The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1) (7 page)

She could be - his forehead furrowed as he struggled
to recall terms and concepts from deep in his past, long locked away in hidden
chests and covered with many folded tapestries of cycles since dust - a wealthy
merchant’s daughter, or the daughter of a powerful Family or even a Tribal
Heir. For only such as they, who possessed sensitive information, and who could
be used as political levers and bargaining pieces if captured by an enemy,
would need to conceal their identity.

The drying blood itched, reminding him that he
needed to clean-up before going back to his home. He resumed walking,
searching. He did not want another blood trail for other things to follow. He
found the small stream with the cascade that he was looking for and waded in,
to get to the spray of water coming down off the rocks of the fall. He did not
resume thinking until he was clean of blood and able to turn to home.

She knew quite a bit about many things, things, he
judged, that were beyond a commoner’s knowledge or a merchant’s or artisan’s
need to know, which pointed toward nobility. She knew about the training of a
warru
and many trades and crafts and works, though she was obviously not of those
classes. She knew about political machinations and maneuverings, which was
close to the forbidden core of knowledge surrounding her identity, he had found
out. This, too, pointed toward the ruling class. And the length and richness of
her
guinned
hair and the quality of her clothing pushed her possible standing up to
royalty.

But if that were the case, what was she doing here?
And why were those things after her? Why was she so deep in the wild, lost in
the heart of the unclaimed
lons
? How had she
come to be so close to his home, without escort or following or protection,
laying traps and hiding in trees? And what was she trying to catch that she
would need such an elaborate trap for?

For he had found the trap, near the place where she
had fallen. A trap so subtle, so devious, that it was pure chance that he had
sensed it was there at all. He had dismantled the contrivance, studying it. And
as its meaning and composition became clear under his probing thoughts, he had
had to admire such a clever design. It had been a well-conceived thing,
designed to make an animal go into heat. The poor beast then followed a false
mating call to a carefully laid out net of ‘
rita
,
set to spring upon the utterance of some word or at a gesture. It had been
virtually undetectable. He had committed the principle to memory, for it was
very effective - or it would have been, had it been sprung. It would have
caught
him
, surely, if he had been its intended prey, for the
gului
fruit of the tree had had him totally entranced, covered with the scent of
something wonderfully lush and feminine. Had it been set for him, it would have
been the perfect trap set with the perfect bait...

He went cold inside as all the details clicked
together into a frightening whole. The sounds of being stalked by a
particularly skilled and persistent huntress. The sudden disappearance of that
huntress, as if she had given up.

Given up a little too easily
, he mused
grimly. And then, two turns later, an irresistible call, a lure that he could
not deny, a scent that drove him crazy with an irrational lust that had softly
overcome his every instinct and had driven him to the place of the trap. The
sudden appearance of the girl, fallen from the
ferr’flambeaux
tree. And the trap…

The trap that would have caught him, had the
catch-phrase been uttered. The trap that he had not even known was there until
after he had come back for her. The trap itself, made to hold something large
and powerful, to hold that something still for a measured amount of time. Had
the trap been set for him?

He thought about the
gului
.

The
gului...

The
gului had been painted with scent, a soft, luscious female scent that called to
him, called to his male passion, to his desire. The fruit were fuzzy with red
haze, a shimmer of steamy promises and aching sensations that would overflow
his senses and take him to unknown heights of pleasure without end...

He had not connected this girl with the fruit or the
pursuit. He had assumed that the trap had been for some other creature. Some
other thing. Though its design fit him perfectly.

His hands tightened on the spear pole, twisting,
flexing. He did not notice the hardwood bending. His steps quickened, taking
him on familiar paths to home.

Why
would she want to capture me? Surely - surely she was not hunting my hide like
the others, seeking a trophy to spread on a shield of glory? Surely not to put
a spear through my heart as I stood helpless in the trap’s rited bonds?

The spear creaked ominously, began to crack. Still
he did not take heed.

Had tales of him reached the ears of the rich and
idle, that one of them had come to try her hand at catching the ‘
joumbi
’
of the unclaimed lons? Had her fingers itched to feel his skin stretched taut,
cured, preserved as a badge of her prowess? Would she have painted her face
with his blood, and proclaimed herself a great huntress? He had found no weapon
in the vicinity, but she who could lay traps of
av’rita
might also fashion weapons of
av’rita
... A
glowing sword aimed at his unblinking eye?

The spear snapped in two. He eased his hold,
finally, peeled throbbing hands from around the two pieces of shaft.

He looked up, feeling irked on top of cold rage, at
the entrance to his house. He would have to replace the spear. The protective
rite came down at his touch and he entered, going to the weapon alcove.

Had she meant to trap me?
He could not
believe that. He did not want to believe that. He could not afford not to.

If it were true, how many others would be after him,
invading his home, sweeping through in such numbers that he would eventually
fall victim to one of them? How many would come looking for this one
unfortunate fortune seeker who would surely be missed? He took off the armor,
weapons and harness, scowling.

But there were other, more poignant questions that
pricked him as he cleaned and put away his gear.

Yes.
Such as how she had known what type of lure would attract me? And how had she
gotten so close to me each time, that I only heard her at the last moment? Just
how much does she know about me? Could others follow her footsteps and lay
another such trap? But perhaps most important -
he stopped and
stared at the wall
-
why didn’t she capture me when she’d had the chance?

There had been plenty of time from the moment he had
stepped into the trap to the moment that the branch gave way for her to spring
the trap. A few precious instants when he had been incapacitated, she could
have had him - but nothing had happened. Why?

Unless
the trap really was
not
meant for me?

He was at the door to the bedchamber before he
became aware that he had moved at all. Though she was no longer in the grip of
poison fever, perhaps she would still be subject to its effects. He would even
force her with his thoughts if it came to that. But he had to know.

She seemed like an innocent child as she slept,
incapable of doing wrong. But he knew, perhaps more than others, that
appearances could be and often were deceiving. He reflected soberly, as he
settled beside the bed, that the appearance of a thing was generally designed
to do exactly that - to wit, the deadly thrista nettle that she had fallen
into, looking for all the world like any ordinary patch of nettle.

He placed his hand upon her forehead. She was still
feverish warm to the touch. She responded to his touch, murmuring, pressing his
hand close, moving toward him with boneless grace.

An involuntary smile curved his lips. He pushed it
away, though, and with grim determination, he stretched his thoughts out to
touch her with his mind, the contact making him gasp. Contact with her was
always an - electric thing. A whispered suggestion. An act of imminence.

Ky’pen’dati,
he whispered, leaning close. She
answered with a slight smile and an inarticulate sound. She did not come to
full consciousness; she seemed just below the edge of waking. He decided that
that was perhaps best.

I need to know something, sweet one,
he murmured,
pressing gently. He felt her will giving way to him. A small crease appeared in
her brow, and he felt her turn querulous. This was working better than he had
hoped.

Why were you trying to capture me?
He did his best
to keep any edge from his voice.

A frown crossed her face. She muttered something
unintelligible and began to turn away. He caught her hand and kissed her palm,
lay it against his cheek, his anger in check. She made as if to pull away, but
he held firm, forcing her to turn back.

Were you trying to - were you hunting me for my
skin?
The
edge crept in, he could not keep it out.

Again a frown, accompanied by a faint head shake.
No.

“No?” he spoke out loud in his insistence.

Head shake.
No.

You did not intend me any harm?
His disbelief
was clear.

“No-o,” she sighed, tucking her free hand close to
her body, almost resigned that he should keep the other.

Then why?
He pressed hard.

She seemed to struggle within herself, unwilling to
answer.

“Why,” he demanded, his voice low and harsh, cold
silver, undeniable, his hand tightening around hers. She heaved a great sigh,
tried again to free her hand.

Talk,
came the surprising answer. Then, out
loud, “Talk - t’ you. Get - answers.” The reply was reluctant and an expression
of pain crossed her face. He relaxed his hold, and kissed her fingers. She
pulled the injured hand away and curled it protectively to her body.

“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he
whispered, his fury draining away and relief and query flooding through him like
a wave of peppermint water. She drew away from the sound of his voice, and away
from both mental and physical touch as if both had become abhorrent. He caught
her hand to soothe away the hurt, but she snatched it back and curled into a
little ball, her back to him. He felt ashamed at hurting her, and since she
would not let him touch her again, he was at a loss to make up for it. Then,
with a splash of inspiration, he began to sing an ancient lullaby, brightly
remembered from a dim past.

“Laughed - like
violet in your eyes

Streaking silver
‘cross gray skies

Laughed and
loved and held my hand

Onyx eve on
silver strand

“Danced - like
waves on Av’o bright

Dancing upon
seas of light

Swaying, moving
throughout time

Singing silence
without rhyme

“Loved - like
mountains, green, unlit

Loving, like two
halves we fit

Holding, showing
without words

Things unsaid
that we both heard

“Laughed - she
laughed upon the sea

Danced - she
turned and danced for me

Loved - we loved
and we love still

Where last we
lay on Avo’s hill.”

the
light turned, slowly...

He watched the
afterzen
,
languid, turn to lavish eve, melting among the shadows, the shadows lengthening
and the sounds of the forest changing as
Av’set
drenched the sky.
Av’set
drenched the
sky with violet, deep as
Alonan
seas; the
green veils of morn slowly ripped away to reveal the naked sky beneath. The
naked sky beneath glistened with diamond dust upon black velvet.

His chores done, he settled down, as he had always
done, to absorb the eve so that he might be one with it as he slept. He was
exhausted from the turn’s exertions. But this eve he found no peace in the
forest sounds and smells, no solace in oneness with nature. Sleep eluded him.

“Dark the moons
and bright the eve

Like onyx clasped
on silver sleeve

Quiet noises,
silence heard

Loud as dreams
of waking birds

“Dark the eve
and bright the moons

Memories fade in shading gloom

Tears untold and
laughter gone

Ere the break of
Av’light’s dawn

“Bright the turn
and shadows deep

Tossing,
dreaming without sleep