The Hero Strikes Back (10 page)

“You trust me?”

I nodded again, because I wasn't sure I could speak coherently.

“I won't let you do anything you regret. I promise.”

The smart thing to do was to refuse to go in. To insist we go somewhere else. Or to let Karish go in alone while I went home. Gods, the music . . .

“So what do you say?”

He wanted so much for me to go in with him, I could tell. He'd be disappointed if I refused. I could feel it even through the music that was filling my head and scrambling my thoughts.

I'm stupid. I'm so stupid. “Aye.” Was that breathless voice coming from me?

The smile widened into a grin. Karish chuckled and opened the door. The music, of course, got louder, enough to make me dizzy. I crowded in closer to Karish, my free hand clutching his arm. A part of me screamed that this was a very bad idea. The rest of me beat that single part into silence.

The tavern was dark and filled with people, loud chattering people, all the bodies creating waves of heat. The dim candlelight slid over cheekbones and jaw lines and fingers and wrists, glancing off dark eyes and flashes of teeth. I could smell sweat and perfume and beer and the musty scent of winter clothes recently pulled out of storage.

And then, all of a sudden, the music stopped. Protests rose up. My heart didn't slow down, though, and for a few moments I couldn't hear the words being loudly spoken from the corner where the music had been coming from.

People were turning to look at us.

“It's all right,” Karish said at high volume. “It's fine. Keep playing.”

I couldn't see the musicians. I was too short, damn it. And I couldn't hear anything else because that glorious music was still swinging around in my head.

“It'll be all right. Lee doesn't get violent with music.” He faltered a little there. Usually I didn't get violent with music. It had, unfortunately, been known to happen. It depended on the music, and the circumstances. But that music, and those circumstances, weren't likely to arise in a tavern. “I won't be leaving her alone. I promise you there'll be no broken mugs or chairs.” And, as though to demonstrate how seriously he took his promise, he put an arm around my shoulders. “Please keep playing. I'd like Lee to hear it.”

I was still hearing it. It felt good. Really good.

But I could tell when it started up again. It felt even better. Smoothing over my face, filling my blood with light, bursting out through my muscles. It wrapped around me and held me apart from everything around me. I could see, but my mind didn't understand what I was seeing. I wasn't hearing the music but experiencing it inside my head. And the head became nothing more than an enthralling glow against my flesh. The removal of my cloak from my shoulders sent smooth material sliding over my skin. I started shivering.

Then there was movement. Circular, gliding movement. Movement running with my blood, flowing with it, pushing it faster, lifting my feet, curling me through the warm darkness around me.

Dancing. I loved dancing.

I loved Karish. He felt so good. Long slim muscles lining strong limbs. Smooth skin over elegant fingers. His hair was so soft. Gentle light gleamed in his dark eyes. And his smile, such a beautiful velvet smile. I could look at him forever, touch him forever.

Dance forever. The movement. Feeling the muscles work. Experiencing the shift in balance. Trusting your body to know what to do and just letting it. I could do it for hours.

Sometimes the music softened a little, and I could think. It would change into something more gentle, more stately, the steps less acrobatic and more precisely timed, set into specific patterns as partners faced each other and clapped their hands and slid from side to side. I was able to see a little better, watch Karish as he played the gentleman's role in the dance and admire how well he knew the steps, how well he moved. I would have thought the elegance would lose its impact over time, as I saw it almost every day, but I knew then that the unconscious grace of my Source's manner of movement would never cease to rouse my envy.

What was it like to know you always looked perfect? What was it like to know every single thing you did was done well?

Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe he didn't think about it at all. Maybe it was so much a part of what he was that he didn't think any more about it than I thought about the shape of my eyebrows, or the length of my toes.

And I wondered how someone who couldn't sing and claimed no interest in music was able to dance so well. Then the music would rise up again, and the ability to think about anything at all slipped away.

After a while, Karish tried to pull me away from the dancers. I didn't like that, and I resisted. If I stopped dancing my blood would explode out of my veins and spatter everyone, and that would be bad.

“I'm thirsty,” he shouted through the music.

“So drink,” I said. “I'll dance.” Who needed a partner? I was just jumping around like an idiot, anyway.

“No.” He headed towards the tables, his grip firm on my hand. “Be a good girl and have some beer.”

Beer. Mmmmm. My throat suddenly closed in, rough and dry. Drinking something seemed like a good idea, and I moved more willingly. I could always dance after.

Through the haze in my head I saw the occupants of a nearby table clear away. They looked up and saw us coming and with no hesitation or even discussion among them, moved away. I opened my mouth to protest. That wasn't right.

“Leave it,” Karish told me. “They feel better about it this way.”

Really? I'd be annoyed, having to make way for someone else like that. But they'd already disappeared into the crowd, and no one else seemed to find anything odd about it. I couldn't see any dark looks or discontented mutters.

And to be honest, right then, I really didn't care that much. I was happy enough to have a seat at a table.

I closed my eyes, letting the notes and the rhythms of the music flow through me. Another gentle piece, a little mournful. Beautiful, but disturbing, about lost hopes and opportunities carelessly tossed aside, and it made me uncomfortable. It made me think. Images and memories I preferred to repress flashed through my mind. I clutched the sides of the table, pulling in a deep breath that had nothing to do with recovering from the dancing. Jumping around in a tavern when everyone else was doing the same was one thing. Disintegrating into tears and being the only one doing it was not acceptable.

Warm hands peeled my fingers from the table. “Don't try to control yourself,” Karish chided me. “That's my job.”

Well, no, it wasn't, strictly speaking. His job was to make sure I didn't hurt anyone, or sleep with anyone, or damage any of the furniture. “Not much fun for you.” And I didn't like the idea of him doing it.

“Aye, it is.” His grin was impish.

Oh, that made me feel so much better.

The beer, when it came, was ice cold and so, so smooth, spicy flavor bursting over my tongue and flowing down my throat. Very good. I drained it in short order, and a full mug quickly replaced the empty one. I raised it to my lips.

Karish started laughing at me. “Slow down, girl!” he cried. “You'll make yourself drunk.”

And what was so wrong with that? “So?”

“So, is that your plan?”

I hadn't thought about it before, but “Sure!” Everyone else did, and they seemed to enjoy it.

He was grinning. “Have you ever been drunk before?”

Of course not. “What kind of question is that? I'm twenty-two years old.”

A brilliantly evasive answer which, unfortunately, failed to divert him. “Have you?” he persisted.

“I'll have you know I get drunk all the time. It's a regular thing.”

“You do not.”

“Are you going to nag at me all night?”

“Far be it for me to be the voice of reason.”

He sounded so all-knowing that it aggravated me to no end. I couldn't help it. I had to stick my tongue out at him again. Because I couldn't think of anything suitably cutting to say.

He started laughing. Threw back his head and howled like I was the most hysterical thing he'd ever seen. I thought, for a moment, of asking him just what he thought was so funny, but realized I really didn't need to know. He was enjoying himself. That was good enough for me, even if it were at my expense. There were worse things.

I finished my beer with no more comments from the man who thought he was my mother. And then we danced. And drank some more. And danced some more. And drank some more.

And it all got a little fuzzy after that.

The next time I could think again, and then not well, it was morning—or some time like it. I opened my eyes, cursed the evil blades of sunlight, and closed them again. I tried to ascertain my situation. I was in bed, my own. Alone, dressed in my nightgown and lacking any recollection of how I'd gotten there. My tongue was coated with thick fur, my throat was sticky, my stomach stretched and gurgled, and I wished my head would just carry on and explode so I wouldn't have to feel anything anymore.

Then the bed started swinging and spinning.

In my mind I could hear Karish laughing, the bastard.

What a stupid thing to do.

I was still sitting there, and still miserable, when an aggravating Karish pounded on the door and taunted me, telling me I'd feel better if I ate something. The wicked liar. At the thought of food my stomach tried to curl into an impenetrable fist.

But when Riley knocked on my door to tell me my mother had arrived, I knew there was nothing for it but to get out of bed. I washed my face. Dressed. Opened the door.

The aroma of food wafted in.

Close the door. Swallow. Lean my forehead against the door.

Could I die now?

Well, no, not now. After a moment. After I rested for a bit, I'd go back to bed. And die.

Knowing my mother, she wouldn't let me die. She'd just come to my room and berate me for still being in bed.

I opened the door again.

I never before would have described the smell of frying bacon as a stench. And I had to walk through it all the way to the kitchen.

My mother was there. She was causing the stench. She was grinning as she watched me. She knew what I was feeling and she thought it was hilarious. “Sit down.”

I was happy enough to rest my wobbly legs.

Mother placed in front of me a plate of glaring yellow and rusty red. “It seems you had a very good time with Taro last night.”

The plate had good timing. It provided an excuse for covering half my face with my hands, ostensibly to ward off the smell. Oh my gods. The whole night was not, unfortunately, lost to me. I could remember drinking. Every moment I was off the dance floor I was drinking. No intelligent conversation of any kind.

And the dancing. Oh, Zaire, that was the worst. Because—ah, I hated even thinking about it. It hadn't really been dancing at all. More like writhing. Against Karish. Body pressed to his, arms linked around his neck. No doubt he believed my behavior was the result of repressed yearning and the last thing I needed was for him to know I lusted after him. Damn it. Why couldn't my memory block have extended over to that?

Thankfully, it had only been Karish. I hadn't danced with anyone else. I didn't think. I couldn't recall. But even if I didn't, dancing like that with Karish was more than bad enough.

Had there been anyone else I knew there? Had they seen us? What were they thinking?

Not that appearing hung over before one's mother didn't have a humiliation all its own.

“Eat, Lee.”

“Uh—” I'd really rather not, thanks anyway.

“It'll make you feel better. Listen to your mother. The voice of experience.”

I looked up at her at that. Her face was completely blank. She couldn't repress the twinkle in her eyes though.

I stuck a tiny piece of egg on my fork and brought it to my mouth, trying not to smell it. I put the egg on my tongue, prepared for another slosh from my stomach.

I swallowed. Nothing unpleasant happened. And it tasted really good. My next bite was more substantial.

My mother snickered and tucked into her own plate.

I did start to feel better. So my mother was right. Why did I feel irked rather than gratified by that? It made no sense.

“So,” said my mother. “Taro told me his mother is in town.”

“So he said.”

“So I'm going to invite her to the Lion to dinner,” my mother announced gaily. “A dinner for the four of us.”

There was something perversely amusing about the idea of forcing the superior Dowager Duchess of Westsea to spend an evening in our non-aristocratic company. “What does Taro think of that idea?”

“Well, he didn't really like the idea, but he agreed to pass along the invitation. I think it's only appropriate that we all get to know each other, especially when we're so fortunate as to be in High Scape at the same time. It's almost like we're family, after all.”

What was she up to? Because she did not think of the Dowager as family, and she'd never before given any hint of interest in meeting her.

Still, I was glad she was doing it. It was probably the only chance I would have to meet Karish's mother. He seemed anxious to keep us separated.

After breakfast I felt well enough to move without wincing, and even to work on some reports for the council. I wasn't in any shape to bench dance, though, and I felt strangely toxic. I didn't think I'd be drinking again for a good long while. If ever.

The blizzard struck later that afternoon.

Chapter Seven