Warrior's Lady (3 page)

“Thee is beautiful,” he murmured.

A faint blush tinged her cheeks. “Thee thinks so?”

“Indeed.” Her skin was the color of rich cream, her hair like fine strands of twined silver, bright, luminous. Unbound, it cascaded down her back, a glorious shimmering mass of waves that fell past her hips. Her lips were as pink as the sky at dawn.

“Do not look at me so,” she murmured.

“I cannot help myself. You are more lovely than I had imagined. Will you tell me your name?”

It was hard to resist the gentle urging of his voice, the pleading in his eyes, but she shook her head. “Please, do not ask it of me.”

Jarrett nodded, understanding her need to hold something back, to hang on to some small part of herself that was hers and hers alone.

“Jarrett…”

“More bad news?”

“I hesitate to tell thee, yet I feel thee should know all.”

“Go on.”

“The last Game will be…different.”

Jarrett frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They wish to experiment with thee. And with me.”

“Experiment? How?”

He was watching her intently, his eyes dark. She saw the muscles tense in his arms as his hands curled into tight fists.

“They wish to know the full extent of my powers.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“They want to know if I can restore…if I can revitalize…”

It was harder to say than she had imagined. Instinctively feeling the need to comfort him, she took his hand in hers, felt the slight tremor that pulsed through him as he waited for her to tell him the rest.

“On the battlefield…if a man should lose an arm or a leg…they want to find out if I can restore a severed limb, or cause a new one to grow in its place.”

He was going to be sick. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he realized what she was saying. They were going to amputate an arm or a leg and see if she had the power to make him whole again. Fear twisted in his gut, writhing like a snake biting its own tail.

He fought down the urge to vomit, his gaze intent upon her face. “Can you do it?”

“I do not know. I have never had the opportunity to try.”

“But it can be done?”

“Yes, if a Maje can be found before the victim bleeds to death.”

“You mean you can’t raise the dead too?”

Her face went white.

“She?” He squeezed her hand, his breath trapped in his throat as he waited for her answer.

She turned away, unable to face him. “I will be given the opportunity to find out.”

He stared at her for a long while, his mind refusing to believe what he’d heard. He didn’t fear death so much. He had been a warrior. Death had ridden beside him at every battle. But dismemberment…to be deliberately cut apart…to discover if she could make him whole again. And then, if she were capable of restoring or replacing whatever limb they chose to amputate, they would hack it off again and he would be left to bleed to death so they could discover if she could restore life. And in the end, no matter what pain he endured, what miracles she worked upon his unwilling flesh, he was still fated to die at the hands of a man he had once called friend.

“I will not do it.” She gazed down at the table to where their two hands were still joined together. “I promise thee that I will not.”

“You must,” he retorted, his voice filled with bitterness. “The Maje cannot refuse to heal.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Have you never wondered why my people are so few in number?”

Slowly he shook his head.

“It is our fate to heal, though my people have many other gifts besides healing. My mother has the power to control the elements. My father has power over fire and water. Many of my people have been captured because of these gifts, but if our power is to be abused, as the Fen wish to abuse my power, then my people chose to die rather than be the instrument of causing destruction or prolonging pain. As I will die.”

“No!”

“It is our way.”

“She, you must not! Promise me.”

“Does thee understand fully what thee is asking? They will not be content to try it once. If they cut off thy hand and I heal thee, they will cut off thy arm, and then thy leg, until they have tested my powers to the fullest.” She took a deep breath. “It is not only thy pain I fear, but my own as well.”

Selfish swine, he thought, to think only of the suffering that waited for him, completely forgetting that, in healing him, she would suffer the same anguish.

He glanced at their joined hands—his large and dark, the fingers long and blunt, capable of wielding a sword or a knife with ease; hers small and pale in comparison, the fingers dainty, tapered, filled with the power to soothe, to heal.

There was only one answer for both of them, and it was there, in their joined hands.

Escape.

Chapter Four

“It’s the only way out for either of us,” Jarrett argued.

“No.” She shook her head, afraid of what he was suggesting, afraid even to think of it.

“She, listen to me. I’ll protect you once we get out of here, I swear it.”

“No.”

“Do you want to die?”

“No.”

“Then help me. I’ll take you back to Gweneth with me, or I’ll take you home, to Majeulla.”

She tried to wrest her hand from his. “Please, let me go.”

His hand tightened on hers. “She, it’s the only way. What other choice do you have?” He looked deep into her eyes and saw the fear there. “What if you can’t find the courage to take your own life?” he asked ruthlessly. “What then? Will you be able to endure the pain of watching them cut me up a hundred times, of healing me a hundred times? Would you rather endure that than risk freedom?”

“No, no. I just want to go home.” She tried again to wrest her hand from his, but she was no match for his strength. She stared into his eyes, eyes that were as green as the leaves of a midnight flower. She saw the fear that lurked within their depths and mingled with that fear she saw desperation and a bright glimmer of hope.

She lowered her head, unable to meet his searching gaze any longer. What if she helped him escape? What if she were caught?

She shuddered to think of what would happen to her if the Fen decided they no longer needed her healing powers. It was her ability to ease pain and suffering that made her valuable in their eyes; it was the fear of destroying her powers that had kept her safe from their lust, for it was well known that to defile a Maje was to destroy her powers. It was a myth that had been spread for countless generations, a myth that had been perpetrated in hopes of protecting the women of Majeulla from the lust of outsiders. It had worked so far, but what if they caught her helping Jarrett to escape? What if, in their anger, they decided to humble her in the most elemental way? What if they defiled her? She would rather die than be subjected to such a fate.

And what of Jarrett? Had she the courage, she would take her own life rather than cause him a single moment of needless suffering.

She felt Jarrett’s fingers tighten over her own, felt the tremor that shook his body. How could she bear to see him hacked to pieces? How would she bear the agony of watching him suffer, of making him whole over and over again?

The pain she had endured in healing him in the past would be as nothing compared to what lay ahead. She would have to be in the room while they used their knives on him to ensure that he did not bleed to death while they summoned her.

She would hear his screams, feel the knife cut into his flesh as if it were her own…

Slowly she raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Thee promises to take me home?”

“I promise.”

“How soon does thee wish to leave?”

The sense of relief, the promise of freedom, left him weak. “As soon as possible. Can you find your way out of the dungeons?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, his thoughts racing. “The Giant?”

“I can subdue him.”

Assured by the confidence in her voice, he didn’t waste time asking how. “You must bring me his weapons.”

“Yes.” Her gaze moved over Jarrett’s body. “And raiment.”

Clothes, he thought. How long since he’d worn anything but a death shroud and a scrap of black cloth?

“Don’t wait too long,” he said. “Promise me?”

Her heart was pounding like a wild thing caught in the jaws of a trap. She wanted to say she’d changed her mind, that there had to be another way, but in the end she only nodded. “I promise.”

He smiled at her then and she felt the force of it radiate through every fiber of her being, filling her with warmth and light and the promise of a rainbow when the storm was over.

“I must go.” She felt a sharp stab of regret as she dropped the hood in place. She saw him shudder, sensed the revulsion that swept through him as the cloth settled over his face.

“She?”

“I must go,” she said again, but she made no move to leave the cell.

It was growing more and more difficult to leave him, and so she lingered at his side, holding his hand in hers.

It still amazed her that she could so easily read his thoughts. She knew how he hated the hood, how he loathed the long hours of being alone in the silent darkness. His emotions were so strong, she felt them as keenly as her own, his rage, his turmoil, his driving need to be free, his desire for vengeance.

She gazed at his fingers, entwined with her own, and knew she had no right to care for him as she did.

“I must go,” she said hoarsely, and giving his hand a squeeze, she hurried from the cell, fleeing from thoughts and feelings she was afraid to acknowledge.

That night, she lay in her narrow bed, staring up at the curved ceiling. Tomorrow. She would act tomorrow. A bit of noxious gimweed in the Giant’s evening ale would render him unconscious. She would take his clothes and his weapons, the keys to the manacles that bound Jarrett’s hands and feet. In the dark of tenth hour, when the dungeon was quiet, she would free Jarrett. They would climb the winding staircase that led to the kitchens and escape through the back door into the huge yard that housed the stables.

If luck went with them, if the herdboys did not hear them, if the helldogs did not raise an alarm, if the horses did not shy from strangers, they might make it safely out of the Pavilion. If, she thought, and prayed that the gods of the Maje and the Fen would be with them.

She felt his pain even before she opened the door, and all her doubts fled. It was time to go, now. Knowing that the Games were soon to be ended, the Gamesmen were being less careful with their weapons. Even though the Games were played in secret, the players had always held to the Rules of the Games: no wounds above the neck, no wounds that were fatal or crippling or emasculating. But now the Games were coming to an end and they were no longer obeying the Rules. Prisoners were being allowed to die horrible deaths each night since only one participant was needed for the Final Game.

And that one was here, waiting for her.

“She?”

“I am here. Do not try to speak. All is arranged.”

His breathing was shallow, labored, painful to hear. With gentle hands, she removed the hood. His face, she thought in despair. His beautiful face, swollen and discolored. She wept as she placed her hands upon him, infusing him with her warmth, letting the gift flow from her hands to his, her spirit to his. She choked back a groan, not wanting him to know the pain she felt.

There seemed not an inch of flesh that was untouched. How had he endured so many months of abuse? She had seen some of the other prisoners—prisoners who had gone mad from the pain, from the constant fear and abuse, their spirits crushed so completely that even her powers could not call their minds out of darkness.

His skin was flushed, hot beneath her fingertips, his muscles rigid. Slowly her hands moved over him, withdrawing the fever, soothing the pain. The blood returned to his veins, the torn flesh meshed, leaving neither scar nor blemish.

Exhausted, her own body quivering with the pain that had been his, she dropped her hands to her sides. For a moment, she stood there with her eyes closed, willing her limbs to stop their trembling. Usually, she sought sleep after such an extensive healing, but there was no time to rest now, no time to waste.

She had not removed the manacles earlier in case someone should enter the chamber unexpectedly. Now, taking the key from her pocket, she unlocked the manacles from his wrists and ankles, then offered him the shirt and breeches she had taken from the Giant. The shirt covered Jarrett like a shroud, falling to his knees. A faint smile curved her lips as she handed him the Giant’s sword, his bow and a quiver of arrows.

Jarrett took the weapons. Slinging the bow and the quiver over his left shoulder, he made a pass with the sword. It was a powerful weapon, longer and heavier than he was accustomed to. “Ready?” he asked, and she nodded in reply, too frightened to speak now that the hour of their escape had come.

He took her hand and they left the chamber on silent feet. Outside, she led the way down the dimly lit corridor to the winding staircase.

Slowly, step by step, they made their way up from the dungeon to the kitchens. They paused in the doorway, listening, but it was still too early for the cooks to be about. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the plank floor to the door that opened onto the stable yard.

Her heart was pounding so loudly, it drowned out every other sound as Jarrett stepped into the yard. A helldog rose from the dirt, hackles bristling as it walked, stiff-legged, toward them.

Jarrett froze in mid-stride, but she went forward, unafraid. She spoke a single quiet word and the helldog returned to its place.

They entered the first barn. Jarrett drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of horses and hay, of freedom. In moments, he had two horses saddled.

He had just lifted her onto the back of a long-legged bay mare when a herdboy rose from behind a pile of straw where he’d been sleeping.

For a moment, Jarrett and the boy stared at each other. “Say nothing,” Jarrett warned, the sword a hairsbreadth from the boy’s throat. “I do not want to kill you.”

The boy’s face turned pale. He slid a glance at the Maje, his eyes begging for help.

“Thee had best do as he says,” she told him, despising the cowardly quiver in her voice.

“You’re Jarrett,” the boy said. “I have heard of you.”

“Have you, indeed?”

“Yes. You are the most famous of all the participants in the Games.”

A wry grin twitched at the corners of Jarrett’s mouth. “A great honor, to be sure. What will it be, your silence or your life?”

“I will not sound the alarm,” the herdboy said. “You have my word upon it.”

With a nod, Jarrett swung aboard the big white stallion he had chosen for himself. “Your word, boy. Remember.”

The boy nodded, his eyes narrowed as he watched the Gweneth warrior ride away in company with the silver-haired Maje. As they reached the north gate, he drew a handbow from beneath his jerkin. He had promised not to sound the alarm, he thought, but he had not promised he wouldn’t kill the man.

He was smiling as he let the arrow fly, thinking of the reward that would be his when the Minister of War learned he had prevented one of the participants from escaping.

Jarrett grunted as the iron-tipped arrow buried itself in his right thigh. With an oath, he turned in the saddle, his hands putting an arrow to the Giant’s bow, his eyes blazing with fury as he sighted down the shaft, released the bowstring. The arrow flew straight and true, burying itself in the middle of the boy’s jerkin, and Jarrett grimaced with satisfaction.

“Lying wretch,” he muttered as he rode out of the gate. “You’ll lie no more!”

They rode for hours. He refused to stop, refused to let her treat his wound, though it was bleeding badly. He was driven by a deep-seated need to get as far away from the Pavilion as possible, to forget the hood and the Games, the fear that never left him, even when he was alone in the darkness of his chamber, to ride away from the pain and the humiliation of his captivity. He wanted to be Lord Jarrett again, Master of Gweneth. But it was not to be. He was a renegade, deemed a traitor by the Fen sovereignty. But, more than that, life in the bowels of the Pavilion had changed him and he knew he would never be the same again.