Shadow Over Avalon (6 page)

City lights reflected a blue haze off the plasglass dome separating Avalon from the ocean depths, his prison, the specimen jar where he would be studied until of no further value. Arthur settled down against an exhaust vent poking out of the flat rooftop.

Far beneath, railpods rumbled, ground runners hissed, intruding on his thoughts. Upon the rooftop of Sanctuary, the private citadel of the seers of Avalon, he sprawled in his place of refuge above the incessant motion. Images of the forbidden surface world mingled with the Outcast’s history. Her world held the same sights and smells as his dreams of the land – a disturbing discovery.

A signature of thought-patterns alerted Arthur to a stalker. “Rooftops don’t make good beds. Circe, your enthusiasm amazes me.”

“Hiding again?” Her voice carried the overtones of hurt. “We had an appointment.”

The skin-tight bodysuit she wore betrayed tremors in her delectable physique. She’d dressed to thrill: the emerald green color matched her eyes to perfection.

“Shall I ask Evegena to assign another breeding mistress to you?” Her lower lip sucked in, eyes brightened with unspilt tears.

Distressed to see her delicate features cast in such a sorrowful expression, Arthur opened his arms. She nestled down against him, her head over his heart. He stroked the smooth, golden hair that cascaded in waves down her back.

“How about we talk instead of arguing over my seed?”

Her eyes opened wide. “You want to talk? Other males prefer—”

He touched her lips with a finger to stop those ugly words. “I’m not others. I want your opinion on something.”

Circe’s brows drew together. She would have pulled away if he hadn’t held her.

She’s not happy, either.
He offered comfort in the way he’d learned from her – not a sexual kiss, but a light touch that caressed, moving from her mouth to her neck for a leisurely return.

She turned away before he could recapture her lips. “Tell me what you wish to hear.” The brightness of her tone sounded brittle to his ears.

“Honest answers, based on your own opinion.”

She looked away. A single tear traced a path down her cheek. Arthur cupped her chin in his hand.

“Should I take vows to become an initiate?” He sensed her confusion in the peripheral thought-patterns streaming from her consciousness. In that moment, he was almost tempted to conform, until images of the surface world flooded his thoughts.

She raised one eyebrow. “Initiates can access the Archive at will.”

“That’s the catch.”

“I know you wanted to find your ancestry. That is why you are accessing Shadow’s records, isn’t it? In case she saw one of your parents.” Her brows drew together in a pretty frown. “Evegena’s gifts are double-edged. Acolytes change when they evolve into initiates. You probably wouldn’t be interested in who your kin are, or were, once you became an extension of the Archive.”

“If I don’t take the vows, I risk becoming addicted to sensory playback.” He paused. “You didn’t tell anyone I found a way to access the Archive, did you?” He had given up on finding his parents in the time he had left before Evegena’s ultimatum expired. What he needed was an escape from Avalon that researching Shadow might provide. Circe’s answer confirmed his fears and his resolution.

“No, but you must give up those sessions.” She touched his cheek with her small hand. “Are you near finding answers to your ancestry, or are you drawn more by the outer world sensations?”

Arthur drew her against his chest, happy to be with her. He inhaled the heady aroma of her hair, and her skin. The Outcast study gave him a frame of reference to judge himself. Shadow was accounted stable, despite her elevated psi-factor. Could he walk in her path? In this moment, he wanted the impossible: a life with Circe, but a life in the outer world. He would have to convince her to come with him if he left, yet he feared she would never agree

“Circe? Would you like to spend the night with me, in my room?” She ran one finger over his lips in a way that fired his loins.

“I’ll be prepared for the dreams this time.”

Arthur fought to keep his tone level. “Not a problem. They haven’t troubled me since the first Archive session.” Her relieved smile thrilled through him.

Later, Arthur held her until she slept, her mouth curved up in a sweet smile that did things to his heart. She knew he’d withheld viability again, and yet she looked content. The thought of his continued deception troubled him. Evegena would reassign Circe if he refused to give viable seed. He didn’t want to think of her with someone else, and yet neither did he want to give up a child that would be part of them both, especially now.

The Archive’s call thrummed in his mind as if it had waited for this moment. Arthur intensified Circe’s sleep pattern; she wouldn’t know he’d left her for the hour a session would take.

He dressed in the dark and once more trod the path of temptation. However much Arthur stood to gain or lose, he deferred his final decision until he reached the small room and stood in the presence of the Archive, choosing to acquire more data in that moment. “How did the Outcast evolve into a war leader?”

“The human psyche can sustain a limited degree of misdirection.” The Archive’s vocalization echoed in an empty room. “Over-stimulation results in crisis.”

“People heal.” Arthur took his position. “It’s in their nature.”

“Biological intelligence is subject to change with each additional input of data, cause and effect.”

His doubts surfaced. Personalities didn’t alter overnight. He set controls for an interface link of one standard hour.

*

Earth Date 3874

A faint waxy tang of burning candles and the smooth crackle of clean sheets roused Ashira. Shadows danced on a high ceiling, strange leaping shapes on rounded buttresses. A black form unwound from a corner to stretch a terrifying height when illumination caught it, bringing the fragments of a dream memory into sharp focus.

“Welcome home,” a deep voice murmured.

The threatening shadow made Ashira ball her fists.

“Easy, I’m not starting a war. I just didn’t want you waking up alone in a strange place.” The black form lit a brace of candles.

Now she recognized the duke, fear drained into urgent thirst. A pitcher and a goblet rested on a bedside table. He poured water for her, sliding an arm under her shoulders to raise her while he held the vessel to her lips. Blessed moisture flooded her mouth, but he forced her to take sips when she wanted to swallow a river.

“More.” Her voice wavered, sounding strange to her ears.

“Wait a few moments, or it will revisit.” He held the goblet out of her reach, frowning. “I thought I’d have to build a funeral pyre for a while, but my priest informs me that your fever has run its course. We were too late for him to prevent scarring, I’m sorry for that.”

Ashira ran her tongue over cracked lips. Outcasts had scars. “Has the merchandise been spoiled?” Her voice croaked, an ugly sound.

He knew her for a War Maid and scarred. What happened to discarded possessions? Why did he bring her to his home?

“Someday, when you choose to be pleasant, I might show you all my scars.” A quirky smile lit his stern features. He eased her back against soft pillows. “Meanwhile, there are clean garments on top of my clothes press. When you feel stronger, bathing facilities are through the entrance to your right. Try to get some more sleep.”

Standing, the duke clicked his heels to execute a short, formal bow before marching for the door. Disappointment flowed through her at the sight of his departing back. Why didn’t he shout at her for concealing her battle skills?
His
clothes press, he had said,
his
rooms and not the women’s quarters. He wanted her to sleep. Her eyelids drooped already. What manner of man could permit her to live after the cruel trade her father had enforced? He hadn’t tried to hurt her. He eased her pain. Why? Despite her questions, Ashira welcomed sleep’s dark wings.

Consciousness returned by degrees. Warmth and then light made her aware of a throbbing ache in her arm. The room spun when she opened her eyes. She reached for more water, but the duke’s advice made her sip rather than gulp. She’d no wish to have a return visit of the fluid, not with her throat already raw.

The smell of blood and sweat offended her nose. She became aware of her naked body under the bedding. A clean nightgown lay on top of the duke’s clothes press. Lights danced in her eyes when she tried to stand and seek the bathing room. Walls slipped sideways. She crawled, ignoring the pain radiating from her shoulder to her wrist. She refused to look at the damage.

The cleansing room surprised her with a tub against one wall, but no pitchers of heated water nearby. Wheels attached to metal tubes seemed to hang over the structure. He wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t have lied about this. Minutes later, she had her answer: one wheel, when rotated, provided hot water, and the other spewed out cold. A bench by the tub offered a selection of aromatic unguents in haphazard order, drying sheets stacked neatly on a shelf underneath. Ashira enjoyed the first hot bath she could remember.

Sliding back into bed wearing a clean nightgown represented bliss for her. Warm, comfortable and very tired, she slipped almost immediately back into slumber. A touch on her face wakened her to the duke by her bedside.

“Feeling better?”

“I thank you, yes.”

His hand strayed to her tangled hair. “Will you let me make repairs? It would be a shame to hack all this off.” Smiling, he reached to a shelf beyond her range of vision for a comb. A muscular arm snaked under her to lift her to a sitting position. She fought to stay awake as the walls began to move. “Just relax.”

His voiced soothed her as he got to work. He didn’t pull at her hair the way servers did, but held each lock while he teased out the tangles. Ashira marveled at his patience as she inhaled the faint hint of musk and leather coming from him. She closed her eyes.

“How many other Gold Band ladies are there at Menhill?” he asked. “Or were you the one and only?”

“My half-sister Syril.” His closeness began to make her feel uncomfortable despite their now married status. It wasn’t being alone with a man; War Maids held that privilege, deemed competent to guard their own honor . . . no, more embarrassment at the thought of why he visited.

“Younger?”

“Older by three years.” Ashira answered, wondering at his interest.

“Did she receive beatings too? I took a good look at the damage while you slept. Hald’s a cruel man.”

Blood rushed to her face. He’d inspected the merchandise thoroughly when she couldn’t object. “Syril is his favorite. As for me . . . it was almost as if I didn’t belong to him.”

“Were that the case, you would have been a Silver Band at best, if he had even let you live. So she wasn’t pretty enough to attract admirers?”

“I am the plain one.” Shame burned through her. “Syril has nice, straight hair, a lovely light red color.”

Uther studied her face. One eyebrow quirked up as he turned her head to inspect her profile, making her blush again.

“Rusty hair, a beak big enough to make any goose envious and a dark mole by her mouth?” He laughed when she nodded. “I wouldn’t give her bed room if I were a Bronze Band. I saw her spying from a doorway just before Hald turned up. She ruined her disguise as an unveiled Silver Band by making an important-looking server bow.” He released her to finish combing another tangled strand.

“They all say I’ve got a commoner’s face, and they’re right.”

“Different, in a very feminine way, but not coarse by any standards.” He rotated her face to study it from every angle. “Tell me, did you always meet your lover at dawn, away from Menhill?”

“I am a maiden.” Ashira met his eyes in angry challenge, daring him to deny her, and puzzled by his placement of her movements when his time inside Menhill had been so brief.

The duke frowned. “I saw a sight I will never forget on the day of our bonding, a War Maid charging through mist like a legend out of time. Know that I didn’t connect a sad little girl with the earlier vision until I saw you fight. I might just decide to discipline you, since I gave you an order to run for cover during an attack.” He glanced at her arm, his mouth forming a hard line of displeasure.

“Oath breaker.” Ashira tried to pull away. “You swore no hitting.”

“That was then.” He put aside the comb, satisfied with his efforts. “I came to tend the wound.”

Ashira bristled at the suggestion. “I wasn’t meeting any man that day. I just like riding.” She settled back to endure the area being treated. His hands applied the ointment in the same gentle way he had administered liniment to her bruises.

“For the present, rest here until you feel the need to explore. I grant you free run of my fort, but no going outside without my permission.” He fingered the neckline of her thin nightgown, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I ordered you a dress to be made by the morning, so no pilfering of my clothing, War Maid. Is this clear?”

“Yes, my lord.” Ashira caught her breath. She was not confined to women’s quarters. She could go where she wished as long as she stayed inside the fort. Where was the worm in this apple? “Am I required to wear a veil, in case I should want to sneak off for another assignation?”