THE SHADOWLORD (14 page)

"I don't wear gowns, warrior."

The enticing picture she made--hands on hips, legs slightly spread--made the blood pump faster through his veins and did other remarkable and enjoyable things to his body. Her white cambric shirt did nothing to hide the amble thrust of her breasts, and tucked into the waistband of the cords, accentuated her small waist.

"Do you see my boots?" she asked.

He bent to retrieve them. "Sit on the chair and I'll put them on for you."

A trill of pleasure rippled through Aradia. She did as ordered. Her heart thudded in her chest as he knelt and held the boot for her. Thrusting her toes into the wet leather, she grimaced and had to arch her ankle several times to get her foot in all the way.

"My friend, 'Lui, has a brother who makes exquisite boots of the finest Diabolusian leather. I'll see Diego comes to measure you for a few new pair."

When he picked up her other boot and held it for her, something caught his eye. He took her left foot in his hand, the arch cupped in his palm.

Aradia held her breath, a shiver of delight at his touch making the hairs on her arms stand up.

He set down the boot and used his free hand to push up her pant leg. For a long moment, he stared at her ankle, then slowly raised his eyes to hers.

"It's a tattoo," she said.

"I know what it is." His thumb moved over the marking, the tip tracing the vermeil head of the nocked quarrel on the crossbow. He slid his thumb to the three small quarrels slanted on end beneath the crossbow. "What do these mean?"

"Each quarrel signifies an amount." At his steady look, she lifted her head. "One quarrel equals one dozen."

"So, three dozen in all," he said in a flat voice. "That is how many men you have killed."

She nodded. "Those I can account for, aye. And more I wounded on the battlefield likely died later also."

"You killed at least thirty-six men in battle?"

"I would kill in no other way, warrior, unless my life or the life of a loved one was threatened."

"But how?" he asked, his voice showing his shock.

"How did I kill them?" She shrugged. "With dagger and sword, mostly, but I have wielded the labrys on occasion. It makes such a mess, thought, so I dislike using it."

His eyes flared. "You fight in hand-to-hand combat?"

"I must. I'm not that good with a crossbow or spear. My eyesight does not allow accurate aim. Amazeen has been at war for centuries to protect its homeland, so one must be an expert at her job during a battle. We cannot afford to lose. Our way of life depends on our abilities to wage war and overcome everything thrown at us."

Another clap of thunder startled Jaelan. He jumped, wondering which had unnerved him more-- the sudden noise, or the woman's telling remarks about her fighting prowess. Picturing her standing on a killing field, splattered with the blood of her victims, one hand gripping a broadsword, the other a dagger, surrounded by dead men at her feet, carrion perched and waiting, sent chills through his spine.

Aradia grinned, cocking her head. "What's the matter, warrior? Afraid of me now?"

He snorted, shaking his head at her ridiculous question. "We'll discuss this later."

Jaelan opened the door for her, surprised that he allowed her to precede him. He was not given to courtly gestures, but in the presence of this woman, he felt the need to put forth his best manners. Following her down the corridor, he could not help but admire the way her hips moved in the tight confines of the damp cords. Perhaps instead of a few new gowns, he'd have leather breeches made for her instead.

The thought made him smile.

Magistrate Zaitan Kahteranani stood before his desk, clutching the scepter of his station in front of him like a barrier between him and the tall man. His cold black eyes warmed only a fraction as he swept his gaze over the beautiful woman at the Shadowlord's side. Nodding as polite a greeting to the lady for whom he felt great pity, he tried to dismiss her gentle smile from his thoughts, but he knew her face would stay with him for a long time. He wished to snatch her from the Evil One's grip, to spirit her away from a life that would be spent...

"Get on with it, Kahteranani," the Shadowlord demanded, having read the Magistrate's thoughts.

"As you wish, Lord Jaelan. Is there a Joining gift?"

"She is wearing my gift to her," Jaelan snapped.

Aradia looked at the Shadowlord, then touch the amber necklace.

The Magistrate reminded Jaelan that two witnesses were needed to make the Joining legal in the eyes of the Hasdu.

"Fine." Jaelan went to the door, bellowing for Naseema and her grandfather.

Within moments, the two witnesses came into the room, though both seemed loath to be there.

Enmity reverberated in the Magistrate's voice as he began the ritual that would Join the Shadowlord and his captive. Zaitan could think of her in no other way. No woman would willingly share the bed of one such as Ben-Ashaman. He also knew the Shadowlord was reading his thoughts. It did not matter. Let the Evil One know how despised he was. Let him feel the hatred festering in the hearts and minds of the Uadjit people. Perhaps that hatred would keep him away.

"It's more likely to bring me here more often," Jaelan grated. "Perhaps I should build a keep within the shadows of your own abode, Kahteranani. We could visit often. How does that sound?"

"I would rather you slit my throat and feed me to the fire than have to spend one moment more than necessary in your presence," the Magistrate sneered.

"That can be arranged."

"Please," Aradia said, taking Jaelan's arm. "This is my Joining day. Do not spoil it for me." She looked at the Magistrate. "Either of you."

"Milady, please reconsider," the Magistrate pleaded. "You do not know what it is you do! Even the heavens cry out for you to think before you commit yourself to this"--he nearly choked on the word--"Man. The entire Host is crying for you!"

Rain lashed at the windows. The day had turned dark. Fierce wind skirled in the eaves and caused the shutters to crash against the building. The storm Jaelan had feared hammered with relentless fury.

"Speak your words, Magistrate Kahteranani," she bid. "I have pledged myself to Lord Jaelan and my decision was not forced, nor was it made lightly. He has not dragged me before you. It is something I wish as much as he."

Jaelan stared at her, wondering if her words were just for the Magistrate--to ease his mind and diffuse a dangerous situation--or if a deeper meaning existed. Though he had not dragged her before Kahteranani, neither had he given her a choice if she were to see her sister out of the king's seraglio and safely home.

"I can not persuade you to think better of your decision?" the Magistrate asked.

"It is what I want," she repeated, her gaze locked with Jaelan's.

"The Prophet help you," the Magistrate mumbled. "We are gathered here in the sight of..."

Jaelan looked away from Aradia, half-listening to Kahteranani's droning words. He gave the appropriate responses, held his breath as the lady at his side made hers, and heaved a sigh of relief when they were declared husband and wife. His heart occupied his throat when the Magistrate reluctantly bid him to seal the Joining with a kiss.

So he would not be forced to watch the woman being mauled by the Shadowlord, Zaitan went to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed the Certificate of Joining, which the Shadowlord had already signed. He glanced at his right index finger and the golden signet ring that bore the Seal, tilted a red candle, dripped wax on the bottom of the sheet, then pressed the Seal of Office into the middle. The wax's blood-red color made gorge rise in his throat. He left the paper on his desk, then he left the room, his eyes burning with disgust.

The touch of Jaelan's lips upon Aradia's was as chaste as any kiss ever given. It was a brief contact devoid of emotion, though she was sure she had witnessed a brief flare of passion darkening his amber gaze to molten gold as the kiss ended. A possessiveness now lurked in those tawny depths.

"We will have to spend the night here," her new husband said. "The roads will be even worse after this rain."

"Are you sure?" she asked, not wanting to infringe on the people of Uadjit any longer than need be. Their palpable hatred made her uneasy, and she feared someone would act on that pent-up anger. "I'm not adverse to traveling."

Even as the words left her mouth, a vicious shriek of lightning split the air. Somewhere nearby, a tree crashed, no doubt a victim of the lightning's blade.

"I've no desire to have you skewered, wench. We'll stay here."

"But..."

"We will stay."

Aradia clamped her mouth shut. She sighed in surrender, but worry nagged her, while every sound gave her the jitters.

"I'll have Jahna prepare a room for us," he said, going to the door.

"Jahna?"

"The innkeeper."

She frowned. "You are so familiar with these people that you call them by their given names. Why is that, warrior?"

He opened the door and paused on the threshold. "There is no mystery to it...I grew up here." He didn't give her a chance to respond but closed the door firmly behind him.

In stunned surprise, Aradia slumped into the chair beside the desk. She looked at the floor, caught up in the moment. Jaelan's admission put a fine edge to her worry, intensified it. She knew how vindictive people could be when angry. She had experienced it when returning from Diabolusia. To this day, some Amazeen would not speak to her, shunned her, did everything they could to make her life miserable. There had been death threats in the beginning, but her mother's intervention had quelled them.

Growing worry propelled Aradia from her chair, and she began pacing. They would need to be on guard, ever mindful of a sly look or a creaking floorboard. When they took to their bed this eve, she would make doubly sure they securely engaged the lock, pushed a chair under the handle. She made a mental note to check the window as well.

Her attention fell on a bowl of fruit, sitting on a table at the window. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, wondering if their food would be contaminated, or poisoned. She would need to taste her husband's food before allowing him to eat.

She must not allow anyone to harm Jaelan. She would protect him with every skill at her disposal.

Standing outside the Magistrate's office, Jaelan intercepted his new wife's thoughts. He had no illusions as to why she would risk her life to keep him safe. Without him, she would have no way to extract her sister from the harem. She needed him to get her into the stronghold. It pleased him, however, to think of her doing battle in his name.

Your name is now her name, too,
his inner voice reminded him.

"Aradia Ben-Ashaman," he said aloud. The sound of it made him smile. The smile slid from his lips, however, as her next thought wove its way into his subconscious.

Aradia was thinking of the dagger she had secreted in her saddlebags, picturing it in her mind. Wrapped in oilcloth, the blade was wickedly sharp, honed to a lethal edge that could cleave a single hair in twain. As thin as a sheet of parchment, the Ionarian steel was only an inch in width, seven inches in length from hilt to tip, and a well-balanced killing machine. Driven into a man's chest at the midpoint, dragged upward and to the left through the chest cavity, it could slice apart muscle and sinew, cartilage and bone, to open a human heart in the blink of an eye. Should the need arise, she would act, killing if need be but aiming to maim.

Whistling between his teeth, Jaelan could not dismiss the images his wife's thoughts painted. Committed to her course of action, a warrioress in her own right, the woman could not be left to her own devices. The Prophet only knew what she was capable of doing, and one false move could get her seriously hurt.

Or killed.

Searching out Jahna would have to wait. Disposing of the killing blade in Aradia's possession became the first order of business.

When Aradia returned to her room at the inn, fresh, hot bath water steamed in the copper tub. She stepped into the water, sighing with pleasure as the warmth lapped at her flesh, settling like a lover's caress over her lower body. The perfumed waves sent a mist of gardenia-scented steam into the air.

Gardenia was her favorite flower, and she wondered if Jaelan had harvested that information from her memory. A slight frown marred her brow when she realized he most likely did. How many of her stray thoughts had wound their way into his knowing? She reminded herself to be more careful.

"Do wish anything else, Milady?" an older woman, likely the innkeeper's wife, asked.

Aradia had almost forgotten the woman's presence, so non-obtrusive had she been about her work. She looked up and felt mild surprise that the woman's bearing seemed as that of a host making welcome a guest in her home.

"Information, if you could provide it," Aradia replied.

The woman inclined her head in regal fashion. She stood with her hands clasped at her waist and met Aradia's gaze with a steady one. "What is it you wish to know?"

"Tell me about Lord Jaelan."

A look of disgust passed over the woman's face. When she spoke, her upper lip arched as though a bad smell had entered the room. "That one is Hell's spawn!"

"He was born here."

The old woman vehemently shook her head. "That demon is an Outlander, his place of birthing known only to the Prophet! For all we know, he may well have been born in the slime of the Abyss."

"He told me he grew up here."

"Ill luck for us that he was. And curse Samiel Ben-Ashaman for bringing the Evil One into our midst. May he rue the day he gifted his lady-wife with that bad seed!"

Aradia remembered Jaelan telling her his name was Rysalian, for "orphaned." "So you don't know his kin?"

"Demons from the deepest crevice of Hell, if you ask me." The woman's spittle speckled the air in front of her.

"Where did Samiel Ben-Ashaman find him?" Aradia asked, losing patience with the hateful woman.