VirtualDesire (20 page)

“
You
would do it?” Vad asked, his head cocked to the
side. “You would risk yourself for women you have never met over a matter not
of your world?”

No mention of trust. The tightness in her chest loosened.

“Evil’s evil. This Narfrom is a serious threat to those
girls. This is no game.”

No game
. Had she really said that?

Vad was not content until they had made minutely detailed
plans. He wanted every step gone over, each person��s role choreographed and
memorized.

“And I bring the little girl here as soon as I’ve emptied
the potion,” Gwen said.

“‘Tis likely someone will see you, associate you with the
illness, and set up a hue and cry, but it will not matter. We will be long gone
by then.”

“I had thought to go as I am now.” He indicated his Tolemac
garb. ‘The maidens will recognize the colors and know someone has come to their
aid, but I think I can move about more boldly if I garb myself in Selaw gear.”

“Your boots will give you away.” Ardra pointed to the high
black boots lying by the fire.

“I will go barefoot and be the quieter for it.”

“Let me fix your hair before I go.” Gwen placed the heavy
satchel on the ground. At Vad’s curious look, she added, “You want to be able
to devastate them in one glance, don’t you? Well, shave and let me braid it
again; then you’ll knock them dead.”

He knelt and surrendered himself to her ministrations. “I am
understanding you better each day. You do not really wish them dead.” She
smiled down at him and winked. “This understanding I am acquiring,” he
continued, “it frightens me more than facing a legion of un-mated women.”

“Shut up,” she said softly, and gave her attention to his
hair. It really didn’t need to be braided. Clean and shiny, it was just fine
falling down his back. And she regretted the offer the instant she touched him.
It was better to appear untouched by his words, his rejection. It was better
for her insides, her heart.

As the silk of his hair slipped through her fingers, she
suffered from the proximity to him. She fumbled with the braids. The heat of
his body reminded her of his embrace. The slow pulse at his throat drew her
eyes. What had ever possessed her to think he would want
her
? she asked
herself. Were his stories of vows just to soften the blow? To let her down
gently? Make her think it was not just her ordinariness that made him refuse
her?

She finished as quickly as she could in order to be away
from him. The task of delivering the concoction was now upon her. Her stomach
danced. With a last wistful look back at Vad, she followed Ardra. Nestled in
her arms was the leather pack, now heavy with the pottery bottles filled with
Vad’s potion.

“I wish you would tell me how to get back to him,” Gwen
said.

“I cannot,” Ardra said, her hand going immediately to her
pendant and clutching it in a tight fist.

So Vad might be willing to trust her, but Ardra certainly
was not. Perhaps her feeling of dread was misplaced. Vad looked healthy enough
despite the color of his turquoise. She forced herself to put her concern
aside. She had a job to do.

Ardra opened a door. Music from a stringed instrument could
be heard in the distance. Gwen couldn’t have found the kitchen again if her
life depended on it. That thought frightened her silly.

The mournful sound of stringed instruments grew louder the
farther along the final corridor they walked. Ardra whispered at her ear, “If
something happens…wait by these steps.” She indicated a spiral staircase like
one found in an old castle, complete with worn treads and dangling webs. Gwen
shuddered as they climbed up and up, expecting at any time to meet a warrior
with a sword on the way down. “I will bring Vad here as soon as the first
symptoms of the potion occur,” Ardra continued.

“Okay.” Gwen’s heart beat faster when Ardra pressed a finger
to her lips and then peeked through a tiny hole in a heavy woolen tapestry that
covered an arch at the top of the steps. With a silent gesture, they slipped
past it.

“Oh.” Gwen almost gasped aloud. They were in a huge stone
hall. Banners of amber and black hung from smoke-stained wooden beams. A
hearth, as tall as a man and wide enough to hold a Sequoia log, dominated one
end. Here and there along the long side walls were arches like the
tapestry-covered one they’d just come through. Some were entrances to alcoves with
covered benches; others were draped with tapestries. A theme of ice and snow
dominated the beautiful stitchery. From her courses in college she could tell
that some were ancient, others fairly new, but all were the work of years of
diligence.

But gorgeous as the lush tapestries were, the atmosphere was
funereal. Despite the long tables draped with white linen, the gleaming silver
goblets and plate at each place, the faces of the serving women and men were
long.

“Remain near. I will ask my father when the wine will be
served.”

Gwen nodded and almost called Ardra back. She felt so alone,
so near to danger. Whatever had possessed her to offer to dump the potion in
the wine? Had she offered unselfishly or because she wanted to win Vad’s
approval?

And why was his approval so important? He wanted a Tolemac
woman with a biblical number of “begats” behind her name. An Ocean City widow
hadn’t a chance.

A tug on her tunic made her look down. The gods are smiling
on me, she thought as she looked into a grubby face surrounded by a tangle of
golden hair. “Well, hello there,” Gwen said to the youngest of the maidens.

“You have strange hair.” The child’s gaze took in the top of
Gwen’s head.

“Oh? At least mine is clean and neat. Would you like me to
tidy yours?”

“Men do not tidy hair!” The childish peal of laughter rang
through the silent rooms.

Whoops
. She had forgotten her male attire. “The women
appear to be very busy; ‘tis why I offered,” she said as an excuse.

“Silly man,” the little girl said. Gwen glanced quickly around
to see who might be watching them. Only a few serving women now moved about the
tables, adjusting cutlery. They paid no heed to Gwen and the girl. Gwen needed
to hide the bottles of potion. The little girl complicated the effort. She also
prattled constantly.

“Where are we going?” she asked when Gwen hurried lo a
storeroom that Ardra’s map had indicated held stored apples. Trying to maintain
an attitude of purposefulness, she placed the basket on a shelf and rearranged
a few others to conceal it. She polished an apple and offered it to the child.

“I have work to do now. Come along if you like, but do not
talk so much. Have you no one to see you are garbed in a clean gown?”

“I am clean!” the child said, spitting half-chewed apple in
all directions as she spoke. “You are impertinent. I shall have you whipped!”

Great. An imperious brat
. “No, you will look at the
front of your gown and see that I am quite correct. Come. When my work is done,
I will help you wash up.”

Without another word, Gwen hooked the little girl’s hand and
hurried her to the alcove through which Ardra had disappeared.

There was little excuse to linger in the great hall, but
linger she must until Ardra returned. Gwen imagined being caught. Would Narfrom
demand she be tossed over the fortress walls, a rope around her neck as
punishment, just as he had the serving boy?

She heard strident male voices raised in argument. Before
she could duck her head, two men tossed aside a tapestry and strode into the
hall. They wore long robes cinched about the waist with belts embroidered with
Celtic knotwork in gold and silver. One man’s robes were the rich green of
spring grass, his hair a loose silvery white mane about his shoulders. The
other man’s robe was as golden as his amber eyes. His singularly ugly face was
framed by thinning blond hair held back in a wispy ponytail.

“Gwen Marlowe!” the ugly man said, his eyes wide upon her.

“Gary…Gary Morfran,” Gwen said, her heart kicking into
overdrive.

A vicious, angry expression crossed the man’s face. “What
the bloody hell are you doing here?” He took Gwen’s arm, shoved the child away,
and dragged Gwen though the alcove and up a set of steep steps. His grip was
iron hard, his breath harsh and hot on her neck. “Say my name again and I’ll
slit your throat.”

The older man followed them, sputtering questions in their
wake. Gary whipped a door open and threw Gwen in. She fell to her knees.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she recognized the name?

Narfrom.

Morfran
. A knight of King Arthur’s court, another
survivor of Arthur’s final battle. Why hadn’t she made the connection between
the names as quickly as she had with Vad’s?

“It appears we have caught an interloper,” Narfrom said to
the older man.

Gwen sat back on her heels, dazed, her hands and knees
smarting.

Gary Morfran of her world—Narfrom in this—stood before the
older man who was clearly Ardra’s father. Ruonail looked much like his
daughter, though his hair was white. In the harsher light of this chamber, she
could see his amber eyes were dull, and his skin paper thin and dry.

Narfrom, in contrast, looked in peak condition. He was not
as tall as the Tolemac or Selaw men, but radiated an uncanny power that was
almost tangible. He wore the heavy robes of a man of wealth, and Gwen had no
doubt that under his sleeve she’d find arm rings— false ones, put there to
deceive.

“This is a woman, you say?” Ruonail came close to her and
inspected her from head to toe.

Wordlessly Narfrom grabbed Gwen by the collar with one hand
and ripped open the front of her tunic with the other. He groped at the tight
wrappings over her breasts and tore them loose. Gwen could only twist in his
grasp. Screaming was not an option. The stranglehold on her collar guaranteed
she had no air to breathe, let alone speak.

“Aye,” Ruonail said softly. He raised a hand and gripped
Gwen’s chin to inspect her face. “A woman. It is there for all to see, should
they look.”

Narfrom transferred his hold to her upper arms. The cold air
of the chamber tightened her nipples. There was no greater feeling of
vulnerability than being half-naked before two threatening men.

“Why are you masquerading as a man in my fortress?” Ruonail
asked, his eyes sweeping her form.

She clamped her teeth on her lips. What could she possibly
say?

Ruonail’s fingers tightened. He tipped her face up.
“Narfrom, can you persuade this woman to give an accounting of herself? This
bodes ill for our plans.”

“Nothing will happen to our plans,” Narfrom said to Ruonail.
“Come with me,” Narfrom said by her ear, and jerked her half off her feet.

“Don’t do this,” she cried.

Ruonail whipped around, his rich green robes swirling about
him. “She speaks as you were once wont to do. Is she one of your people? Is she
party to your secrets?”

“Aye, she is of my people, but an outcast, a pleasure slave
who gave little pleasure, I would imagine.” He wrapped his arm about her neck,
cutting off her air supply again and any protest she might lodge. “I will soon
have her story out of her.”

She opened her mouth to scream; only a croak came out.
Narfrom did not give Ruonail any further chance to speak, nor Gwen for that
matter. He dragged her from the chamber. A few steps along the corridor, he
opened a door, struggling a moment with her as she tried desperately to break
his hard grip. She kicked back on his shins and scraped her nails along his
hands.

Narfrom swore and flung her to the floor. In but another
moment, he snapped an iron manacle on her wrist.

“Sit up.” He pulled her up by her torn tunic. The chamber
was small and bare save for the bed—and two iron manacles attached by chains to
the wall behind it.

One was already in use around her wrist; the other was
wrapped around the wrist of a wide-eyed girl. Her bright blue eyes were
close-set beneath unruly blonde brows. Her long hair was so tightly braided it
made Gwen wince anew just to look at her.

“Let me go.” Gwen twisted in his grip. She fought him, but
he was strong. One backhanded slap and she fell across the bed.

Narfrom stood up and straightened his long robes. “Get in
the corner,” he ordered the girl, pointing. She scrambled off the bed and
crouched in the dimly lit corner at the limits of her chain. He leaned over
Gwen’s body and jammed a hand beneath her chin, stretching her neck, leaning
his palm on her throat.

She clawed at his hand, but he merely grinned. When she fell
still, he eased his hold. “Now tell me how you got here.”

“Through the game booth.”

He nodded. “Did you come alone?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known how to travel here?”

“I didn’t know. It was an accident.” She studied his face.
“You’re wearing contacts, aren’t you? You’ve dyed your hair, too.”

He grinned. “I’m the perfect Selaw seer, am I not?”

“Is that what your costume indicates? You’re a seer? What
are you predicting? The end of their world?”

His laughter rang through the room. “My, we are irritable,
aren’t we?” He spread a hand over her breast. She froze. “Now that shut you up,
didn’t it?” Slowly he slid his hand from her breast to her throat, wrapping his
hand around it. “I could kill you and no one would care. Life is cheap here,
and I find that concept quite exhilarating.”

“You’re sick.”

His words frightened her less than the cold, reptilian
expression on his face—one she remembered well. The last time she’d seen Gary
Morfran, it had been at a virtual reality seminar in London. He’d been wearing
a Seville Row suit and accepting an award for the many advances he’d made to
the business with his
Tolemac Wars
hardware.

He was the premier hardware engineer in the business. They’d
spoken for over an hour at the dinner afterward, discussing the future of
Tolemac
Wars
. Now she understood his curiosity when she’d said she knew the game’s
creator. Of course Gary Morfran would want to know all he could about the man
who’d drawn this world.

Morfran was an unattractive man—not an ugliness of features,
but of expression. He’d given her the shivers then, and he gave her the shivers
now.