VirtualWarrior (30 page)

She assumed a central location from which to marshal the
slaves and warriors, one arm extended, pointing out tasks to be done. Her skirt
was splotched with blood. Her hair was a tumble of snarls. There was a smudge
of dirt on her chin.

A hard realization hit Lien like a fist in the chest. He
loved the very things about Ardra that he’d sworn to Gwen did not attract
him—Ardra’s slim figure, her serenity, and what had appeared in the game as
coldness but was in fact an incredible self-possession evident even during the
attacks in the forest.

She had not run or screamed. She had drawn her eating dagger
and stood her ground. It was a damned good thing he was a pilgrim, or he’d be
working off the adrenaline rush of the fight between the sheets, probably
making little Ardras and Liens in the process.

Then he’d be stuck here forever.

The gap-toothed slave who’d fought for a moment at Lien’s
side touched his arm. Lien tore his gaze from Ardra and looked down.

The slave held out the confiscated rebel sword. “Would you
have it?” he asked.

Lien shook his head. “You should give that to one of Ralen’s
men. I don’t need it.”

“I think you chose the wrong path,” the man said.

“What’s your name?” Lien asked.

“Inund. I come from the sea.” He gestured off in what Lien
would call a southerly direction. “We have dragons that swim where I come
from.”

Great. Loch Ness monsters.
He glanced nervously
toward the lake. “How’d you get here?”

“My father is a free man, but enjoys the grape too much, if
you take my meaning.”

“Sure do.”

“When he lost his living—repairing fishing nets—he sold me
to our Esteemed Goddess’s mother.”

“I see. Did he get much for you?”

The man smiled. “A side of boar delivered once a
conjunction. I have fed my family well for half my life.”

“What would have happened to them if you’d been killed back
there?”

The man lost his smile. “I suppose my father would sell my
sister.” He bowed and departed. When Lien looked up, Ardra was gone.

“Damn.” He headed for the hall.

It was a mini-hospital. Shaken slaves poured water and wine
while others huddled in corners and whispered. Einalem moved about like
Florence Nightingale, while Cidre wandered, not paying much attention to
anyone. When Cidre saw him, she perked right up and hurried over.

“Lien. Come. You must remove your robe and let me see if the
dragon venom touched you anywhere.”

“It didn’t.”

“It did.” She pointed to his boots, and he saw what she
meant. There were holes here and there as if acid had burned them. “Strip off
everything,” she said. “Leather is no protection.”

“Later.” Where the heck was Ardra? He didn’t see her
anywhere. And there was no way he was getting naked with the goddess.

“Later may mean death,” Cidre said.

Lien heaved a deep sigh. “Thanks for your concern. Later.”
He walked away, through the hall, up into the corridor of chambers. No Ardra.
He opened doors on empty chambers; everyone was occupied in the hall.

One door revealed an opulent chamber fit for a sultan, and
he recognized Cidre’s scent and Venrali’s robes. With a glance at the door,
Lien did a little vial-hunting, running his hands through the clothing in
coffers, feeling under mattresses, looking in pots, sniffing bottles. The
seduction potion could be in any one of them and he’d never know it, although
he saw nothing that looked like the dirt Nilrem had described.

He flipped back the lid of a wooden box about twelve inches
square. It was quite plain in comparison with the richness of the room. Inside,
nestled on a green silky cloth, was a pile of rusty chains attached to wide
metal bands. He picked them up and stared. It was a set of shackles.

Ardra met Deleh at the door to the kitchen. Deleh held out a
cup. “Come, Ardra, you have eaten nothing all day. Drink this milk or you will
faint and be of use to no one.”

Ardra took the cup and drank. She wiped her mouth with the
back of her hand and stared into the cup. The milk tasted strange. “Deleh, did
you make this yourself?” she asked.

“In the kitchen with my own hands.” Deleh took the cup back.

“It has a funny taste.”

“Oh, ‘tis probably what Cidre added to it.”

Ardra grabbed Deleh’s arm. “What did Cidre add?”

“Just something to give you strength.”

The door closed behind Deleh. Ardra ran through the kitchen
and into the garden. She stuck her finger down her throat, gagged, and coughed
up some of the milky drink. Although she tried several times, she could not
disgorge it all.

She stood among the vegetables and tried to assess how she
felt. Was her skin warmer? Were her hands tingling? What of her fatigue? Was
she more tired or less?

Why would Cidre poison her?

With relief, Ardra realized she felt as she always did.
Lifting her hem, she went back through the kitchen and to the lower levels of
the fortress.

She saw Cidre coming, a leather pouch in one arm and a
basket in the other. Ardra stepped backward into the shadows and waited for the
goddess to pass her. A chill air swirled after her.

Unable to resist looking inside the herbarium once more,
Ardra tiptoed down the corridor and past a smoking torch.

She opened the door and froze. “Oh, I thought this chamber
was empty.”

A young girl stood still, a spoon in her hand, a vacant look
on her face. It was the girl from the orchard. The one Lien claimed Cidre put
them asleep to protect. She was beautiful.

“My name is Ywri,” the girl said, smiling shyly. “Your face
is very dirty. It is not pretty like mine.”

Ardra touched her cheek. “I’ll have to wash it.” How was she
going to get this young woman to leave the herbarium? “I think Cidre could use
your help in the hall…or the kitchen,” she said, fumbling for a reason to send
the girl away.

Ywri curtsied and smiled. “I will go to the kitchen.”

A moment later, Ardra was alone in the herbarium. She
pressed a hand to her heart to still its rapid beat.

The herbarium was brightly lighted with ranks of oil lamps
giving off myriad scents that somehow blended into a soothing, sweet whole.

A mixture bubbled over a candle. It smelled and looked like
stewed berries.

Ardra scanned the chamber. It was useless. Everything looked
as it should. She was turning to go when a breeze kissed her cheek.

Along with it came a spicy, exotic scent. It appeared to
come from a tall cupboard that held bunches of dried herbs.

With a sniff she determined it was not the stuff in the
cupboard that gave off the seductive scent.

Cool air washed over her, bringing the strange scent again.

She waved the candle back and forth before the cupboard’s
shelves and watched the flame flicker. The breeze came from the back of the
cupboard.

A line of uneven wood ran along the corner. She followed it
with her eye and realized the back of the cupboard was actually a small door
with what looked like a bent nail as its latch. A tug on the nail caused the
shelves to swing forward away from the back wall. Before her yawned a dark,
narrow space.

With a backward glance to assure herself that Cidre’s
herbarium door was closed, she stepped through the cupboard. To her right was a
winding staircase. The air was filled with the unusual spicy scent. She mounted
the steps.

The scent of the forest mingled with the spice the higher
she climbed. The air grew cooler, the way more narrow. Her shoulders brushed
the walls. She knew that a staircase such as this was often the one used by
masons to carry materials to the higher levels as a fortress was built. But
this passage was not closed off as the ones in her fortress were, nor dusty
with disuse.

Nay, the scent of fecund earth and plants grew stronger the
higher she went, twisting into the upper reaches of the hall. The exotic scent
filled her head.

Another door, this one with an ordinary iron latch, opened
quietly on well-oiled hinges and gave entry to the upper reaches of the
fortress.

When she lifted the meager light of the candle up high, she
gasped. Here, in this hidden space, was the rest of Cidre’s tree. Far overhead,
almost disappearing in the black shadows, was the flat roof of the fortress,
the roof whose lines could be seen from the hill on approach. And here,
confined and twisted, bent down in ponderous majesty, did the mighty branches
end.

Here were the leaves, big as her hand, some even as large as
meat platters. Flowered vines wrapped around the majestic arms. The scent of
moist earth drew her forward in wonder. With the candle held high, she walked
across the attic floor, which was deep with loam formed from generations of
leaves falling and decaying. How did the monolithic tree survive without
sunlight?

She touched a bright white flower that gleamed in the light.
Nestled in the petals were two red centers as shiny as gems. She held the
flower close and breathed deeply of its scent. Herein was the source of the
exotic smell.

She wove her way between the branches that erupted from the
earth and the lovely entwining vines that looped over limbs and draped the air
in every open space.

Closer to the heart of the tree, her candle lighted only a
small circle of the darkness, a circle she carried with her, a warm circle in
the cool and lovely space. She thought of the labyrinth beneath her fortress
and thought that Cidre had her own here above her hall.

Ardra stood still. She was at the heart of the tree. Was it
her imagination that she could hear its throbbing beat? A rustling sound drew
her around the thick central trunk.

Lien reclined there on a twist of matted branches. He had
put off his pilgrim robe and wore only breeches and boots. His breeches hugged
his lean limbs. She could not tear her gaze from his spread thighs.

“Lien,” she said, her mouth dry, as dry as it had been the
first time he had touched her with passion.

Smaller branches, still thick and smooth, supported his arms
like a throne might. She stood by his feet, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

He smiled. How tempting his lips looked. She remembered how
they felt on every part of her body.

“Come here, Ardra,” he said. His voice held the husky
quality of passion.

“I cannot, Lien. You have made a pilgrim vow. You do not
want me. And I have offered myself to Samoht.”

“Come here,” he whispered.

Her candle hissed and flickered in a stir of air that
rustled the leaves and lifted her hair.

Though the air was almost cold in the attic forest, sweat
dripped down Lien’s brow. She watched a single drop trace the hard line of his
jaw, follow the long, smooth skin of his neck, and course between the honed
muscles of his chest. It moved slowly, so very, very slowly, before it
disappeared into the line of dark hair at his waist. She took a shuddering
breath along with a step back.

She tipped some wax on a broad branch and set her candle
down.

“Come here, Ardra,” he repeated.

She stepped between his feet. “What are you doing here?” she
asked. “How could you choose the pilgrim way? I can never touch you again.”

“Come here.” He lifted his hand to her.

“I can never touch you again,” she repeated.

A vine slipped from a branch. It dropped across his upper
arm and wrapped around it to conceal the snake design there.

Suddenly he was naked, though he had not moved.

Her throat was as dry as the Scorched Plain. Her head
pounded. The cloying greenery and flower scents were as tangible as a taste.
She closed her eyes. Opened them. He was still naked—and aroused.

Another vine shifted and dropped onto his hip, and she
gasped as it teased his groin, ran down his thigh, and wrapped around him just
above his knee.

“Lien. Move, Lien.” When he merely stared at her, she
wondered if she had said the words aloud.

“Lien. Move. Now.” She stepped within the embrace of his
thighs and pulled at his arm, but she was too weak—and he too strong. The vines
shifted and slithered around him. “Now, Lien. Now. Please move.” She grabbed
his hand. A vine dropped on her wrist and whipped around her arm and his.

“Lien!” she cried, but he only stared at her.

Vines looped around her arm, hips, and waist.

His eyes were glazed, staring, the centers so huge they
resembled Cidre’s Black Eye.

“Lien, help me!” She slapped his face with her free hand.

Bark scraped her palm.

He was gone. Vanished in one heartbeat.

“Nay,” she cried, too late to break away from the tree. The
vines tightened about her waist. More vines dropped upon her, entwining her as
they had appeared to entwine him. The slick vines pulled her closer and closer
to the trunk. Its bark grazed her cheek.

Finally, the rustle of foliage fell silent. Her candle
hissed and died.

Ardra wept. She would die here. Lost in the darkness, her
fate unknown to anyone. And surely ‘twas her enchantment with Lien that had
drawn her into this cold embrace.

Lien knew the shackles weren’t for mattress games. Venrali
might agree to a little bondage, but the chains Lien coiled back into Cidre’s
box were a serious set of tools for holding someone hostage.

They were not a game.

He opened a door he found behind a tapestry depicting the
Tangled Wood. It was a private privy. Like the more public one he used, it was
a simple wooden seat on a stone box with a chute to the deep, silent recesses
of the earth. Some clever ventilation system kept the room smelling pretty
innocuous.

Scented dishes of oil burned in wall niches. A table held
cloths, soaps, a basin, and a pitcher of water for cleanliness. He poked around
some bottles filled with flowery scents but doubted Cidre would keep the vial
where Venrali might use it.

He returned to the hall, but there was still no Ardra.

Venrali and Samoht continued their argument, Einalem and
Cidre their nursing duties. Ralen moved among his men.

Ollach offered Ralen a goblet of wine, and Lien noticed that
Ralen’s good hand shook as he drank while his broken arm was now splinted and
tightly wrapped in clean bandages.

A serving woman passed with a tray of folded material.

“May I have one?” Lien asked, snagging a length of cloth.

She shrugged and continued on. Lien folded the linen, which
he assumed someone was going to cut into bandages, and walked over to Ralen.

“This might make your arm more comfortable.” He didn’t wait
for permission but slid the sling under Ralen’s injured arm.

“Where’s Ardra?” Lien spoke softly so only the warrior could
hear. “I can’t find her.”

Ralen scanned the hall while Lien tied the sling over his
shoulder. “I have not seen her, but Samoht has not moved.”

“Yeah. But he has a bevy of guards at his command.”

“Granted.”

Lien left Ralen and decided to search the kitchen next.
Ardra wasn’t stirring soup and hadn’t been through there, according to one
cook. He went down to the storerooms, snagging an apple, then headed deeper
into the depths of the fortress, peeking in various rooms. Most were simply for
storage.

In one room he found a young girl sitting alone. Although
this area of the fortress seemed reserved for sacks of grain and hanging slabs
of smoked meat, hers was fitted up as a bedroom. He knew her in an instant. It
was the beautiful young woman Cidre had spirited away on their first night at
the fortress—Ywri. Lien thought of her hidden here for the length of their
visit.

She was stitching on a length of cloth, a candle by her
side, even though if she’d gone upstairs, she could have worked in bright
sunlight.

When he pushed her door back, she stood up and stared at
him, her mouth slightly open. She was beautiful. Her breasts were very large,
her waist tiny, her hair coiled and twisted with multicolored ribbons. She was
all dressed up with no place to go.

Her eyes were as vacant as a deer’s caught in headlights.

“Hi.” He smiled to reassure her he was harmless. “I’m looking
for Ardra. Have you seen her?”

“Ardra? The one with the golden eyes? Her face is dirty.”
Her voice was low and soft.

“That’s her.”

The young woman smiled. “I have seen her. She went into the
herbarium. I have a new gown.” She held her green skirt out with both hands and
turned for his inspection.

“It’s very pretty,” he said.

“My name is Ywri. It means pretty.”

“I have to go now,” Lien said.

She sat down, picked up her sewing, and began to hum. Slowly
Lien backed out of the room.

The lower levels of the fortress were deserted. Lien went
straight to the herbarium.

“Ardra?” he said and pulled open the door to Cidre’s special
place. Immediately he smelled rotting foliage. It was a thick, cloying scent in
the small room and originated from behind a cupboard door. When he pulled it
open, he gagged. Before him was a dark, narrow staircase, filled with the fetid
smell. Cold air swirled down the steps.

A heat pulsed through his arm. It coiled on his tattoo. He
went back into the herbarium and grabbed a candle.

When he stepped into the cupboard, a gust of noxious air
blew the small flame out. He retreated a moment, then went back into the
passageway and took down a torch. It smoked and hissed at his ear while he
climbed the narrow steps. The rotting odor grew more powerful. His heart began
to pound. He drew up the loose neck of his robe and covered his mouth and nose.

At the top of the steps, a small door stood open. A white
animal, almost a rat but not quite, ran past him and down the steps.