as Sianna lifted her hands from atop his. Reality reasserted
itself, and he dismissed his odd reaction as an effect of breathing
nika fumes. The drug was known to cause strange hallucinations.
Then why did confusion darken her eyes? Why did the
removal of her touch leave him feeling alone and forsaken?
Before he could question his logic, she turned her attention
back to Graham and made quick work of stitching and bandaging
his wounds.
She straightened, looked at the two soldiers waiting and
said quietly, “It is done. You may leave.”
The two men looked to Kyne for confirmation and at his
nod left the room. After the door shut behind them, he was
surprised to find the chamber seemed smaller rather than larger
with their absence. The cloying smell of nika and blood couldn’t
drown out Sianna’s clean, fresh scent.
“Graham will live.”
Her words filled his heart as her presence filled the chamber
and his senses. He forced himself to remember who she was
and not to reach out for her. “Will he walk?”
“Perhaps. I am unsure.” Her gentle eyes filled with sorrow
as she looked up at him. “If not, will he hate me for saving
him?”
At her ragged confession, his heart softened. He didn’t
doubt her affection for Graham. Did guilt torment her as it did
him? Could either of them find redemption?
Not a hint of color touched her cheeks or lips. Her dark
hair hung limp and lusterless. Set in a face as white and dry as
crystal dust but without its sparkle, her eyes glittered feverishly.
“You are ill?” Concern for her welfare made him uneasy.
He should take pleasure in her downfall, as she had in Aubin’s,
but he saw not a fierce enemy, rather a small, exhausted woman.
“No. No,” she rasped, her shoulders drooping. “Tired.
Healing drains me.”
“Return to our chamber and rest.” How easily the words
slid off his tongue, our chamber. How quickly she managed to
fill that space with her presence, her scent. When she wasn’t
there the space felt barren, abandoned—like his heart.
“I cannot leave Graham. There is much I yet need to do.”
Her hands soothed and stroked over Graham.
Squinting against the dim chamber light, Kyne tried to
discount the faint glow that followed the path of her hands as
naught but a reflection of the wavering lamplight.
Graham stirred once. A grimace started to form, but with a
murmur and a gentle touch of Sianna’s hand, he sighed and
relaxed. With each line that disappeared from his rugged face
hers grew more strained, as if through her touch she absorbed
his suffering into herself.
Pain no longer etched Graham’s features, and he appeared
almost youthful in his peaceful slumber.
With a tired sigh, she let her hands fall away from him into
her lap, and the glow evanesced.
What magic did she practice? Thoughts of the strange
connection he ofttimes felt at her touch filled Kyne with
foreboding. He remembered how anger and pain evaporated
beneath the feel of her fingers on his flesh. What kind of healer,
woman, had such power?
“Do you practice the black arts? Are you a witch?” Despite
his disbelief, he blurted the questions.
Distress flared in her eyes then faded to melancholy. She
shook her head. “I merely have a special gift for healing.” A
small, sad smile touched her pale lips. “If I were a witch I’d not
be here, would I?”
She spoke true. He laughed at his own sudden, irrational
fear of a creature that existed only in superstitious minds.
“Graham sleeps, so should you. Leave him.”
“I can’t. He needs me.”
“You’ve done what you can. Now his fate is in the hands
of the Eternal One. Rest. You’ll need your strength to deal with
Graham when he wakes. He’ll chafe at his own weakness and
will sore test your patience as he heals. Althea or Betha can sit
with him for a time while you rest. You’ll be no good to him if
you collapse.”
She smiled and cast a fond gaze over Graham. “I pray this
Her voice trailed away.
Kyne caught and lifted her in his arms as she crumbled. As
insubstantial as a wisp of summer cloud, she nestled against his
chest. Her eyes drifted shut and her warm breath kissed the
skin of his throat. A shiver coursed through him and he tightened
his arms around her slender, pliant body.
With a tired sigh, she nodded and let her head fall back
against his shoulder, her entire body going lax.
“Sleep,” she murmured and placed her palm over his heart.
Like the feel of blue mountain crystal, cold seeped through
his shirt from her hand and chilled his flesh. Gathering her close,
he headed toward the door.
As he battled to hold on to his anger and hatred, Kyne’s
heart and conscience stirred at the trust she gave him. This
woman was the enemy, the daughter of DiSanti, architect of
his family’s and his country’s destruction. He could not allow
himself to soften toward her. To do so threatened not only his
heart but the lives and well-being of his people. She could be
nothing more to him than a weapon to end her father’s reign of
terror.
But neither would he see her abused. Outside the chamber,
he spoke briefly to the hovering Althea. With a quick nod she
hurried into the room to start her vigil at Graham’s side.
Confident that his honor, if not his heart, was safe, Kyne
carried the now sleeping Sianna to his chamber. She never
stirred as he laid her on his bed, stripped off her bloodstained
tunic, and bathed her hands and face.
Warda followed close at Kyne’s heels and settled at the
side of the bed. His shaggy head resting a whisper from Sianna’s
fingertips, his dark, liquid eyes gazed at Kyne in distress.
“Easy, boy, she’ll be fine after some sleep. Your mistress is
just worn out,” Kyne soothed the hound and himself.
How innocent she appeared, almost childlike, fragile limbs
relaxed, moist lips slightly parted. But the rounded curve of her
hip and the swell of her full breasts against her simple white
shift drew his gaze and destroyed the illusion of childhood. Her
fragrance rose on the warm chamber air. Clean and fresh as a
mountain meadow, it banished the smell of blood and pain.
The longer he spent in her company the less he believed
she disguised an evil heart behind gentle ways. But to concede
her innocence was to deny vengeance, not a simple choice.
She moaned, her body twitching in response to some
nightmare.
Drawn by an urge to ease and console her as he would
Zoa, and his own building need to touch this woman, he reached
for her.
Guilt battled compassion. Revenge warred with desire. His
heart grew cold and heavy. This was no child in need of comfort.
This was a woman grown. A woman whom eviden
ce proved
had seduced and betrayed his brother.
Kyne turned and fled.
Nine
Unwilling to expose his outrage and fear to DiSanti, Timon
kept his gaze impassive as he eyed the prisoner lying on the cell
floor. In the dim dungeon light Timon could see that the man’s
clothes hung in bloody tatters and his face was swollen so even
his mother wouldn’t recognize him.
“Leave me,” he told the guards. “I will question the prisoner
alone.”
“But...” DiSanti began to protest. One guard stepped to
Timon’s side, a subtle threat obvious in the tilt of his spear and
his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Timon knew this was not part of DiSanti’s plan, but his
power, though spreading like a tangled nika root, was still
circumscribed by the castle guards’ loyalty to the royal family.
By torturing a prisoner, DiSanti had pushed the limits of his
authority. With ill-concealed anger he bowed, whirled and left
the dungeon cell. As he passed Timon, he whispered, “You
surprise me, pup, but make no mistake, the throne will be mine.
Soon.”
Dread slithered down Timon’s spine. DiSanti made no idle
threats.
The two castle guards also paid homage to Timon, their
bows deeper and sincere, before they too turned and left.
Closing the door they took up a position just outside.
The sour smells of blood, urine and fear churned Timon’s
stomach. Despite the loyalty of the castle guards there was
little he could do against DiSanti’s growing power outside the
castle walls. Evidence of his increasing control huddled in the
dank dungeon cells. During King Dracken’s rule the dungeons
had gone unused. Now the moans and cries of the imprisoned
echoed down the dark, narrow corridors.
Cramming his fear into a corner of his mind, Timon turned
and, ignoring the dirt floor, knelt next to the prisoner. “You wished
to speak with me?”
The man’s one uninjured eye opened. He studied Timon in
the dim light. “Prince Timon?” he rasped.
“Yes. You are a messenger for those who kidnapped my
betrothed? What is it they demand for her release?”
The man struggled to sit up. Timon moved to help, but the
man glared until Timon withdrew. Bracing his back against the
damp stone wall, he stared at Timon and asked, “Are we alone?”
Timon could barely hear the man’s hoarse whisper, a result
no doubt of screaming. Anger tightened Timon’s resolve. He
must find a way to break DiSanti’s control, to regain his kingdom
and his family. But how? Did this barely breathing man hold the
key? Were there others outside the castle walls who fought
DiSanti’s hold on Dramon? “What demands do these kidnappers
claim? Money?”
“No. The girl is nothing but a pawn to gain DiSanti’s
attention...and yours. Because you are but a lad, Rul Cathor
thinks you are innocent of your father and DiSanti’s destruction
of Dramon. Is he right? Or do you follow blindly where they
lead?”
The man’s condemnation of his father sparked Timon’s
own anger. “My father is king. He does naught to destroy his
country or people.” Though he spoke with vehemence, Timon
knew his father’s addiction to nika, however unintentional, was
what had thrown Dramon into DiSanti’s hands. If something
was not done soon, there would be no turning back.
Anger faded out of the man’s eyes. “And DiSanti?”
“I follow no man. I am crown prince and until my father is
well enough to once again sit upon his throne, I rule in his stead.”
A small smile twitched at the man’s swollen lips. “Well
spoken, young prince. I’m Je’al. Perhaps the news I bear will
help you to do just that.”
Timon listened closely as Je’al told him of the building
resistance to DiSanti’s harsh rule, the growing rebellion among
the people. Rage built within Timon. He’d known DiSanti was
putting undue pressure on Dramon’s populace, but isolated in
the castle with little access to news from the outside, he’d not
realized how bad things had become.
“Does Rul Cathor have your support in ridding Dramon of
DiSanti?” Je’al finished on a wheezing breath and slid back to
the ground.
At that moment Timon realized Je’al was only a few annum
his senior. What courage did it take for this young man to risk
his life to come to him? What had Je’al lost to DiSanti’s greed?
“I’ll do what I can, but my power is fading. With each
passing day more Ruls pledge their allegiance to DiSanti. Only
a few, along with the castle guard, are still loyal to the royal
family. And DiSanti holds my mother and sister to guarantee
my cooperation.”
How could he risk his mother, his sister? And what of his
father, that withered, mindless man locked away in his room
eating nika? What choice did he have?
“My sympathies, but many have lost family to DiSanti’s
ever-growing ambition. Will you sacrifice all of Dramon to keep
yours safe?”
Timon rose and turned away from Je’al. The man’s question
opened his eyes, and grief blossomed in his soul. His mother
and sister were already lost to him. He had no choice to make.
“DiSanti must fall. Be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Je’al reached out and snagged Timon’s
robe. “What do you plan?”
Timon didn’t turn. “Your escape.”
Ten
The next morning Althea rose as Kyne entered the small
chamber where she sat with Graham.
“Sit,” Kyne told her. Graham’s pale and drawn features
were a match for Sianna’s. “How does he fare?”
“Well enough. The drug has faded from his system, and he
now sleeps a normal sleep. Your woman is a skillful healer.
Graham will live, and he will keep his legs, but...” she paused,
her watery eyes full of sorrow. “I doubt he will walk again.”
His woman. The rest of Althea’s words lost meaning. With
all that had happened he had forgotten his pretense of Sianna
being his woman. The deception worked too well. Everyone
within the castle sang her praises, and he found himself
somewhat disconcerted by their not-so-subtle interest in his
bedchamber activities. What would be their reaction when they
learned the truth? Who would bear the brunt of their anger?
Sianna? Or himself?
No matter. Graham would live. But could he resign himself
to life as a cripple?
“His dressings need changing, but I hesitate to disturb him
before necessary,” Althea said. “I fear when he wakes, the
pain will be intense.”
Graham stirred, gave a low groan and opened his eyes. He
squinted up at Kyne. “Blast. I knew I’d end up consigned to
Oblivion, but I didn’t think the Unredeemed would be so damned
ugly.”
A chuckle started deep in Kyne’s chest and grew to a shout
of laughter. Despair slipped from his shoulders l
ike a heavy
cloak on a warm day.
“Cease cackling like a mad rooster and get me a drink. My
throat is drier than a landbound water worm.”
Kyne’s laughter slowed as the forced quality of Graham’s
humor registered. He leaned over and helped Graham sit up.
After gulping two cups of water, Graham slid back against
the wall and sighed. “Better.” He looked at Althea. “Good healer,
would you see to obtaining me some food? My legs were broken,
not my innards. I’m hungry,” he complained.
A grin broke over the old healer’s wrinkled face as she
nodded and hurried to do Graham’s bidding.
“Are you in any pain?” Kyne asked.
“Of course I’m in pain, you moon-cursed fool,” Graham
growled, shifted his hips and grimaced.
“Would you have a draft to kill the pain?” Kyne reached
for the flask of nika root infusion Sianna had left. At the moment,
nika seemed a lesser evil than Graham’s suffering. Somehow
Kyne knew Graham’s pain did not reside in his limbs.
Graham stayed his hand. “Pain and I are old friends. I will
deal with it. What I have need of is....” Color touched his cheeks
as he directed his glance toward the pot hidden beneath the
bed.
“Graham?”
Two male heads swiveled to the doorway where Katya
stood poised to enter. Dressed in sadly rumpled clothing, her
blonde hair tangled around her tear-stained face, she looked
more child than woman, but the love and hope shining in her
eyes as they settled on Graham told Kyne she was no little girl.
Graham’s injury had forced her beyond the boundary that
separates girl from woman. Perhaps now she was worthy of
the love he knew Graham felt for her.
Humor drained from Graham’s face, and he stiffened.
“Graham?” Kyne’s usually brash young sister took a
tentative step into the chamber and looked to Graham for
welcome and reassurance.
“I wish no visitors.” Closing his eyes, Graham slid down on
the bed and effectively shut himself away from Katya.
Her face crumpled. Tears sprang to her eyes as she turned
and dashed away.
“What did you do that for?” Kyne demanded. He wanted
to shake Graham. Not only for hurting Katya, but for the hurt