Authors: Amanda Ashley
“’Tis true, nevertheless. All those who tried to stand in Rorke’s way were sent to the Pavilion. When there was talk of war with Aldane, all the prisoners were executed.”
Darrla sat forward on the throne. “Yet you remain.”
“I was being saved for one last Game in the arena. With the help of my wife, I escaped.”
“Why did you not come here? Surely you knew you would be heard.”
“Rorke was here. I dared not risk it while the King was away.”
Darrla nodded. “My brother and I owe you a great deal, my Lord Jarrett.”
“I want nothing, madam, save the return of Greyebridge lands that were forfeit to the crown and the right to return to Gweneth.”
Darrla bowed her head in a gesture of assent. “Consider it done.”
“My heartfelt thanks, madam.”
Rising from her throne, Darrla crossed the room. Pausing at one of the narrow windows, she gazed, unseeing, into the distance. She stood there for a long moment, unmoving as a statue.
Jarrett watched her, sympathy for Darrla rising within him. She was a proud woman, the King’s sister, heir to the throne. She was a beautiful, accomplished woman. She had borne Rorke five children. He could scarce imagine the pain she must have felt upon learning that her husband was plotting against her, that he intended to take the throne and share it with another.
“Is there anything I can do, Milady?” Jarrett asked.
Darrla shook her head, her shoulders squaring, and Jarrett knew that she had put any affection she still felt for her husband out of her heart.
“All we can do now,” she said, her voice brittle, “is wait.”
Jarrett stood at the window of the west tower, gazing down into the courtyard. The watch fires were burning and he could see the king’s men patrolling the battlements. Others sat near the flames, warming their hands.
Jarrett stared past the fortress walls. Rorke was out there, marching toward the castle. He would arrive on the morrow, near dawn, Jarrett thought. Would he have Leyla and the babe with him, or had he left them somewhere en route?
Leaving the room, he wandered through the castle. No one else was about at this hour. The men were all outside, the serving girls and maids asleep long since.
He went up the stairs to the King’s chamber, surprised that there were no guards outside the door. Apparently Tyrell had ordered everyone, even his personal guards, to man the catwalks.
He was turning away when something—a noise, a feeling, prompted him to enter the room.
Jarrett paused in the doorway, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. By the light of the near moon streaming through the window, he could see Darrla, asleep in a big leather chair beside her brother’s bed.
Finding nothing out of place, he started to back out of the room when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shadow glide across the wall.
Jarrett whirled to the left, felt a rush of cool air whisper past his ear as the edge of a blade hissed past his head.
Instinctively he dropped to the floor and rolled to the left, drawing his sword as he regained his feet.
“Who’s there?” Darrla’s voice, thick with sleep, cut across the darkness.
“Your husband, madam. Don’t move. I’d hate to slit your pretty throat.”
“Rorke!” Darrla exclaimed, her voice sharp. “How did you get in here?”
“You forget, madam, I am the Minister of War. I know every tunnel, escape route and trap door within the castle.”
“Rorke?” The King’s voice came like an echo as he lit the candles at his bedside. “Put away your sword.”
Rorke shook his head. He stood behind Darrla, his hand steady as he held the edge of his sword to Darrla’s throat. But it was Jarrett who held his gaze. “Drop your weapon, traitor, or I will indeed slit her throat.”
“Do it,” Jarrett said dispassionately. “You can kill her, here and now. You can kill the King as well. But in the end you will still have to face me.”
“Damne! I should have let them kill you long ago.”
“Where’s Leyla?”
“Safe enough, for now, but her life will surely be forfeit should I fail to return to my men.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Rorke shrugged. “Believe what you will. Perhaps we can make a deal.”
“No more deals, Rorke.”
“Then die!”
Without warning, Rorke lunged forward, his blade driving toward Jarrett’s chest.
Jarrett’s blade swung up to parry the blow, and the fight was on.
Darrla scurried across the room to sit beside her brother, her heart pounding as she watched the two swordsmen. This was no ritual fight of honor, but a battle to the death.
“I will yet have all that I desire,” Rorke vowed, his sword slicing through the air. “You will not stop me.”
Jarrett paid no heed to Rorke’s boast. Instead, he focused all his energy, all his attention, on his opponent, knowing that the slightest miscalculation, the merest distraction, would cost him his life.
Darrla shivered as the clang of steel meeting steel echoed off the room’s high stone walls. She bit down on her lower lip as Jarrett drew first blood, gasped as Rorke opened a nasty gash in Jarrett’s shoulder.
Though only a few minutes had passed, it seemed as if the fight had gone on forever. Both blades were stained with blood now, both men were breathing hard as they maneuvered around the room, each one seeking an advantage. Their faces, set in hard, determined lines, were sheened with sweat and splattered with drops of blood, giving them both an eerie, demonic look. Rorke’s eyes were filled with hatred, Jarrett’s with savage intensity.
A cry of rage erupted from Rorke’s throat as Jarrett’s sword slashed across his chest, opening a long, shallow gash. He could feel himself weakening, feel the strength ebbing from his legs. A torrent of curses poured from his lips as Jarrett drove him backward. He was on the defense now, fighting for his very life.
He had to win. If he lost now, he would have nothing left. At best, he would be stripped of his holdings and exiled from the kingdom. At worst, he would be branded a traitor and publicly executed.
Knowing he could not win, Rorke grabbed one of the thick yellow candles from the bedside table and hurled it in Jarrett’s face. At the same time, he lunged forward, his sword driving deep into Jarrett’s chest.
With a triumphant cry, Rorke jerked the blade free.
The King uttered a soft oath.
Darrla screamed, her hand at her throat, as a bright crimson stain spread across Jarrett’s shirt.
Jarrett staggered backward, then slowly sank to his knees.
As from far away, he heard Darrla’s horrified cry.
Through a thick red haze, he saw Rorke turn and walk toward the bed, his sword raised.
Summoning the last of his strength, Jarrett gained his feet, swaying slightly. “Rorke!”
Rorke turned around, his eyes mirroring his disbelief as Jarrett’s sword plunged into his heart.
For a moment, the two men stood facing each other and then, as if pulled by the same string, they both fell to the floor.
Darrla scrambled off the bed and ran across the room. Throwing open the door, she started to screamed for help, but the words died in her throat.
Help was on the way. The castle was ablaze with light. A half dozen men, led by Commander Haarkness, were running up the staircase, their swords drawn and ready. She could hear the sound of excited voices coming from below.
“It’s all over, Milady,” the commander declared, bowing. “We overtook Rorke’s men and put them to flight.”
“Jarrett! Where’s Jarrett?” Pushing her way through the throng, Leyla hurried up the staircase, her face pale as she clutched her child to her breast.
A moment later Sherriza stepped into the corridor. “What is it? What has happened?”
“There’s no time to explain,” Darrla replied, struggling to keep her voice calm. “Sherriza, take the child. Leyla, come with me.”
“What has happened?” Leyla asked anxiously. “Where is Jarrett?”
“You haven’t much time. I fear he may be dying.”
“Dying!” Leyla shook her head. “No!”
She thrust the baby into Sherriza’s arms and followed Darrla into the King’s chamber.
Tyrell was kneeling beside Jarrett, his expression somber as he covered the fallen warrior with a blanket.
“Jarrett!” Leyla rushed to her husband’s side and took his hand in hers. “Jarrett, don’t die,” she sobbed, her voice filled with anguish. “Please don’t die.”
Jarrett’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of her voice. “Leyla?”
“I am here.”
“What of…Rorke?”
Leyla glanced across the room to where Rorke lay in a pool of blood. “He’s dead.”
‘“The…baby?”
“Thee has a son. I pray thee, do not leave us.”
“Love…you.”
Leyla nodded, hardly able to see his face through the tears that welled in her eyes. His voice was faint, his face as pale as death, and even as she watched, a sigh escaped his lips and the life went out of his eyes.
“No!” She threw herself across his body, her shoulders heaving with the force of her sobs. “No, please, no, no, no…”
Darkness, and then a light, brighter than the sun, and he was walking toward it. In the distance, he could see a tall figure clothed in a long white robe moving toward him, and he knew it was his father, long dead.
From far away he could hear a familiar voice sobbing, “No…no…no.”
He paused and looked over his shoulder. His body was lying on the floor, and she was touching him, pressing her hands to his chest.
He felt a sudden heat flood his being, the touch of her hands upon his flesh, warm, loving hands that belonged to the voice that was calling him back, begging him not to go.
He looked back at his father. Shammah was smiling at him, one hand extended in welcome.
Jarrett hesitated, knowing that all he had to do was step forward and take his father’s hand and all earthly cares and sorrows would be forever behind him.
But her voice was calling his name, begging him not to go, whispering that she loved him, could not live without him. He felt the heat of her hands grow stronger, heard the anguish in her voice.
We need you. Please come back to me…to us…
His eyelids fluttered open and he saw Leyla hovering over him, her face streaked with tears. Her hands were spread across his chest, and he felt again that sweet, all-encompassing warmth that had healed his body’s wounds so many times in the past.
“Beloved?”
She lifted her gaze to his face and he watched as disbelief and joy played over her features, drying her tears, bringing a radiant smile to her lips.
“Jarrett! Oh, Jarrett.”
He glanced past Leyla to see Tyrell, Darrla and Sherriza gathered around him. His mother too had been weeping.
“Jarrett, I thought I had lost thee.”
“Your touch brought me back.”
“It could not. My power is gone.”
He glanced down at his bloodstained shirt. There was no wound beneath the torn cloth, not even a scratch.
His gaze moved up to her face again. “Then how do you explain this?”
Leyla shook her head. “I cannot.”
He smiled at her as he sat up, his hand caressing the curve of her cheek.
“It was your love that brought me back. I heard your voice, felt your touch and knew I could not leave you. Perhaps it was the power of your love that always healed me.”
He gazed deep into her eyes, basking in the love he saw reflected there. “Perhaps love is the only true magic.”
A soft cooing caught Jarrett’s attention, and for the first time he noticed the small, blanket-wrapped bundle cradled in his mother’s arms.
“My son?” he asked.
Sherriza smiled through her tears as she knelt and placed the baby in Jarrett’s arms, then motioned for the others to leave the room.
Rising, Sherriza followed the others out of the room. She paused in the hallway and looked back, her heart welling with thankfulness and love as she watched Leyla and Jarrett exchange adoring glances over the head of her grandson. Then, with a smile, she closed the door.
Leyla stared at her husband as he gazed at their son’s face, then examined his tiny fingers and toes, the soft down of his hair.
Seeing them together for the first time filled her heart with such tenderness that it was almost painful. It had been worth every moment of suffering to see the look of awe in Jarrett’s eyes as he gazed at his child. The lad would grow up to be like his father, brave and strong and honest of heart. It had all been worth it, she mused—the months in the Pavilion, the loss of her gift, everything.
“Thee can go home now, my Lord Jarrett,” Leyla murmured. “There is none to stop thee.”
He looked up at her then, his beautiful green eyes so full of love it brought tears to her eyes.
“You are my home, beloved,” he said, and drawing her to his side, he kissed her.
In the Mountains of the Blue Mist, or on the Isle of Gweneth, in the bowels of the Pavilion or the palace at Heth, time and place mattered not at all. What mattered most was that she was there beside him, that she would always be there beside him.