The Lone Warrior (60 page)

Rose sat up in bed. “Mehcredi.”

She turned, caught the flash of Rose’s smile in the gloom. “Yes?”

Rose held out her arms. “Come here.”

Surprising herself, Mehcredi dropped the pack, crossed the room and bent to give the other woman an awkward hug.

Soft lips brushed her cheek. “Good luck, my dear.”

Mehcredi straightened. “Tell the others I said good-bye . . . and thanks.”

“I will.” Rose settled back into the pillows. “The Sister keep you until we meet again.”

“And you.” A last look and Mehcredi closed the door softly behind her. Padding down the stairs, her head high, she went to meet her destiny.

 

FIVE MONTHS LATER

 

Walker reined his mount on the final approach to Holdercroft, something in him easing as he gazed across the open fields, golden with grain, to the village basking in the sun. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart, a gesture that had become habitual. Idly, he wondered if the child would have a Shar’s black hair and eyes. But truly, it hardly mattered. His lips softened into an almost-smile. A new life to be celebrated, a new Song to be sung.

He nudged the horse with his heels, imagining Amae’s face when he rode in, three weeks early. He hadn’t been able to wait. ’Cestors’ bones, he wouldn’t miss the arrival of his nephew—or his niece—for the world. To be honest, he felt better today than at any time since the winter morning he’d stood at a tavern window and watched Mehcredi ride away into an icy dawn, out of his life. No, he had better things to think of than his assassin.

He snorted. And hadn’t he told himself that a thousand, a hundred thousand, times? She lived. In fact, as far as he could tell from the distant glow of the soul-link, she thrived. Which was exactly what he’d intended when he’d made the bargain with his gods. Resolutely, he wrenched his thoughts away from visions of Mehcredi in another man’s arms. He could never see the fellow’s face, but he was young and tall and strong, and he’d better love her the way she deserved or—

Shit, not again!

Swearing under his breath, he dropped his hand from the sore spot on his chest. He knew full well there was nothing wrong with him physically. Only last week, he’d taken on Dai and Pounder together in an exhibition bout for his students and thrashed them both. On Yachi’s recommendation, the queen had retained him to run advanced training for her guards. His House of Swords was turning a tidy profit.

His Magick was stronger than ever, honed by duels with Erik and Cenda, while Deiter looked on and swigged from a jug and barked instructions. A drunk he might be, but Walker had to admit the old bastard knew his stuff. Slowly, he was welding them into a unit, even devising strategies to include Gray’s shadow sorcery and Prue’s weird nullifying effect. Walker rolled his shoulders, feeling testy. Prue’s non-Magick worked, but he didn’t have to enjoy the sensations. A pity, because he was very fond of the little null witch. She had guts, Prue.

Gray had a background as a mercenary. He was ambidextrous, deadly with a short sword, plenty of potential there. Erik, on the other hand—Walker shook his head, his braids swinging. Fortunately, the big man was purely murderous with a quarterstaff and bruising with his fists.

Who’d have thought it? He was part of a godsbedamned
team
.

He wished the Necromancer joy of the icebergs. The Quintus had been nothing if not efficient. Every month, the Technomage sent Deiter reports inscribed on sheets of transplas. During the winter freeze, the djinn had slowly coalesced, repairing itself piece by piece. But after reading the most recent report, Deiter had thrown the transplas at the wall and gone on a week’s bender. The djinn had vanished. The Technomages could find no trace of it, yet there had been no attacks, not even on Lonefell.

For a moment, Walker allowed himself the luxury of brooding. One day, if he accepted he was one of the
Sides
of Deiter’s godsbedamned Pentacle—one day, he’d watch the Necromancer die, an inch at a time. In the process he’d destroy the man’s demon.
Xotclic
. It was worthy work, and as near as he could come to completing his vengeance.

Ch’qui
rolled off the waving expanse of grain in almost tangible waves. Walker lifted his face, breathing it in, letting the rage flow through him and away with a warrior’s discipline. Pity he couldn’t do as well with soothing the nagging ache. If it hadn’t been for his garden, he would have lost his mind, he was sure of it. The emptiness, the godsbedamned misery wasn’t acute—like a lump of cold dead flesh weighing him down—but it was constant, exacerbated by the fucking soul-link. He missed her, lovelorn as a boy with his first girl, that’s all there was to it. Knowing he was being stupid, that he shouldn’t need her, that what he’d done was necessary and right—none of it made any difference.

Every night, he woke from dreams of her. The darkly erotic ones were bad enough—her strong creamy body wrapped around him, her legs high on his hips, her throaty voice urging him on as he drove into wet satin heat, harder and harder, striving to bury himself inside her, make them one, indivisible. Gods, the ecstatic rush as his balls clenched and he spurted. She’d cry out, throwing her head back to expose the long beautiful line of her throat. And then he’d wake, sticky and disorientated, the cold jolt of disappointment as fresh the hundredth time as it was the first.

But the nightmares stripped all the courage from him. They drove him insane. In them, she was trapped, helpless and he couldn’t find her, couldn’t reach her, only hear her cries of agony, her hopeless sobs as she called his name, over and over and over . . .

Working in his garden helped—a little. And the
nea-kata
, but that was all. He set his teeth, breathed deep—and discovered he was rubbing his chest again. He’d never been a vain man, but he could no longer bear to meet his own eyes in a mirror. He looked . . . ill, haunted.’Cestors be thanked, he didn’t need to shave more than once a week, if that.

Lifting his face to the gentle breeze, he gazed out at the distant blue of the mountains. Ged, the second-largest city in the Queendom lay beyond the range. Like John, the younger Lammas brothers were tall, dark and well set up. Either of them would be a good match for her, Zem sunny and outgoing, Topher more reserved. Which had she chosen? Neither? Both? Of course, the pickings would be better in Ged, plenty of—

Grinding his teeth, he clattered into the market square of Holdercroft and headed for the tavern.

Rhio came forward from behind the bar. “Walker!” He grinned, pounding Walker on the back.

“How’s Amae?” asked Walker, sidestepping.

“Fine.” If anything, the grin widened. “Go on back and surprise her. She’s in the parlor.”

She was sitting in the big chair, smiling down at a little bundle wrapped in a light blanket. As he watched, the bundle heaved, squeaking like an angry kitten. A tiny pink fist waved, the fingers spread wide like an open flower.

Walker’s mouth fell open.

“Welderyn!” Joy lit Amae’s face. She leaned forward, stretching out a hand. “What are you doing here? We only sent the letter yesterday.”

“I left early. Thought I’d get here in plenty of time,” he said stupidly. “But you’ve had . . . it? The baby?”

Amae folded back the blanket to reveal a small pink face crowned with an absurd tuft of black hair. “Her,” she said. “Your niece is nothing if not impatient.”

Walker fell to his knees beside the chair. “Gods, is she all right? She’s so small.” The baby’s whole head was about the size of his fist. With a shaking hand, he touched her cheek. Immediately, she turned, seeking, the rosebud mouth opening wide. The thin insistent squalls started up again.

“She’s healthy?” Sudden terror seized him. “Amae, what about you? Was it very bad?”

“Oh, yes,” said his sister serenely. “But I had people to help me.” She looked up. “And Rhio was very brave. Weren’t you,
carazadi
?”

Rhio smiled tiredly from the doorway. “Aye, love, that I was. Didn’t pass out once.” He walked forward. “She’s beautiful,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest lightly on Amae’s dark head and Walker couldn’t be sure if he referred to either or both of his females.

Awed, Walker stared down at the fussing baby. His eyes stung. A miracle, a true gift of the gods. “Can I see?” Gingerly, he parted the blanket.

The infant grasped his forefinger with surprising strength and the mewling trailed off into silence. Slate dark eyes locked on his, the baby’s brow creasing with an expression of fierce concentration as if the secrets of the world were graven on his features. Walker froze.

The
ch’qui
coursed through his finger and up his arm, tingling beneath the skin, but nothing like the powerful surge he was used to. Instead, it scampered, like the lightest of footsteps, joyous and carefree. Trapped in the baby’s cloudy purposeful gaze, Walker’s breath hitched.

“What’s her name?” he heard himself ask, as if from very far away.

“We thought . . . Gwin,” said Amae, her voice cracking. It had been their mother’s name. “Gwin’d’haraleen’t’Rhiomard’t’Lenquisquilirian.”

“Yes,” he said absently.
Welcome to the world, little one,
he thought.
When the time is right, come to me and I will teach you all you need to know of the Magick the gods have given you.

Gwin blinked, her mouth opening on a heartbreaking wail. Released, Walker sat back on his heels.

Amae put the baby to the breast, hissing as Gwin fastened on and began to suck. “She might have come early,” she said through gritted teeth, “but she’s as fierce as any warrior.” Gradually, she relaxed. “Perfect.”

“You look a bit rattled,” said Rhio. “Want a drink?”

When Walker shook his head, Amae chuckled. “Go talk to the cedderwood in the garden, brother mine,” she said. “That should put you to rights.”

“Amae, do you think—?” Rhio broke off, frowning.

“It’s a beautiful day,” said Amae firmly. “Go on, Welderyn. At least until your room is ready.”

A few moments of solitude sounded good. “I’ll start on Gwin’s Song.” He touched Rhio’s shoulder as he passed. “Congratulations, my brother. You’re a lucky man.”

Walker brushed by before Rhio could collect himself sufficiently to respond. Stepping out of the tavern’s back door, he took a deep breath of sweet summer-scented air. Amae was right, the cedderwood was a magnificent specimen, so ancient its gnarled trunk was broader than his arms’ span.

A little dog trotted out from behind the stable and lifted its leg against a ticklewhisker bush.

The soul-link burst into life, filling his chest with delightful warmth. Walker stopped dead. No, it couldn’t be—But the aching void he’d carried all the long lonely months was gone as if it had never been. Every nerve and cell tingled with the return of sensation, painful and wonderful all at once.

“W-Walker?”

Mehcredi stepped out from behind the cedderwood. The shaft of longing was so piercing, it nearly doubled him up. Grimly, he held himself steady, trying not to stare. Gods, she’d grown into herself, into her true beauty, settled in her skin like a warrior goddess. She wore the familiar shirt and trews, a short sword at her hip, but her hair fell in soft platinum waves almost to her shoulders and her ivory skin was flushed gold from the sun. As she walked slowly toward him, every muscle in that strong female body moved with the supple prowling grace only bestowed by perfect health.

She was Shiloh in the desert and he was thirsty unto death.

“Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian,” she said in perfect Shar. She tilted her head, her silver eyes steady on his. “You swore you would not run,
carazadi
.”

Walker wet his lips. “What are you doing here?”
Carazadi?
His brain spun. “Shar? You speak Shar now?”

Mehcredi favored him with a sunny smile, though her lips trembled with the effort. “I came back from Ged with the Lammas boys. It’s been months now. And Amae taught me a few words.”

He couldn’t drag his eyes from the carnal glory of that lower lip, so pink and plump. He wanted to take it gently in his teeth, worry at it and kiss it better.

“Why?”

“I knew you would come,” she said simply.

A strand of hair blew into his eye and he pushed it back with an impatient hand. “Godsdammit, you were supposed to learn, to grow.”

Mehcredi’s chin went up. “I’ve been working with Ma Griddle.” Her face blazed with excitement and pride. “She’s the healer here—and the apothecary too, because Holdercroft’s only a village after all—and she says I’m doing very well, especially with the potions. I can read and write now—well, a little. Enough for the labels anyway, which is good because you have to be so careful not to—”

“
Mehcredi
.” Walker gripped his fists together behind his back lest he grab her and shake the answers loose. “A man.” He gritted his teeth. “Did you find a decent man?”