Bloodstone (27 page)

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.” Something was unfolding, and she was as much a part of it as he. They had to see it through.

“To what end? For what purpose?”

Freedom from the spell that bound him? Death? Even that would be a release of sorts. Dare he hope for redemption? “I don’t know.”

When her gaze shot to his face, he held it through the fabric of his hood. Her eyes were rimmed with white, and he thought she might bolt if he couldn’t find some way to anchor her. “Mirianna...” He tasted the name on his lips. The syllables rolled gently off his tongue, like soothing music. “Mirianna,” he tried the name again now he had her attention, “I’ve been here a long time, living as you see, with no change—until now. Tell me why you’re here, what brought you to the Wehrland.”

“Are you really Durren of Drakkonwehr?”

He took a deep breath, schooling himself to patience. She had as much to wrap her mind around as he had, if not more. “Yes.”

“Can you really—does looking at you—can I die if I look at you?”

He sighed. He’d spent fourteen years waiting; why should a few more moments seem so unendurable? “Mirianna, I don’t lie.”

She shivered and rocked in her hunched position. “What happened back then? Why didn’t you die when the Stone Dam broke at Herrok-Eneth? And why do you think a lion is your sister?”

Durren rubbed his gloved hands over his thighs and glanced at Gareth, hoping the boy hadn’t heard the note of hysteria in her voice. He seemed engrossed in grooming the horses, so Durren returned his attention to the woman. “I tried to stop a mage from raising the Dragon. When I broke his crystal, the spell—” He cast around for a better word, but couldn’t find one. “The spell exploded, blowing out these walls. I woke up leagues away, like this.” He raised black-clad arms, lowering them when her expression told him she grasped his meaning. “The Krad destroyed everything in their path, every living thing that was left.” He stared at the ground between his boots. “From Koronolan on, the Drakkonwehrs have been charged with protecting the world from the evils of Beggeth. I failed, so I stayed here where I wouldn’t inflict harm on anyone.”

“Except when you go to Ar-Deneth.”

Something about the place, or her memory of it, made her shudder so violently she almost lost her perch on the rock. Puzzled, he made his reply as gentle, as reassuring as he could. “Even a creature like me has to eat.”

“Can you die?”

“Not by your hand or I wouldn’t have left you that knife you carry under your skirt.”

Her flush shot much needed color into her cheeks.

He wondered what discomfited her more, shame at having been caught thinking of harming him or embarrassment at knowing he’d seen so much of her bare leg. The sudden image of a long alabaster thigh sent a rush of blood to his groin, and he squirmed on the stone.
By Kiros!
He had all he could do to keep her from bolting as it was.

“Believe me, Mirianna, I’ve often thought the world would be better off if I had died. But I didn’t, and now I’m beginning to think there may be a reason why after all.”

“Because something’s changed? Is that why you think the lion is your sister?”

She keeps her head,
the Voice in his head said.
She’s scared, but she’s still thinking.

Yes, she’s smart.

Smart and brave. Not your typical woman.

Yes! Now, be still!
Durren focused on the woman, on how she watched him with those wary turquoise eyes. “The lion first appeared to me a few days before I visited Ar-Deneth. Nothing has been the same since.”

She licked her lips, looked down at her boot toes, rocked them up and down before glancing up under her lashes. “Even...the dream?” She flushed scarlet and balled her skirt in her fists, but she kept her gaze on him.

“Even the dream.” He dug his fingers into his knees to steady himself against the roaring of his blood. “Especially the dream.”

She shivered, a delicate motion of shoulders. “I first saw the lion after we’d been in the Wehrland a few days. After Rees tried...after he tried...”

“Yes,” he said, to spare her the memory. The effort earned him a quick glance and the briefest lift of her lips. He swallowed, thinking about how those lips would feel pressed to his—his anything! For once he was grateful for the hood, for how it hid his thoughts from her. He cleared his throat. “What brought you to Ar-Deneth? You said something about bloodstone.”

She released the crumpled homespun and locked her hands together while her lip trembled. “My father...the Master of Nolar wanted my father to make all of his wedding jewelry. That’s my father’s trade, gem-cutting.” She dabbed at her nose, lifted her head and stared at the top of the walls. “We had to go to Ar-Deneth because Master Brandelmore insisted he had to have bloodstone in every piece. Ulerroth didn’t have enough.”

“So you came after me.”

“Not exactly. Rees got us thrown out of Ar-Deneth because of you.” When he stared at her with a cocked head, she added, “He called Ulerroth a demon-trader for dealing with you.”

Durren expelled a breath. No wonder Ulerroth had thrown them out, after an insult like that. “So you followed me.”

“We tried, but the Krad made my horse bolt. And then the lion led me to you.”

“And the others followed.”

She nodded. “Does any of that help? Do you know now what’s changed?”

He studied his hands, wondering how he could explain something magical to one who had no knowledge of it. Especially when he, who should’ve known all there was to know about magic, had failed so miserably in his studies. The Sword had been his calling, always, but that was no excuse—not then and not now. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “A spell is like...weaving. If you make a mistake, or change something before the spell is complete, all someone has to do is pull the right thread and the whole thing will unravel. I just don’t know what thread has been pulled.”

“Or what mistake was made.” She must have sensed his sudden, sharp regard because she said with a shrug, “Well, if it’s a mistake, then nothing really is changing, is it? It’s just...a weak spot that’s wearing out. Sometimes that’s why a hole wears where it shouldn’t...for no apparent reason.” When he continued to stare at her, she flushed. “You said you broke the spell—”

“The crystal. The mage was using the crystal to make the spell.”

She scowled—there was no other word for the look she shot him from under her brows. He resisted the impulse to recoil. No one had regarded him with such ferocity in years, but now he understood how she’d survived the Wehrland accompanied only by an aged father, a fat man, and one randy cock.

“The point is,” she was saying, “you broke something. Wouldn’t that create a mistake? Like when my father cuts a stone and it crumbles because it had a flaw he couldn’t see.” Her eyes brimmed, and she dropped her head, hiding her face under a fall of curls. Slow, fat tears splashed one after another on her knuckles.

With each glistening droplet, acid leaked into Durren’s stomach. He had no experience with tears. He’d had little enough experience with women before Syryk had changed him into a nightmare. He was a warrior. And a Drakkonwehr. Those had guaranteed him plenty of experience in bed, but other than his sister and mother, he’d never had to deal with a woman on any other terms. His life had been filled with the Sword. Women had no place in it. His mother understood that, but Ayliss never—

The woman sniffled and wiped her hand on her skirt.

Durren glared at her bent head. He’d be damned if he’d let a few tears manipulate him into pitying her. He’d taken her away from her father, true enough, but the old man was a fool to have brought her across the Wehrland for a handful of gems. Even she had to admit that. Look how they’d blundered about, stirring up the Krad. They’d been lucky to escape with their lives. If he hadn’t helped them, they’d all be dead. And she couldn’t deny she was safer now than she’d been with the man called Rees.

Are you sure she knows that?
said the Voice in his head.

She damned well should after last night!
But the voice was likely right—in some small way. Perhaps she didn’t realize how safe she was, how protected—

Whistling penetrated Durren’s consciousness, and he realized Gareth had finished his chores. “Stop your weeping. You’ll frighten the boy.”

Liar,
the Voice in his head said.
The boy already knows.

He can still be frightened! I have to stop her somehow.

For your own comfort, you mean.

Shame stabbed at him again, but he shook it off and stood.

Her breath hitched, but she dashed both hands over her face. “I’m sorry.”

The boy stopped a few feet away and faced their general direction. “I was wondering, sir, if you spend all winter here, you must have a better place to keep the horses, don’t you?”

Durren expelled a long breath. “You’re quite right. There’s some pasture and a garden within the outer wall. And part of the stable is intact. I was planning to show it to you once you got to know your way around.” He breathed again while the muscles about his jaw unclenched. “Would you like to see it now?”

****

Gareth had dawdled over grooming the horses as long as he could to give them time to talk. Even though he couldn’t pick out the words, he had a fair idea what they were saying from the tone of their voices. His master’s was sometimes kindly, sometimes gruff—sort of like Ulerroth if he could imagine the innkeeper as someone who hadn’t had a lot of practice talking. Hers sounded scared and sometimes sad.

Gareth wished he could comfort her, tell her it was all right to be sad and frightened when they were far away from everything they knew, that he’d only told the Shadow Man because he wanted to help her. He didn’t think the Shadow Man wanted her to be scared. His master was just a bit...awkward around people.

He and his master were two of a kind, really. He lacked sight, but the Shadow Man lacked touch. Gareth didn’t know what Mirianna lacked—maybe her father. She was sad about that, but he understood. He would have to find a way to tell her the pain faded with time, and he mostly didn’t notice the ache until something made him think about his mother. Mirianna was a little older than he, and her father wasn’t actually dead like his mother was, so maybe it would go easier for her, but then she was a girl, and that could change things. Freth’s mood could change in a moment, for no apparent reason, and he’d always felt uncomfortable around Nell. Mirianna wasn’t like either of them, but she was still a puzzle.

She and the Shadow Man had made some sort of agreement when the Krad attacked, and now they both seemed unhappy about it, so he wasn’t sure why his master was so determined to make her stay. For his part, Gareth didn’t want her to leave. She was sort of like a mother and sort of like an older sister—like Freth but nicer, like his mother but younger. And it was nice to have her to talk to and to keep him company at night, even if she did cry.

He would probably have cried too, if he’d been alone here. From the courtyard, Gareth could sense the sheer size and dimensions of the place by the way sounds vibrated, resounded or echoed. In the enclosed spaces, the shadows sucked all warmth from his skin, their chill deep-seated, as though the sun hadn’t touched them in ages. When he laid a hand on their walls, he could feel frost beneath the gritty surface, sense the winter freeze lying close to the bones of the place. Yet other walls radiated heat, and on one part of the path to the privy, waves of warmth rose from the stones he trod. He’d paused there more than once, wondering if his senses were misleading him, but it was always the same place and always the same temperature, day or dark.

He’d have to ask his master about that, but for now he was glad to learn this place his master called home had pasture enough for the horses as well as a garden of sorts, chickens, and a couple of kid goats who nibbled on his tunic every time he turned around or butted him gently. He’d have to set them straight about how to treat him, but maybe Mirianna could help with milking the doe, at least until the goats knew him better.

She’d followed along, leading her gelding while Gareth took the pack horse and his master led the stallion. While they loosed the animals in the pasture and explored the garden and tumble-down stable, she’d said nothing, staying just close enough Gareth could sense her presence or smell her scent, but showing no particular interest. Sadness hung about her like a heavy cloak, making her preoccupation so thick the air currents parted to flow around it. The Shadow Man, too, seemed preoccupied, answering questions, but not immediately, as if he had to be recalled to the present.

Gareth stood between them and puzzled over the auras radiating from both. They seemed to be thinking awfully hard, and now and then something passed between them, something prickly that stirred the fine hairs on his arms and made his nostrils tingle. The scent teased, never staying long enough for him to identify. He wondered if they knew what they were saying to each other, but he was afraid to ask in case they didn’t. People never seemed to understand how he could know what he knew.

****

The shelion reappeared after dusk, materializing out of the shadow of the gate. Before Durren could form a word of warning, she sauntered to Gareth where he sat by the fire and laid her large head in his lap. The boy started violently, but the weight of her head held him trapped in place.

“Don’t be afraid,” Durren said, half-rising, hand closing on the Sword of Drakkonwehr. “It’s a lion, but it’s friendly.”
Don’t you dare harm him!
his mind messaged the cat.

—Trust me, Durren. For once.—

He sat down, but his hand remained on his weapon.

With half-lidded eyes, the lion butted the boy in the chest and purred. His hands, which had flown up by a face gone white, lowered by increments until one grazed her fur. She purred louder and pushed her head against his palm before he could pull it away. His fingers tentatively flexed behind one black-tipped ear.