The Sword And The Pen (6 page)

With little warning, my release came, sudden and explosive. It wasn't enough. I wanted more. I needed him to fill the emptiness inside me. I reached out and found empty air. I opened my eyes to. . .find myself alone. Cool air blew across my sweat-slicked body, but it was disappointment that made me shiver.

Tugging the bed covers around me, I curled into a ball and cried for all that I'd lost and all that I'd never have.

*** *** ***

The sun's warmth touched my face. Memory of my dream left me feeling both sated and frustrated. I stretched, and my muscles groaned in protest, but the ache was a sweet one that I remembered fondly. After Donnie, I hadn't had the time or the inclination to bother with another man. If he couldn't accept me as I was, a warrior, I doubted any man would.

I opened my eyes and blinked at the glare coming in through the window. A large expanse of clear glass covered the opening. Through the window I could see down over a small rise to a river. Sunlight glistened on the water's surface. Waterfowl drifted in the current. Trees lined the bank, their branches dipping gracefully downward. The peaceful, summery scene reminded me once more that I was no longer in my world. Last night the window had been covered by cloth.

Alarmed, I bolted from the bed. How could I have slept so soundly that I hadn't heard the wizard come into the room? Had he stood and watched me sleep? Had he entered my dream? The thought gave me a strange chill, not unpleasant but disconcerting.

As within the acorn sleeps the mighty oak, the future lies within the dream.
Brother Eldrin's remembered wisdom added to my unease.

A sharp tap at the door made me jump. I grab my sword and drew it from its sheath as the door opened and the wizard stepped in carrying a tray. At the sight of my blade he stopped.

"I thought we'd passed that stage."

"What?"

He shot a pointed glance at my weapon, though he didn't appear frightened.

"It's not wise to startle me, wizard." I sheathed the sword with a less than graceful motion. Being caught off guard got a person killed.

He placed the tray on a chest of drawers and turned toward me. "My name is Brandon, not wizard. Think you can remember that?"

I nodded, but didn't agree to call him anything else.

"I made you some breakfast."

My mouth watered at the sight and smell of the food: two perfectly cooked eggs, some thin crisp strips of meat, a slice of toasted bread slathered with a shiny purple paste and a glass of citrus drink.

"Men in my world don't cook, except maybe to roast a chunk of meat over an open campfire, and then they usually char it on the outside while inside it remains bloody." I sat on the edge of the bed nearest the chest and reached for the food. I didn't mention that my own skill with food preparation was more masculine than feminine. "The monks didn't consider food a priority. They fed the soul first, and gave the body just enough nourishment to maintain life. Food was a necessity not a pleasure. And though Mauri's cooking might be bad, it's edible and keeps us from starving."

"Yes, I know. I'm afraid that bit of writing resulted from my rebellion against the fact that my wife refused to cook."

My hand froze on the way to my mouth. Egg yolk dripped onto my thigh as I stared at him. "You're married?" Why the thought bothered me I wasn't sure.

"Was married. Past tense."

I put down the eating utensil. "She died?"

"Hell, no. We're divorced."

"Divorced? What is this?"

"That's right, in Barue there is no such thing." His raised eyebrow and mocking tone told me he still didn't believe I was Serilda. "Marriages are for life. Only death ends one. Here, divorce is a legal means of ending a marriage."

"It strikes me odd that you could forget such a thing about a world you created. Having my fate tied to some man's forever is the main reason I refuse to marry."

He shrugged. "Since few if any of my characters ever marry, it hasn't been a problem. Marriage implies a happily ever after ending, and I don't write romance, I write sword and sorcery adventure stories. Eat before the food gets cold."

Hunger won out over bemusement. I wolfed down the food, but no longer took any pleasure in its taste. When I finished, I found him watching me. "Now what?"

My skin heated as his gaze moved from my head down to my toes then back again to rest for a moment on my breasts. I fought the urge to cover the exposed flesh. I'd never felt uncomfortable about my body before; leading men into battle left little opportunity or time for modesty.

"I think we need to get you some more appropriate clothing."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing? You fashioned it for me."

His cheeks reddened. "Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

I'd never seen a man blush. The sight eased my growing annoyance. Though he'd apparently created me with his magic, I sensed his intentions weren't evil. He seemed as confused by my emergence in his world as I.

I stood. "A change of attire is fine. To speak the truth, I've never cared for wearing leather, and this outfit leaves far too much skin exposed to be comfortable or practical in battle or anywhere else." So, why hadn't I changed? Just one more indication of the power this man had wielded over me until I gained awareness. I'd no longer allow him to dictate my life or my choices.

"Wait here a minute. I'll get you something to wear until we get to the store." Brandon grabbed the tray and hurried out of the room. The sight of Serilda in her skimpy leather bra and skirt that exposed far too much of her smooth golden skin affected him more than he wanted to admit. The sooner he got her into something less revealing, the happier he'd be.

Who was he kidding? He liked her meager outfit. The only outfit he'd like her in more would involve even less. An image of her stretched out naked on the bed's satiny comforter flashed in his mind. He shifted in discomfort as his body responded inside his tight jeans.

Irritated with the direction of his thoughts and determined to keep his relationship with Seri simple, he dumped the tray in the kitchen and stomped back up to his bedroom. Cursing himself and his suddenly overactive libido under his breath, he rummaged in the back of his closet and found a pair of bike shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of sandals that were too small for him but might fit her.

When he returned to her room she was gone. He clutched the clothing in his hand and searched. No evidence remained. The once rumpled comforter was smooth. There was no clue as to her whereabouts.

Had he dreamt the whole encounter? If so, he should feel relieved. Instead, disappointment washed over him. He sank down on the bed and examined his feelings. Though he couldn't quite believe the woman was Serilda, he found he didn't want her to disappear. Bizarre or not, something about her had been intensely appealing.

The sound of water running caught his attention. He heard a splash then a female sigh. He smiled as understanding dawned: Though primitive in many ways, the people in Serilda's world favored bathing, and Brandon had provided them with the luxury of simple plumbing. She'd discovered his bathroom and the joys of more modern design.

He smacked his forehead. What was he thinking? Of course she'd found the bathroom. She wasn't Serilda, and she would have no real reason to be surprised by contemporary lavatories. Heaven help him, he was being sucked into her delusion. He did a mental about-face. She had to go. Now.

Without stopping to consider his actions, he stomped down the hall and through the door to the bathroom. A cloud of steam billowed over him.

Aside from its scenic, isolated location, one of the selling points of this house had been the large luxurious bathroom. The previous owner had spared no expense. It had an oversized heated whirlpool tub and a 10' by 10' marble-lined walk-in shower, as well as two sinks and radiant heat in the marble floor. Brandon's gaze traveled from the two scraps of leather, the pair of boots discarded on the tile floor and the sheathed sword placed within careful reach of the tub, to the naked woman about to step into the water. Heat rushed to his groin. Then the thin tracing of white scars marring the otherwise smooth skin of the woman's back sent a sudden chill through him.

In book two, Serilda's Revenge, Roark, determined to learn Serilda's enchanted name and gain control over her, had ordered his master torturer to apply bloodworms to her back. In the process of feeding, bloodworms excreted a toxin that burned the skin and ran through the victim's nervous system like liquid fire. The pain they caused was excruciating and unremitting. Brandon remembered his sense of horror and pity as he'd written the scene. Though halfway through he'd wanted to eliminate it, the episode had been too important to Serilda's character development, her motivation and the plot line, so he'd gritted his teeth and finished. Afterwards, critics had raved about the realistic feel of the scene, but he'd never re-read it, nor had he allowed Serilda to think about that time again. He'd had her bury it deep inside--though the scars, mental as well as physical, remained with his guilt.

Apprehension slid down his spine. If this woman was crazy enough to recreate scars on her back in her attempt to become Serilda, what else might she be capable of? Then, another even more frightening thought occurred. What if she was telling the truth? What if she really was Serilda? He shook the idea away, as he had before. He couldn't let himself be convinced of the impossible by these tricky details. And he'd rather be dealing with a wacko fan than consider the state of his own sanity.

She didn't blush or try to cover herself as she turned her face to him. She simply said, "I prefer to bathe alone."

Without waiting for his response, she stepped into the tub and sank down in the water. The sight of her full breasts with their dusky pink nipples just breaking the surface made his mouth go dry. Fear evaporated, along with coherent thinking. He stood frozen as his gaze moved down over her belly to the tangle of reddish brown curls at the juncture of her thighs. Memories of Serilda's intimate encounters with Donoval raced through his mind.

Aggressive and passionate in her lovemaking, as she was in all other aspects of her life, readers wrote often to tell him how much they enjoyed her love scenes with Donoval. Before a battle in book one, she and Donoval had come together in a blaze of adrenaline-fueled heat that burned the relationship out by the end of book two. Though affection and friendship remained between them, Serilda had put an end to the love affair. She'd refused--or rather, he reminded himself, he'd chosen to have her refuse--to give up her crusade against Roark for a life of peace as Donoval's bondmate and queen.

Memories of the scenes he'd written, mental images of her skin glowing in candlelight, her lips moist and full as they traveled over Donoval's muscular body made him shudder with desire. Though he'd told himself he'd chosen to end the characters' sexual relationship because of the needs of the series, honesty forced him to admit he'd done so in self-defense. Serilda's sexual relationship with Donoval stopped the same time as his marriage and his sex life came to an end. The only time in the last three years that he'd regretted his celibacy was while reading that scene.

"I assure you I haven't changed since you wrote me into existence," she said. Her sarcastic drawl broke through his trance.

He blinked and averted his gaze "I-I'm sorry. If you twist that dial on your right the water will bubble. The sensation is pleasant and relaxing," he found himself babbling. "When you're done, here are some clothes." He placed them on the counter and backed out of the room.

As he closed the door, he banged his forehead against it. He headed away, but the sound of her laughter followed him down the hall.

*** *** ***

Instead of my leather bra, this soft fabric felt lovely against my skin and teased my nipples to points. I gratefully donned the short, stretchy trousers the wizard provided and left my leather skirt lying on the floor. The sandals were a bit large, but more comfortable than my tight boots.

Why had the wizard brought me these odd garments rather than conjuring something more appropriate? Of course, how could I know what was appropriate in his world? Reluctantly I turned and surveyed the stranger in the mirror on the back of the bathing room door.

I tried to puzzle out the meaning of the words inscribed in bright blue on the yellow shirt which reached half-way down my thighs to cover most of my short trousers: Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. No matter how I tried, the phrase made little sense. Was a T some form of magic attached to the shirt? Perhaps it was a wizardly incantation. I could only hope that whatever it meant would prove harmless.

Unable to change anything, I dismissed it from my mind. Since arriving in the wizard's world I recognized most of my life was out of my control.

The short trousers had no belt or loops to hold my sword, so I gathered the shirt on one side, tied it in a knot and stuck the sword through. Though not a great solution, it worked. I looked and felt strange, however.

Taking a deep breath to settle my jangling nerves, I headed out to find the wizard. He'd said something about shopping for more appropriate attire. Memories made me smile. Mauri loved to shop; I did not. Whenever possible, she tricked me into taking her to the local market. There she spent hours oohing and ahhing over clothing and trinkets until I bought them just to get her to leave.

The thought of Mauri left alone, without me to look after her, made my heart ache. I'd promised her my protection: Though invariably cheerful, she'd already suffered too much in her young life. Sudden anger made me pause on the stairs. All of Mauri's pain, Jole's distress, my people's suffering and my torment stemmed from one person. That person wasn't the one I'd blamed since I was ten years old: Andre Roark. No, the guilt lay at this wizard's feet. The fact that he believed his creations to be without true feeling didn't excuse him. Those with power, even those who were inept with it, had to be held accountable.