THE SHADOWLORD (8 page)

"Let me out first," Aradia said.

Phillipa pushed up from her pallet and turned to glare at her.

"I have to pee, Phillipa! Is that all right with you?" Aradia hurried out before Phillipa could stop her. As she closed the door behind her, she felt relief at not hearing voices from their room, though she knew the women would be discussing her.

The common room lay in darkness, save for the flicker of the dying fire in the grate. Deep shadows hovered along the curved walls and cast the furniture in darker shades of black. Fumbling, Aradia made her way to the door to the facilities, grateful when a harsh flare of lightning lit the room in blue-white relief and revealed its location. Bracing herself for the onslaught of wind and rain as she ventured outside, she held the cowl to her head and hurried to the outbuilding that sat a few yards from the inn. Her booted feet splashed through puddles, and by the time she reached the facility, mud coated the hem of her robe and her cowl was soaked. Grinding her teeth, she jerked open the wooden door and rushed inside, the stench hitting her like a damp rag to the bare face.

Aradia groaned, wishing she could pinch her nostrils closed. Holding open the door, she waited until another flash of lightning lit the heavens and allowed her to see the lantern hanging beside the door. After taking it from its peg, she ran her hand along the wall until she found the tin of lucifers and struck one against the rough plank wall. The meager light flared. She lit the lantern, then hung it back on the peg. She inhaled their pungent odor as she fumbled with her robes, pulled down her short britches, and perched uneasily on the wooden seat. A long sigh escaped her as her bladder started to drain.

When the door opened and a tall figure strode in, it was all she could do to keep from shrieking. As it was, her gasp could be heard over the din outside.

"It's only me, wench," Jaelan said, shutting the door.

Aradia stiffened. She crouched, hiding her flaming face with her cowl. Her bladder had locked on her, cutting off her urine in mid-stream. She watched in dismay as he moved to the far wall and began unbuttoning his leather britches, his back to her. She saw him shift his legs apart, but turned her face away as he began relieving himself into a narrow crevice dug into the wall.

"You are a sensitive sort, aren't you?" he asked, amusement rife in his deep voice. "You'll get over your shyness quickly enough at the convent. Privacy is not allowed within the Sisterhood."

Unable to keep from doing so, she snuck a look at him.

"I hope you are prepared for what goes on at the Convent."

"I am not sure I understand what you mean, Milord," Aradia said, her voice trembling.

"I know it is not the case in Diabolusia, but the Brotherhood of the Domination runs the Convent in Rysalia, or did you not know that? The nuns are often requisitioned as bedmates for visiting dignitaries. The price of a night's entertainment goes into the Brotherhood's coffers, and the only thing you will get from it might well be a dose of the clap."

Shocked, Aradia stared at him, watching as he stuffed himself back into his britches. Her face flamed as he adjusted his privates, then walked toward her. Ducking her head, she quivered with acute embarrassment and flinched when his heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

"You offered me sympathy tonight, and I certainly was not expecting that from you. Now, I am offering you advice." He lightly shook her. "Go home, wench. Stay clear of the Brotherhood. They will chew you up and spit you out. Do you understand?"

Aradia managed to nod, hearing the thunder of her blood in her ears.

He squeezed her shoulder before releasing her and turning away. "Good. If I can save you from that life of degradation, it will have been worth every pass of the lash." He opened the door and walked into the pouring rain, then closed the door behind him.

Letting out a ragged breath, Aradia shuddered and finished relieving herself. She scooted off the wooden seat, wiped herself on the hem of the already-dirty robe after discovering nothing else to use, then blew out the lantern. She opened the door, somewhat comforted by the clean wash of rain striking her face. For a moment, she stood, letting the moisture cool her. The storm was moving off, the thunder sounding more distant, but the rain still came down in driving sheets. Lowering her head, she ran for the inn's door, sidestepping as many puddles as she could see in the abbreviated flash of lightning.

Phillipa was sitting in front of the fire, huddled in her blanket and staring into the leaping flames, when Aradia tapped at the door and Tianara opened let her in. The younger woman came to the fire pit and sat beside her friend.

"You were gone a goodly time," Phillipa commented.

"Can't you sleep?"

"He is a dangerous man."

"How do you know that?" Aradia asked in an exasperated tone.

"I know a dangerous man when I encounter one. And so should you. Was not the Diabolusian as dangerous as they came?"

"Not to me, he wasn't."

Phillipa drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. "You will do what you will do, won't you, Ardy? No matter the consequences."

"I'll be careful."

"Sometimes careful isn't good enough." Phillipa returned to her pallet, leaving Aradia to watch the fire.

Long into the night, the sad amber eyes of Lord Jaelan Ben-Ashaman lurked in the undulating flames Aradia contemplated. Those eyes bothered her far more than she would have imagined as the storm shook the building with violent claws.

Jaelan lay awake in the room Jubil had allotted him, three-doors down from the room where the women slept. As they had all evening long, his thoughts returned to the evil that had once lurked in his world.

"I remember you,
Ai-Hawa
," he said aloud, staring at the heavy beam overhead. "I remember you all too well."

With a curse, he sat up, throwing the covers from his legs. He raked a hand through his hair, gripping the black strands and pulling in his frustration.

"I have never forgotten you. I remember that day as though it were yesterday."

The hellish day was burned into his memory as though a branding iron had been applied to his brain, searing the sights and sounds and sensations, the taste of his own blood on his lips, into the recollection that would be there for as long as he drew breath. Nightmares had sprung from that gruesome day and still slipped unbidden into his bed when he least expected them, nightmares that had the power to make him tremble.

A shudder ran through his tall frame. He felt the familiar ache in his chest, an awareness that often left him moist of eye and barren of hope. For a Shadowlord, it was a dangerous condition that had to be kept hidden at all costs.

"Aye, I remember you, but you don't remember me, do you, wench?" he whispered, balling his hands into fists and dropping them to his thighs.

He got up and moved to the window, pushing aside the curtain with the back of his hand. He blinked as lightning flared, driving a wedge of discomfort through his eyes. But he was unconcerned. Storms exhilarated him, thrilled him to the core of his being. Had it been a bit warmer, he would have stripped and stepped out into the deluge, throwing his arms wide to the elements, flirting precariously with the jagged strings of fire that stepped down from the heavens.

"You are as beautiful now as you were then," he whispered, his gaze narrowing, "and just as dangerous."

He traced a crooked knuckle through the mist created by his hot breath on the windowpane, drawing the ancient symbol for the wind.

"Ya-Bint-Al-Hawa
," he whispered in his adopted tongue--
The Daughter of the Wind
.

A decision had to be made, he thought, as he lowered his hand to the windowsill. Plucking at a loose paint chip, he sighed, wishing he had not ventured to the caravansary this night. That spur-of-the-moment choice might wind up costing him dearly.

"What you didn't know wouldn't have hurt you, Jaelan."

And one way or another, he was going to be hurt, he thought.

He turned back to the bed and flung himself onto the lumpy mattress. Sleep, if it came at all, would be a long time arriving.

Kathleen McGregor paced the confines of her luxurious bedchamber, and as always, ignored the sumptuous surroundings. The ornate Ionarian mahogany furniture, the exotic Viragonian silks and intricate laces, the soft furs and thick Chalean carpets, the gilt-framed paintings by ancient Diabolusian masters, the pearl and jade and jet inlaid boxes from Chrystallus, the heavy brass trinkets from Necroman, meant nothing to her. Their beauty, their priceless value, was lost on her.

Stopping at the window long enough to see a violent spear of lightning thrust to earth, the Serenian captive flinched. She turned, wrapping her arms around her as a chill shifted through her slim body. Trembling, she walked to the hearth and knelt in front of the crackling fire.

"Let this test pass him by, Great Lady," she pleaded to the flames. "Do not let him act upon his decision."

The faint scent of lavender invaded the room.

Kathleen closed her eyes. "I worry this will destroy him."

"Have faith in him, Kathleen,"
a soft voice advised.
"He is a strong man and will endure the trial."

A crystal tear slid down Kathleen's cheek. She hung her head, giving in to the grief that had dwelt in her for many years. "He will suffer greatly because of her."

"Life is meant to be lived, Daughter. We all suffer in one way or another."

Kathleen looked up, her eyes overflowing. "But he has suffered enough in his lifetime! Let me protect him from the evil walking beside him!"

"No one can bend the path of the stars. Jaelan Ben-Ashaman's fate was sealed long before he came into this world."

Overcome with misery, Kathleen curled into a fetal position and stared at the blazing logs. The heavy burden of sorrow pressed on her chest, and she found it hard to breathe. Despite the heat, she felt chilled to the marrow, her teeth chattering. A growing darkness crouched at the edges of her vision, and she knew monsters--human and supernatural--lurked there as well.

"Protect him, Alel," she begged her god. "Keep him safe in the hollow of Your merciful hand."

A dream came sporadically to Aradia, and as it had many times before, it brought her awake with a gasp. Perspiration pebbled her brow and upper lip. Her eyes wide, her heart hammering against her ribcage, her breath rapid and shallow, she put a quivering hand to her mouth to keep the whimper inside her constricted throat. Looking around, she was relieved to see the others sleeping soundly, her nightmare not having intruded upon their peaceful rest. Willing her breath to slow, her heart to cease its racing rhythm, she swallowed the painful lump in her throat and eased aside her covers, getting to her feet to try to walk off the exacting terror.

"Are you all right, Ardy?" Okyale whispered, now the keeper of their safety, watching over them through this portion of the early morn.

"Bad dream. And I have to pee again."

Okyale moved out of the way of the door. "Be careful."

Aradia slipped from the room and made her way to the fire pit, where glowing embers cast an orange glow against the mud bricks. She threw another log on the dying fire and took up the poker to settle the wood into the burning coals.

"Having trouble sleeping?"

She turned to see Lord Jaelan, lounging in a chair, his bare feet crossed at the ankles and his face hidden in shadows. Shirtless, he sat with arms crossed over a chest covered in a thick thatch of curly hair.

"It seems we both are," she answered, somehow not surprised to find him up at this late hour. She waited for him to speak again, but when he didn't, she moved to the door.

"Be careful," he said, echoing Okyale's advice.

When she returned, her robe damp from the rain, she sat on the rim of the fire pit's hearth to dry her clothing, content to keep the silence he seemed to want. She watched the fire flicker to life and poked at the wood until she felt satisfied the log would burn evenly. Her gaze followed the embers rising up the chimney before she laid aside the poker.

Though the rain still fell, it came with a much gentler cadence. Lightning flaring soundlessly, occasionally lighting the windows with a soft white pulse.

"She is beyond your reach, little Amazeen," he said. "You will never see her again."

She gave no sign of her shock that he knew her true purpose in coming to Rysalia. She didn't look his way, nor acknowledge his words, but continued staring into the flames, recalling Okyale's warning of danger regarding this man.

He shifted in his chair, the wood creaking with his weight. Out of the corner of her eye, Aradia saw him lift a mug to his lips.

"Are they alive?" she asked, dreading his answer.

He remained quiet for so long, she turned to him. As their eyes met, she felt a tremor slither down her spine.

"One is," he answered.

A shaft of fear thrust through Aradia's chest. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap. "Which one?"

"I believe her name is Orithia. She's a small blonde."

Aradia nodded, somewhat relieved but fearful to ask after Marpe. "And the other?"

"She killed a man. Her life was forfeit."

Squeezing her eyes closed, Aradia turned her head, her teeth clenched.

"Rysalian law is strict when it comes to murder. Punishment is meted out quickly and harshly."

"Was there a trial?" she asked, but knowing the answer.

"Had there been, she would have been beheaded. Best she died as she did--quickly and with no pain."

"How did she die?"

"Her neck was broken during a scuffle," he said in a matter-of-fact tone that made her cringe. Though she had not known Orithia's friend, Aradia nevertheless mourned a fallen sister warrior. The lives of all women were sacred to her, and she keenly felt the loss.

"She died protecting my sister, didn't she?"

Lord Jaelan's left eyebrow crooked up. "You are her sister?"

"We have the same father."