Crystal Moon (17 page)

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

injured sardak soon growls again.”

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 evidence 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