Warrior's Lady (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Leyla woke in the morning, she was surprised to find a maid testing the water in a small bathtub.

“Milady.” The maid curtsied, then gestured at the clothing she had laid out at the foot of the bed. “Lord Rorke bids you join him at First Meal.”

It was in Leyla’s mind to refuse. She had no desire to dine with Rorke again, but it occurred to her that, should she annoy Rorke, he might take it out on Jarrett.

Rising, she bathed quickly, allowing the maid to help her dress in a gown of velvet-soft burgundy. The sleeves were slashed and the underskirt was a froth of silver ruffles.

Tor and Rorke were waiting for her in the dining hall.

Both men turned her way when she entered the room. Tor’s expression was grim, Rorke’s smug.

She sat down where Rorke indicated, her back stiff. There was no conversation at the table this morning. Leyla ate what was placed before her, not tasting anything. She glanced at Tor from time to time, but he refused to meet her probing gaze or to let her probe his thoughts.

When Leyla finished eating, she pushed her plate aside, folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on Rorke, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

Rorke let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. Shoving his plate aside, he met Leyla’s stare. “He is fine, for now,” he said, his voice gruff as he answered her unspoken question.

The look of relief in Leyla’s eyes filled him with unreasoning anger.

Shoving back his chair, he stood away from the table. “I have business to attend to. I shall expect you both at Last Meal. Make no attempt to leave the castle,” he warned, and without waiting for a reply, he left the hall.

“Tor, what are we to do?”

“Leave, of course. We cannot stay here.” The Maje glanced at the doorway. “I will not play Rorke’s games.”

Leyla leaned across the table. “Does thee have a plan?” she asked hopefully.

“Not yet.”

“I want to see Jarrett.”

“No, it is not possible.”

“If thee won’t take me, I’ll go alone.”

“Leyla, it is not wise.”

She sat back in her chair, her shoulders squared, her chin raised defiantly. “I do not care. I must see him. Thee cannot stop me.”

“He won’t like it,” Tor warned, and she knew he wasn’t speaking of Rorke.

“I have to see him. I have to know he’s all right.”

Tor stared into the distance, his expression blank, as he concentrated on Jarrett. In moments, images formed in his mind.

Jarrett. Chained to the wall. The black hood over his head. A bloody gash made a path of bright crimson across his chest. His thoughts were filled with darkness and despair. And fear, not for his own well-being, but for Leyla.

“He is well,” Tor said, his voice empty of emotion. “In a dark room. Alone.”

“I must go to him.”

“No.” Tor’s hand closed over her arm. “Thee will do him no kindness. Rorke is sure to find out and it will only anger him the more. We must bide our time.”

“Tor, I will not leave here without Jarrett.”

“I thought as much.” He loosened his hold on her arm, letting his fingertips caress the back of her hand, then slide over her wrist. Her skin was smooth and warm. “Promise me thee will not try to see him.”

“No.”

“Leyla, should thee displease Rorke, he is sure to lock thee in thy room. We will have no chance to escape if we’re denied the freedom of the castle. Thee must be patient.”

He was right, of course. “Very well,” she agreed. “I will not try to see him.”

“Good. I am going outside to have a look around. Go to thy room and rest. We must make Rorke think we have resigned ourselves to our situation.”

Leyla nodded. Perhaps Tor was right.

Tor watched her until she was out of sight, then left the keep. There were few people outside save for the King’s men. Most of them were engaged in a game of some kind. The rest stood watch at the various castle gates.

Tor strolled about the yard, seemingly interested in nothing more than a leisurely walk. As if he had every right to do so, he went to the stable and saddled a horse, then rode out of the castle toward the Pavilion.

Once out of sight, he urged the horse into a gallop. A short time later, he entered the walled city.

The Pavilion was a large oval building made of dark stone and wood. Flags fluttered over the outdoor arena adjacent to the Pavilion. No one stopped him as he approached the arena, where several men were showing off their equestrian skills.

Acting as though he were a regular visitor, Tor entered the gate, then stood at the rail, watching the riders. To a man, they rode as though they had been born on horseback, executing difficult maneuvers with ease. And the horses… Tor had never seen such beautiful animals. They moved with the grace of dancers, their hooves seeming to glide over the soft sand, their necks arched, their manes and tails snapping like banners in the wind.

No one paid him any attention as he left the arena and walked toward the immense double doors that led to the Pavilion. He paused, his hand on the heavy latch, staring at the life-size figures carved in the wood. He hadn’t had time to examine them closely when he’d come here with Rorke, but now he studied the carvings carefully.

Two men, naked to the waist and armed with curved swords, were etched in vivid detail. Clearly outlined were the taut muscles, the numerous cuts, the glaring intensity as they focused on each other. It was obvious that this was a representation of how the Games had once been, a fight between two evenly matched warriors, a battle meant to prove a man’s skill and test his courage. But the Games had changed until they had become nothing more than a mockery, no longer Games of Skill but Games of Torture and Butchery.

With his finger, Tor outlined the muscular arm of the carved figure on the left. He could almost feel the blood that oozed from the gash in the man’s shoulder, smell the dust in the air, hear the cheers of the crowd. In Majeulla, a carving depicting such a barbaric display of swordsmanship would have been an abomination.

With a shake of his head, he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.

Crossing the main floor, he made his way to the narrow iron steps that led to the dungeons, nodding affably at a Giant he passed on the way down. They were peculiar creatures, near eight feet tall with hunched shoulders and hands that could span a sapling. Their skin was dark, their eyes yellow beneath shaggy black brows.

Tor expected at any moment to have his presence challenged, but there were few people about. No one questioned his right to be there, and he decided it was because of his attire. He no longer wore the soft flowing robes of the Majeullian people, but the tight-fitting, somber-hued clothing of the Fen. Obviously, they had mistaken him for one of Rorke’s cronies.

At the top of the last stairway, he took a torch from one of the wall sconces. As had happened before, a torrent of sensations flooded his mind as he reached the last level— the smell of blood and sweat and fear, pitiful cries for help that never came, bitter feelings of despair and anguish, the harsh crack of the lash. And over all, pain, waves and waves of pain. Men had died here. Hundreds and hundreds of men.

But now only one remained.

He paused when he reached a narrow wooden door located at the far end of the cellblock.

He looked up and down the corridor, then, taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the latch and opened the door.

The cell was as he remembered it. Dark as Dragora’s cave, it smelled almost as bad. For a moment, Tor stood in the arched doorway, absorbing the atmosphere. The torch in his hand made grotesque shadows on the gray stone walls.

Stepping into the room, he placed the torch in the holder located to the left of the doorway before he closed the door.

Jarrett was chained to the wall, his head and shoulders covered by the thick black hood. He saw the Gweneth warrior’s body tense when he entered the room. Hatred emanated from the man, strong, implacable hatred. And mingled with that hatred was a rage so malignant, so violent, that Tor took an instinctive step backward.

He studied Jarrett carefully, noting the way the warrior stood there, his very stance filled with defiance. His hands were curled into tight fists. There was dried blood on his wrists and ankles. Several welts crisscrossed his torso; a thin ribbon of dried blood marked his chest like a crimson sash.

Tor closed his eyes. He concentrated on Jarrett, felt the warrior’s heart pounding with the force of his hatred. He caught snatches of thought—concern for Leyla, for his mother, a potent thirst. He sensed a mild feeling of discomfort caused by the wound in Jarrett’s shoulder, and over all, a layer of tightly controlled fear as Jarrett waited in the darkness, wondering who it was that stood before him.

Jarrett felt the sweat bead on his brow and trickle down his back as the silence in the room stretched on and on. All his nerves were strung out, taut as a bowstring, as he waited for the unseen person in his cell to say something, do something. Was it Rorke standing there, lash in hand, or just one of the Giants, come to taunt him because there was nothing else to do at the moment?

By Hadra, why didn’t the man say something?

“Jarrett, it’s Tor.”

Jarrett frowned. Tor? What was he doing here?

“I’m alone,” Tor said. “Thee has no need to fear.”

“Where’s Leyla?” Jarrett asked, his voice hoarse. “Is she well?”

Tor stared at Jarrett for a long moment before answering, fascinated by the hood. The Fen wizard who had created it must have been a master of cruelty, he mused, for there was little that men feared more than the endless darkness of the unknown.

With a grimace, he reached forward and removed the hood. “Leyla is in the castle,” Tor said, his fingers examining the covering.

The hood was indeed a remarkable piece of workmanship, Tor thought. There were no seams to be found, and though the material was thick, it was not heavy. But most frightening of all, it seemed to possess a life force of its own, and even though it lay unmoving in his hand, he sensed a malevolence inherent in the very cloth itself.

“Why are you here?” Jarrett asked.

Tor glanced up, his expression bewildered. “Did thee say something?”

“A curious piece of workmanship, is it not?” Jarrett mused, his voice dark and bitter. “But you cannot truly appreciate it for the cunning piece of torture it is unless you put it on.”

“No.” Tor shook his head violently, the very prospect of donning the hood chilling the blood in his veins.

“Why are you here?” Jarrett asked again.

Tor held the hood at arm’s length. “I care not for Rorke’s plans.”

“Rorke’s plans! You know nothing of his plans.”

“What does thee mean?”

“He was here last night. It’s in his mind to dispose of his wife and the King and put Leyla on the throne.”

“Leyla! But he vowed to release her after…after he had his way with her.”

“He has changed his mind. He wants Greyebridge, and he wants the throne, and he cares not how he gets them.”

“I see.”

“You must get Leyla out of here.”

“I said as much to her only moments ago. She will not leave without thee. And so I have come to make thee an offer. I will find a way to get thee out of here and in return, thee will accompany us to Majeulla, where thee will release Leyla from her marriage vows.”

“No.”

“Thee would rather stay here and face the pool?”

“She is my wife. I will never willingly give her to another.”

“And if I cannot persuade her to leave this place without thee, what then? Is it thy wish that she share Rorke’s bed? Has thee forgotten he fancies her?”

Jarrett swore a vile oath. “I haven’t forgotten.” He forced the words through clenched teeth. Forgotten! He’d thought of little else.

“How long does thee think he will wait to take her?”

Jarrett shook his head helplessly. “Isn’t it bad enough I have to endure Rorke’s threats without listening to yours as well?”

“We both want her out of here. Rorke will not wait forever. Only give me thy promise that thee will release Leyla from her marriage vows.”

“Suppose I were to agree. Do you think we can just walk out of here?”

“I walked in. No one paid me any mind. Now that you are the only prisoner here, there are few Giants on guard. It might not be too hard to make our escape.” Tor shrugged. “Thee managed it before, with only Leyla to help thee.”

Jarrett felt a flicker of hope. What Tor said was true.

“We dare not wait too long,” Tor said, thinking aloud. “A few days, at most, so that I can learn the routine of the guards.”

Jarrett nodded.

“Have I thy promise to release Leyla from her marriage vows?”

“No. Only my promise to help you get to Majeulla.”

Tor shook his head. “I want thy promise, Lord Jarrett, else I leave thee here to rot.”

“I cannot believe you would see Leyla come to harm at Rorke’s hands.”

“I will take her away by force, if necessary, though that might endanger her. I do not believe thee would put her life at risk.” Tor glanced at the door. “We are wasting time, my Lord Jarrett. I will not come here again.”