incident in the storm had only corroborated his later revelation, that night at the oasis before the sand cat's attack, when Teague had admitted why he'd become a monk. "I had nothing ... no home, no family, no name, and no hope . . ." And when he later shared his conversation with Rand with her, admitting the world he'd rebuilt as a monk, after his world on Incendra was destroyed, was now threatening to collapse . . .

He'd given her so many hints—inadvertently, she was certain, knowing his fierce pride—but with Najirah's additional revelation, it now all fell into place. Fell into place, when she added her knowledge of what was said to have happened to the royal family once Malam Vorax had seized power.

The queen had been flung from the parapet wall that towered over the valley, screaming in terror all the way down until she struck the sharp rocks below. The princess, four years older than her brother, had been given to the soldiers loyal to Vorax and repeatedly raped until she fled naked to the fortress walls and leaped to join her dead mother. The old king, along with his young son, had been forced to watch the atrocities; then the king had been beheaded and his head hung from the main gate.

And then there was the prince, brutalized by what he'd witnessed alone and at Vorax's mercy. It'd been said afterward that though Vorax had had the lad tortured in a myriad of crude and depraved ways, he'd feared killing him. That in the darkest hours of the night, he'd sent the prince away alive, but never to be seen or heard from again. The ancient prophecy would allow no other fate—not if Vorax, a superstitious man when all was said and done, wished to keep the throne he'd stolen through treachery and deceit.

At long last Raina understood Teague's reluctance to return to Incendra, his fear, his pain. And understood as well, why he kept it all a tightly guarded secret. He'd suffered enough for the failings of his family, shared enough of their shame. And then, to return to a land that had not only brutally rejected him, but had cast him out . . .

Admiration for his courage swelled in her breast. A fierce desire to aid him, to protect him from further pain. And a need to comfort him, to love him. If only he would let her. If only he dared . . .

Yet it wasn't her right to question him about his heritage. It wasn't her right to pry, or force open the floodgates of his heart. Teague had done the best he could with what a heartless fate had dealt him. It was better if she let the truth of his past be.

He wasn't just a simple monk anymore, though. He was most likely the crown prince, the true heir to the throne of Farsala, the most powerful kingdom on Incen-dra. He was the greatest threat to Vorax's rule that the evil man had ever known. And because of that, the mission was endangered. Because of that, she had to know the truth. It was the only way they could prepare for all eventualities.

Briefly, Raina considered cornering Najirah this night, before she'd a chance to talk with Bahir and share her suspicions. That idea quickly died an ignominious death. Najirah adored Bahir, was intensely loyal to him. That much, even in the short time she'd spent with her girlhood friend had been more that evident. No, Najirah would never keep such a momentous secret from her husband.

The dilemma lay in what Bahir would do once he knew. He hated Malam Vorax. He might well try to use Teague as a rallying point for the armies he hoped would join him. She wouldn't put it past the man. He did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted.

She shot a glance in the Tuaret leader's direction. He and Teague had their heads together in slightly tipsy conversation. Their growing inebriation was for the best, Raina thought, at least as far as Bahir was concerned. The drunker he got tonight, the better. Teague, on the other hand needed as clear a head as possible for their impending discussion.

Raina looked over at Najirah. "Isn't it time we brewed the faba and served the baka cakes? If the men drink much more cerevisia . . ."

The blue-eyed woman smiled. "A wise decision."

She rose and walking over to where the faba pot and a plate of sweet cakes sat, picked them up and brought them back. Placing the cakes on the mat near the fire, Najirah proceeded to add water, then the faba beans and some rich cardamite spices to the pot. She hung the pot from a tripod over the crackling fire. Rising, Najirah walked back to the tent and soon returned with a small carved box.

A set of fine white pottery cups, their curved outsides painted in the bold swirls of desert language, were stacked carefully within. Najirah took out four and handed one to each of them. "They were our wedding gift from my father," she shyly offered. "They bear Bahir's family name in the old script. 'Husam al Nur' means 'sword of light.' "

"A fitting name for the man who is fated to be the savior of his people." Teague lifted his glass of cerevisia high in salute.

Bahir's mouth twisted wryly. Najirah, however, glanced at Teague in horror. "But that cannot be. Bahir is—"

"Enough, Najirah," her husband sharply cut her off. "Don't shame us by insulting our guest's attempt to honor me. He means no harm, one way or another."

She blushed and lowered her head. "I beg pardon, Teague Tremayne," she murmured. "I meant no insult."

Teague managed a lopsided grin. "No insult was taken, domina."

At that moment the water in the faba pot began to boil. Steam sang from the curved, narrow spout. Najirah closed the carved box, laid it down, and rising, hurried over to the fire. Their cups were soon filled with the thick, strongly flavored faba. The baka cakes were the perfect complement.

Afterward the two men talked a time longer while Raina helped Najirah clean up the remnants of the meal. Though she wished for a few more moments alone with Bahir's wife, the opportunity never arose. At long last, the Tuaret leader yawned stretched out his arms, and glanced pointedly from Teague to Raina, then back to Teague.

"It's past time you and your mate took your rest. As must Najirah and I. I've been too long without the sweet comfort of a woman, as I'd wager you have, too."

The monk's gaze skittered off Raina's. Both quickly looked away. "Yes, it has been too long without the privacy we prefer, er, in order to fully savor the sweet comfort of each other," he finally forced himself to reply. "And I must thank you for that as well."

Bahir rose. "Come. Let me show you your tent. It's just a short distance behind ours."

Teague climbed to his feet, Rand's carrying pack in his hand. Raina stood, both eager and a little nervous about sharing a tent alone with Teague. Eager because she needed desperately to talk with him. Nervous because she didn't know what might happen between them afterward. Wordlessly, she nodded her farewells to Najirah, then followed after the two men.

The black capra-hair tent sat a sufficient distance back and away from Bahir's to ensure privacy, wedged into one corner of the steep, stone-walled enclosure. Raina eyed it with approval. There was no way any could approach the tent and overhear their conversation, save by first passing Bahir's dwelling. And though the possibility remained that the Tuaret leader might spy on them, somehow Raina doubted that. For all his irritating mannerisms, Bahir had never struck her as anything but straightforward.

Bahir paused at the opening of the tent, his glance locking with Teague's. "There are a bag of water and cloths to cleanse yourselves with, as well as a small jug of cerevisia and some fresh palmas fruit, in case you wake later and are hungry. The pallet is large and supplied with soft cushions, in addition to several blankets to protect you from the night's chill.

"Not that you'll most likely need them," he added, his gaze becoming shuttered and unreadable. "A warm, willing mirah can take a man's mind off most anything, wouldn't you agree?"

In spite of himself, Teague's blood warmed at the thoughts the Tuaret's words stirred. It seemed he and Raina must sleep together this night whether they wished it or not, or risk stirring Bahir's suspicions even further. He'd provided them the privacy of their own tent for a reason. He wished now to see if they used it as befitted two lovers.

Teague nodded. "I agree." He forced his answer past a throat gone suddenly dry. Dry with anticipation. Dry with fear. He turned to Raina, lifted the tent flap, and motioned her in.

She shot him a narrow-eyed glance, then ducked her head and walked in. Teague, still holding the tent flap in his hand, turned back to Bahir. "My thanks for your hospitality this night. I bid you a safe and most pleasant rest."

"And I you, Teague Tremayne." With that, Bahir wheeled about and strode away.

The monk stood there for a time, gazing after the tall nomad, sorting through all that had happened in the past days, trying to make his way through the complex maze of truths and untruths to pierce the heart of the man, to anticipate the best course to take with him. Minute by minute, it seemed, the mission became more and more complicated. And then there was Raina.

With a low, soughing sigh, Teague turned, leaned down, and stepped into the tent. The flap fell behind him, snapping down with a disconcerting finality. There was no avoiding her this night, or the feelings and desires that ran rampantly through him. Yet this night, like all the rest until the mission was over and he could turn finally from her forever, must be faced, must be endured.

At the sound of the tent flap falling, Raina wheeled about. A small, hanging oil lamp had been lit, bathing the interior—and Raina—in a soft, golden light. She'd unbound her hair, and it cascaded down about her shoulders in a shimmering cloud of russet. Longing twisted within Teague, made his throat tighten, his eyes burn with unshed tears.

Gods, but he was so weary of denying himself, he thought. So tired of having to raise his guard every time he was near Raina, as if ... as if she were some vile temptation that would corrupt and destroy him. She was but a female, curse it all . . . and he was a man.

A man ... but also a monk. A fifth-degree Grandmaster. A paragon of virtue and shining example of the heights to which self-discipline and denial could take one in the Order. And he stood to lose it all. All—for just one night of pleasure.

He gestured to the water bag hanging from the center tent pole. "Would you like some privacy so you might wash before bedtime?"