A Little Fate (15 page)

They spoke of faraway lands and cultures. Of paintings and of plays.

“You've put your library to good use,” he commented. “I've known few scholars as well read.”

“I can see the world through books, and lives through the stories. Once a year, on Midsummer, we put on a pageant. We have music and games. I choose a story, and everyone takes a part as if it were a play. Surviving isn't enough. There must be life and color.”

There were times, secretly, when she pined near weeping for true color.

“All the children are taught to read,” she continued, “and to do sums. If you have only a window on the world, you must look out of it. One of my men—well, he's just a boy really—he makes stories. They're quite wonderful.”

She caught herself, surprised at the sound of her own voice rambling. “I've kept you long enough.”

“No.” His hand tightened on hers. He was beginning to realize it would never be long enough. “Tell me more. You play music, don't you? A harp. I heard you playing, singing. It was like a dream.”

“You were feverish. I play a little. Some skill inherited from my father, I suppose.”

“I'd like to hear you play again. Will you play for me, Deirdre?”

“If you like.”

But as she started to rise, one of the men who'd helped serve rushed in. “My lady, my lady, it's young Phelan!”

“What's happened?”

“He was playing with some of the boys on the stairs, and fell. We can't wake him. My lady, we fear he's dying.”

A
FRAID
to move him, they'd left the boy covered with a blanket at the base of the stairs. At first glance, Kylar thought the child, for he was hardly more, was already dead. He'd seen enough of death to recognize its face.

He judged the boy to be about ten, with fair hair and cheeks still round with youth. But those cheeks were gray, and the hair was matted with blood.

Those who circled and knelt around the boy made way when Deirdre hurried through.

“Get back now,” she ordered. “Give him room.”

Before Deirdre could kneel, a weeping woman broke free to fall at her feet and clutch at her skirts with bloodstained hands. “My baby. Oh, please, my lady! Help my little boy.”

“I will, Ailish. Of course I will.” Knowing that time was precious, Deirdre bent down and firmly loosened the terrified woman's hold on her. “You must be strong for him, and trust. Let me see to him now.”

“He slipped, my lady.” Another youth came forward with a jerky step. His eyes were dry, but huge, and there were tracks of tears still drying on his cheeks. “We were playing horse and rider on the stairs, and he slipped.”

“All right.” Too much grief, she thought, feeling waves of it pressing over her. Too much fear. “It's all right now. I'll tend to him.”

“Deirdre.” Kylar kept his voice low, so only she could hear over the mother's weeping. “There's nothing you can do here. I can smell death on him.”

As could she, and so she knew she had little time. “What is the smell of death but the smell of fear?” She ran her hands gently over the crumpled body, feeling the hurts, finding so much broken in the little boy that her heart ached from it. Medicines would do no good here, but still her face was composed as she looked up.

“Cordelia, fetch my healing bag. Make haste. The rest, please, leave us now. Leave me with him. Ailish, go now.”

“Oh, no, please, my lady. Please, I must stay with my boy.”

“Do you trust me?”

“My lady.” She gripped Deirdre's hand, wept on it. “I do.”

“Then do as I bid you. Go now and pray.”

“His neck,” Kylar began, then broke off when Deirdre whipped her head around and stared at him.

“Be silent! Help me or go, but don't question me.”

When Ailish was all but carried away, and the two of them were alone with the bleeding boy, Deirdre closed her eyes. “This will hurt him. I'm sorry for it. Hold him down, hold him as still as you can, and do nothing to interfere. Nothing, do you understand?”

“No.” But Kylar shifted until he could clamp the boy's arms.

“Block thoughts of death from your mind,” she ordered. “And fear, and doubt. Block them out as you would in battle. There's too much dark here already. Can you do this?”

“I can.” And because she asked it of him, Kylar let the cold come into him, the cold that steeled the mind to face combat.

“Phelan,” she said. “Young Phelan, the bard.” Her voice was soft, almost a crooning as she traced her hands over him again. “Be strong for me.”

She knew him already, had watched him grow and learn and be. She knew the sound of his voice, the quick flash of his grin, the lively turn of his mind. He had been hers, as all in Rose Castle were hers, from the moment of his first breath.

And so she merged easily with him.

While her hands worked, stroking, kneading, she slid into his mind. She felt his laughter inside her as he pranced and raced with his friends up and down the narrow stone steps. Felt his heart leap inside her own as his feet slipped. Then the fear, oh, the terror, an instant only before the horrible pain.

The snap of bone made her cry out softly, had her head rearing back. Something inside her crushed like thin clay under a stone hammer, and the sensation was beyond torment.

Her eyes were open now, Kylar saw. A deep and too brilliant green. Her breath came fast and hard, sweat pearled on her brow. And the boy screamed thinly, straining under his grip.

Both made a sound of agony as she slid a hand under the boy to cup his neck, laid her other on his heart. Both shuddered. Both went pale as death.

Kylar started to call out to her, to reach for her as she swayed. But he felt the heat, a ferocious fist of it that seemed to pump out of her, into the boy until the arms he held were like sticks of fire.

And the boy's eyes opened, stared up blindly.

“Take, young Phelan.” Her voice was thick now, echoed richly off the stone. “Take what you need. Fire of healing.” She leaned down, laid her lips gently on his. “Live. Stay with us. Your mother needs you.”

As Kylar watched, thunderstruck, color seeped back into the boy's face. He would have sworn he felt death skitter back into the shadows.

“My lady,” the boy said, almost dreamily. “I fell.”

“Yes, I know. Sleep now.” She brushed her hand over his eyes, and they closed on a sigh. “And heal. Let his mother in, if you will,” she said to Kylar. “And Cordelia.”

“Deirdre—”

“Please.” The weakness threatened to drag her under, and she wanted to be away, in her own chamber before she lost herself to it. “Let them in so I can tell them what must be done for him.”

She stayed kneeling when Kylar rose. The sounds of her people were like the dull roar of the ocean in her head. Even as Ailish collapsed next to her son, to gather him close to kiss Deirdre's now trembling hand, Deirdre gave clear, careful instructions for his care.

“Enough!” Alarmed by her pallor, Kylar swept her off the floor and into his arms. “Tend the boy.”

“I'm not finished,” Deirdre managed.

“Yes, by the blood, you are.” The single glance he swept over those gathered challenged any to contradict him. “Where is your chamber?”

“This way, my lord prince.” Orna led him through a doorway, down a corridor to another set of stairs. “I know what to do for her, my lord.”

“Then you'll do it.” He glanced down at Deirdre as he carried her up the stairs. She had swooned after all, he noted. Her skin was like glass, her eyes closed. The boy's blood was on her hands. “What did she risk by snatching the boy from death?”

“I cannot say, my lord.” She opened a door, hurried across a chamber to the bed. “I will care for her now.”

“I stay.”

Orna pressed her lips together as he laid Deirdre on the bed. “I must undress her. Wash her.”

Struggling with temper, he turned to stalk to the window. “Then do so. Is this what she did for me?”

“I cannot say.” Orna met his eyes directly when he turned back. “She did not speak of it to me. She does not speak of it with anyone. Prince Kylar, I will ask you to turn your back until my lady is suitably attired in her night garb.”

“Woman, her modesty is not an issue with me.” But he turned, stared out the window.

He had heard of those who could heal with the mind. But he had not believed it, not truly believed, before tonight. Nor had he considered what price the healer paid to heal.

“She will sleep,” Orna said some time later.

“I won't disturb her.” He came to the bed now, gazed down. There was still no color in her cheeks, but it seemed to him her breathing was steadier. “Nor will I leave her.”

“My lady is strong, as valiant as ten warriors.”

“If I had ten as valiant, there would never be another battle to fight.”

Pleased with his response, Orna inclined her head. “And my lady has, despite what she believes, a tender heart.” Orna set a bottle and goblet on the table near the bed. “See that you don't bruise it. When she wakes, give her some of this tonic. I will not be far, should you need me.”

Alone, Kylar drew a chair near the bed and watched Deirdre sleep. For an hour, and then two. She was motionless and pale as marble in the firelight, and he feared she would never wake but would sleep like the beauty in another legend, for a hundred years.

Even days before he would have deemed such things foolishness, stories for children. But now, after what he'd seen, what he'd felt, anything seemed possible.

Still, side by side with the worry inside him, anger bloomed. She had risked her life. He had seen death slide its cold fingers over her. She had bargained her life for the child's.

And, he was sure now, for his own.

When she stirred, just the slightest flutter of her lashes, he poured the tonic Orna had left into the cup.

“Drink this.” He lifted her head from the pillow. “Don't speak. Just drink now.”

She sipped, and sighed. The hand she lifted to his wrist slid limply away again. “Phelan?” she whispered.

“I don't know.” He brought the cup to her lips a second time. “Drink more.”

She obeyed, then turned her head. “Ask. Ask how young Phelan fares. Please. I must be sure.”

“Drink first. Drink it all.”

She did as he bade, and kept her eyes open and on his now. If she'd had the strength, she would have gone to find out herself. But the weakness was still dragging at her, and
she could only trust Kylar to the task. “Please. I won't be easy until I know his condition.”

Kylar set the empty cup aside, then crossed the chamber to the door. Orna sat on a chair in the corridor, sewing by candlelight. She glanced up when she saw him. “Tell my lady not to fret. Young Phelan is resting. Healing.” She got to her feet. “If you would like to retire, my lord, I will sit with my lady.”

“Go to your bed,” he said shortly. “I stay with her tonight.”

Orna bowed her head and hid a smile. “As you wish.”

He stepped back inside, closed the door. And turning saw that Deirdre was sitting up in bed, with her hair spilling like honey over the white lawn of her nightdress.

“Your boy is resting, and well.”

At his words, he saw color return to her face, watched the dullness clear from her eyes. He came to the foot of the bed, which was draped in deep red velvet. “You recover quickly, madam.”

“The tonic is potent.” Indeed she now felt clear of mind, and even the echoes of pain were fading from her body. “Thank you for your help. His mother and father would have been too distraught to assist. Their worry could have distracted me. More, fear feeds death.”

She glanced around the room, a little warily. Orna hadn't laid out her nightrobe. “If you'd excuse me now, I'll go see for myself.”

“Not tonight.”

To her shock he sat on the side of the bed near her. Only pride kept her from shifting over, or tugging up the blankets.

“I have questions.”

“I've answered several of your questions already.”

He lifted his brows. “Now I have more. The boy was dying. His skull crushed, his neck damaged if not broken. His left arm was shattered.”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “And inside his body, more was harmed. He bled inside himself. So much blood for such a little boy. But he has a strong heart, our Phelan. He is particularly precious to me.”

“He would have been dead in minutes.”

“He is not dead.”

“Why?”

“I can't answer.” Restlessly, she pushed at her hair. “I can't explain it to you.”

“Won't.”

“Can't.”

When she would have turned her face away, he caught her chin, held it firmly. “Try.”

“You overstep,” she said stiffly. “Continually.”

“Then you should be growing accustomed to it. I held the boy,” he reminded her. “I watched, and I felt life come back into him. Tell me what you did.”

She wanted to dismiss him, but he had helped her when she'd needed his help. So she would try. “It's a kind of search, and a merging. An opening of both.” She lifted a hand, let it fall. “It is a kind of faith, if you will.”

“It caused you pain.”

“Do you think fighting death is painless? You know better. To heal, I must feel what he feels, and bring him up. . . .” She shook her head, frustrated with words. “Take him back to the pain. Then we ride it together, so that I see, feel, know.”

“You rode more than pain. You rode death. I saw you.”

“We were stronger.”

“And if you hadn't been?”

“Then death would have won,” she said simply. “And a mother would be grieving her firstborn tonight.”

“And you? Deirdre of the Ice, would your people be grieving you?”

“There is a risk. Do you turn from battle, Kylar? Or do you face it knowing your life might be the price paid at end of day? Would you not stand for any one of your people if they had need? Would you expect me to do less for one of mine?”

“I was not one of yours.” He took her hand before she could look away. “You rode death with me, Deirdre. I remember. I thought it a dream, but I remember. The pain, as if the sword cut into me fresh. That same pain mirrored in
your eyes as you looked down at me. The heat of your body, the heat of your life pouring into me. I was nothing to you.”

“You were a man. You were hurt.” She reached out now, laying her hand on his cheek. “Why are you angry? Should I have let you die because my medicines weren't enough to save you? Should I have stepped back from you and my own gift because it would cause me a moment's pain to save you? Does your pride bleed now because a woman fought for your life?”

“Perhaps it does.” He closed his hand over her wrist. “When I carried you in here I thought you would die, and I was helpless.”

“You stayed with me. That was kind.”

He made some sound, then pushed himself off the bed to pace. “When a man goes into battle, Deirdre, it's sword to sword, lance to lance, fist to fist. These are tangible things. What you've done, magic or miracle, is so much more. And you were right. I can't understand it.”

“It changes how you think of me.”

“Yes.”

She lowered her lashes, hid the fresh pain. “There is no shame in it. Most men would not have stayed to help, certainly not have stayed to speak with me. I'm grateful. Now if you'd excuse me, I'd like to be alone.”