Shattered Destiny (32 page)

Moylir poured water into her own tub. “That is a good idea, little one. When I return home, I shall begin the process. It will be nice to use our technology for something other than killing.”

Gwen used the power to clean her clothing, then decided to go ahead and clean Kaelin's and Moylir's. Kaelin looked as though she planned to soak until the Mekans appeared, knocking at the door.

As she soaked, Kaelin's thoughts turned to Brad. Her brain seemed to only have two thought patterns these days: Mekans and Brad Phillips. She hadn't meant to fall for the insufferable man, but she couldn't hide the truth from herself.
I can't hide it from anyone, it would seem.
When she should have been thinking of her future or the coming fight, her mind would fill with images of his face, the way he smelled, or the twinkle that lit his eye, especially when he was poking fun at her.

Her face grew warm when her thoughts took a more private turn. Brad was the first man who had ever made her feel as though she was on fire and yet sent shivers down her spine at the same time.

At one time, she had had big plans for her life, plans that included a rich husband and scores of servants and a life of luxury and privilege.

Now, all she wanted was to be where Brad was.

Why do I waste my time with this nonsense?
She tried to rid her mind of Brad and what their future might hold. Even with the sound weapon, they were walking into danger, and there was no guarantee
that they would all live to see the end.

“At least your weapon has given us the hope that we just might succeed. So all the fighting hasn't all been for nothing.”

Gwen's conversation with Moylir cut into Kaelin's daydream. She sighed and pulled herself from the tepid water. She thanked Gwen for cleaning her clothing. She took the brush from Keera and pulled it through the tangles in her long black hair, smiling in joy to feel the familiar silky softness on her palms as she smoothed it down. She had had enough of inhabiting strange alien bodies.

“Let's hurry. Whatever is cooking in the kitchen smells divine.” Keera said.

“I'm right behind you.” Gwen grabbed the white pelt Feeror had made for her. She'd barely seen the big man since he had given her the gift. If she tried to speak to him, he rushed off as though on some important errand.

“That was hard for him.”

Gwen turned as Moylir approached and wiped the tears from her cheeks, still caressing the luxuriously soft pelt. “Why is it hard to give someone a gift?”

Moylir barked a laugh. “On my world, little one, a gift such as that is significant. It means that the one doing the giving is showing an interest in becoming a mate.”

“My…
mate?
” Gwen said breathlessly.

“You call them husbands on this world.” Moylir seemed confused by Gwen's response. “Surely you know of mates?”

“Of course I do. It's just that…well, I had always
thought
--—”

“What is wrong with Feeror? He is strong, and will give you many fine sons that will be equally strong. Does his shape not please you? I have seen you look at him. Perhaps I do not understand the expressions of this world,” Moylir said.

Gwen groaned. The last thing she wanted was to discuss Feeror's
shape.
She was well aware of how perfect his form was, how his long hair stuck to his skin when he worked up a sweat, the way his brown eyes smoldered when she caught him looking at her.
Dear Spirits!
She scolded herself for acting the fool.
I must be misunderstanding his glances. How can he possibly be looking at
me
that way?

Gwen had dreamed of the day when Jon Stone would look on her with his eyes full of love. He had been her dream for as long as she could remember. It seemed wrong to push his memory aside and fill her thoughts with Feeror, as if she was betraying him somehow. She shook her head. Jon was never hers and never would be. Something had changed inside her. She couldn't quite put a finger on when exactly it had happened, but she wasn't sure she loved Jon anymore.

Could I be in love with Feeror?
Gwen forced herself to remember their first encounter on Astra, where his look of disgust and his cruel words had pushed her to the brink. She had nearly killed him that day.

But somehow, over the course of their journey together, he had come to look on her differently. And Gwen had found her feelings toward him changing as well. She didn't want to allow herself to believe that he could possibly want her in the way that men wanted women.

“How should I have responded to his gift?”

“By giving him something in return.”

“Are you certain he meant what you think by giving me the wolf cape? Maybe he was just being nice.”

“Men of my world don't do things to be ‘nice’. They do things to survive and to ensure that our race survives. That is all. You are strong. Maybe not physically, but you have that invisible power that can kill. To men of my world, strength is
everything. This
is the feature they look for in a mate. It is an honor to have the interest of a man like Feeror,” Moylir stated firmly.

Gwen could do nothing but nod and follow the Volgon woman to the common room. The men were already seated. They had pushed several tables together along the longest wall. Several barmaids brought plates loaded with steaming beef and gravy, potatoes, and assorted vegetables. The girls stood with their hands on their hips staring at the men as they tore off huge chunks of bread and began sopping up gravy and stuffing their faces.

“Honestly! You'd think they hadn't eaten for a week!” Keera snorted.

“They
did
have to eat your cooking the past three nights…”
Gwen let the sentence trail off.

Keera whirled to face her friend. “There is
nothing
wrong with my cooking! I mean, really! It was hot and fresh and there was plenty of it. I don't remember anyone
else
offering to cook.”

Gwen laughed. “I was teasing, silly. They are simply boys in men's clothing. They can't help but act like uncouth louts when it comes to eating.”

“Well, at the rate they are going they will eat it all, and we will be left hunting for scraps.” Keera stomped to the table and took a seat; soon she was shoveling her meal into her mouth as quickly as the men had moments before.

The barmaids kept the food and the ale coming. The group ate their fill and continued to eat until they were certain they were going to burst. The common room was filled with groaning and contented sighs.

“I wish that old man was here. A smoke would hit the spot,” Brad said. He leaned back in his chair, hands on his distended belly.

“If it's pipeweed you are lookin’ for, I can help with that.” The innkeeper waddled off to the kitchen and returned in short order with a couple of old pipes and a large bag of pipeweed. He stood and waited for Brad to light up, eager to see the man's reaction to the generous gift. Forka took the other pipe and soon the men were blowing smoke rings that filled the large room.

“I'm sorry we don't have entertainment for you. The lute player got drunk and stabbed someone the other day.” The innkeeper mopped his large brow. “Unfortunately, the man he stabbed had older brothers who didn't take too kindly to their youngest sibling getting killed.” The man gazed out the window in mock tragedy. “Now he plays his music for the Spirits.”

Jon stood slowly. “I have been known to tell a tall tale. Mind if I entertain your patrons?”

The innkeeper hesitated. “I appreciate your offer lad, but you see, times have been hard and, well—”

Jon held up his hands. “I wouldn't dream of charging a fee.”

The innkeep brightened noticeably. “In that case, the stage is yours.”

Jon walked up the single short step leading to the crude wooden
stage near the main door of the inn. The common room was full and the patrons were beginning to become more boisterous with each tankard of ale they drank.

“Ah! What a pretty lad! And without even an instrument. What sort of trick had ol’ Mutton got up his sleeve?” A haggard looking man shot a look at the innkeeper. “What happened to Myron the Bard?”

“You know I hate that nickname, Scraggs. As for Myron, he got himself good and dead. Not my fault at all. This good lad offered some entertainment free of charge. Now you just sit back and keep yer mouth shut!” The rotund innkeep mopped his ever-sweating forehead and disappeared behind the bar.

“So long as he doesn't sing.” Scraggs turned to face the stage, muttering under his breath.

Jon took a deep breath and began his tale. He wove insubtle hints of magic as he spoke, drawing the listeners along with the heroes of the story as they fought a monstrous enemy, lost friends and comrades in the battle, and celebrated their victory.

The patrons cheered when the enemy was slain and mourned when the heroes fell. When Jon finished the tale, everyone in the room stood and demanded more.

The Chosen and the remaining two Guardians stood transfixed, clapping wildly along with everyone else. The Astrans had heard Jon tell stories before, but none like this.

“Hearing him talk about what we have done, it sounds so much more exciting than it was when we were actually doing it,” Keera whispered.

“I imagine that all heroes feel that way after hearing someone else speak of their deeds. At the time, the person doing the fighting isn't doing so because they wish to be immortalized in a story. They do what they do because they
have
to,” Sloan said. He was impressed with the lad's ability to tell a good tale.

“And he didn't even seem to be using magic. It was just him.” For a moment, Gwen forgot about the moody man Jon had become. He was once again the charming boy she had fallen in love with so many years ago. She felt sad, wishing they could all go back to the time before prophecy, and danger, and death.

“Why the sad face, little one?”

Gwen looked up at Feeror, overjoyed that he was speaking to her. She gave the big man a small smile. “Just remembering a boy I once knew.”

She was grateful that Feeror didn't push her. That was one of the things she loved about him. He simply let things be as they were and did not pry.

Even that fleeting moment of seeing Jon as he used to be didn't quell her feelings for the Volgon warrior standing at her side. He had given her what no one else had, what Jon never could: the feeling of being loved and accepted as a women, of being seen as desirable despite her handicap. She gently fingered the white wolf pelt cape that draped her shoulders.

“How far is it to this place where the Mekans are attacking?” Feeror asked.

“At least another week's journey. We will have to find a guide to lead us over the Mishrae Hills. Without a guide, we could become lost and perish in the mountains or the desert itself.”

“If what the Masters showed us is true, I doubt we will be needing a guide,” Feeror said.

Gwen didn't want to believe him but she knew his words to be true. Those on the Eastern continent had to know of the attack by now. Word would soon reach this continent.

“We can kill them, little one. As soon as the telepaths reach this world, we will kill the machines just like we killed them on my world,” Feeror said, jaw clenched in resolution.

“And then both our worlds will be safe.”

Feeror looked down at Gwen. “Yes, little one, they will both be safe.”

Gwen tried to read the flash of emotions that played across his face, changing so fast that she couldn't figure out what one meant before it was replaced by another.

Feeror turned and walked out of the inn, pushing the door so violently that Gwen was surprised he hadn't ripped it from its supports.

Gwen sighed, tears threatening to fall. She pursed her lips, clenched her fists, and followed the man out the door. She meant to
make the big oaf talk to her.

“I think perhaps you should not follow so quickly,” Moylir said, putting her hand on Gwen, forcing the girl to stop.

“I must make him talk to me. I need to know why he looks at me with longing in his eyes and yet can act like he still loathes me.”

“You are forcing him to rethink our way of life. Everything in us says that weakness is not to be tolerated. And yet, here you are, physically weaker than the rest of us, but with strength that cannot be denied. It is this strength that he is attracted to. He will need time to overcome the revulsion of your physical deformity.”

There's that word again!
Gwen bit her lip, fighting the urge to run after Feeror, to
demand
that he speak with her.
What if he can't get over my physical form?
She wasn't sure she could stand much more of this emotional turmoil. “But you said that he gave me the pelt because he wants to be my mate.”

“That is true, but he is a man and must wrestle with the inner voice that tells him your mating cannot come to be. He will come around. Be patient.” Moylir smiled.

Gwen sighed as she turned back to watch Jon, never noticing when Robert quietly stood and exited the inn.

*   *   *

“May I join you?”

Feeror glanced up at Robert. “As you wish.”

“I sense that you are troubled. Perhaps I can be of service.”

“I do not think you can help me.”

Robert waited patiently. The big man was bursting at the seams. It was only a matter of time before he would have to speak his thoughts or be crushed beneath the weight. A slight breeze made him shiver slightly.
I should have brought my cloak.

“Why do your worlds have to be so complicated?” Feeror stood and paced in front of the wooden log he had been sitting on a moment ago.

“Are you saying yours is not?”

“It is different. I am not sure I can explain.” Feeror shook his head. “My people survived because of our ability to make tough decisions. Your worlds have yet to face something as devastating as what my world faced. The core of who we are is built on strength. And yet I find that I want to be with one who is weak.”

Robert nodded. “You speak of little Gwen. I have come to understand your people in the short time that we have traveled and fought together. The things you have had to do are abhorrent to most of us, but it is not right for us to judge that which we have not lived through.