VirtualHeaven (9 page)

Sputtering and choking, Maggie clawed her way to the surface.
She rose in water to her shoulders and screamed, “How dare you? How dare—”

“The venom. Your face.” Kered waded in next to her, uncaring
of his splendid attire. He rubbed her cheeks and neck with his hands.
“Blisters. Can you not feel them?”

In truth, Maggie now felt a burn where before she had felt
only itching. “Is it bad?” she asked, peering up into his face. Anxiety was all
she saw.

“Aye.” He rubbed her arms. “Down.” He put a hand onto the
top of her head and pushed.

Maggie sucked in air just before the water closed about her
head. She opened her eyes and peered about. The clear water soothed her itchy
skin, but one glance showed her a muddy bottom being churned by their feet.
Soon nothing would be visible.

“Stand still,” Maggie ordered when she surfaced. “You’re
stirring up the bottom. How will we find the sword? If it’s rusty, it’ll blend
into the mud.”

“Rusty? Ruhtra’s sword will not be rusty!” Kered bellowed as
he continued to rub at Maggie’s arms and shoulders.

He was getting far too much enjoyment from the activity,
Maggie thought. She slapped his hands away. “I’m fine.” She waded very slowly
to the water’s edge. “Oh, damn, I lost a boot!”

Kered leaned over and swept the muddy bottom with his hand
and came up with something that looked like drowned kitten.

“My gun,” Maggie wailed, stomping like a peg-legged pirate
in her one boot. She shook the water off the gun’s barrel, looking hopelessly
around for something to dry it. “Maybe the water cleaned out the slime.” She
took aim and pressed the red button. A perfectly round hole appeared in a
treetop, leaving a green doughnut shape behind. “At least something good came
from this,” she called over her shoulder. Kered’s heated expression made her
look down.

Her black dress might have been dusty and smelly before, but
now it was hopelessly stained—and plastered to her body. Streaks of slime had
bleached the color from it in long, wide stripes and splatters. Her hand groped
into the neckline, then she sighed with relief. Her pendant still hung between
her breasts, protected and safe.

Kered waded ashore and opened his pack. He knelt by the pool
and made a paste in his palm, then approached her warily. Their tantalizing
kiss had rendered all conversation stilted, at best. If Maggie’s stomping and
muttering were any indication of her mood, he feared she might take aim with
her gun and make a hole in his middle.

He urged her to the water’s edge. Gently, he dotted the
healing gray paste on the blisters on her cheeks and upper arms. His throat
burned. Her skin might be ruined, permanently scarred by the dragon’s venom. He
was not sensitive to the caustic liquid, but he had seen the ugly scars on
those who were. Should he tell her the sores might rot and eat away at her
cheeks, burrowing like living worms? No. He could not tell her. He tipped up
her chin, carefully covering each blister, hoping he was in time to save her
beauty from sure ruin.

“Your gown must come off.” Kered walked behind her and
one-handedly plucked open the buttons on her gown. Only a few were done; she’d
fastened them herself and many were out of her reach.

“Off? Are you nuts?” Maggie whipped about, her hands clasped
protectively to her breasts.

“Nuts? What do nuts have to do with… It matters not. If I do
not treat your blisters, they will suppurate.”

Maggie looked at her hands. “Why should I take off my
dress?”

“We must see if the slime went through.” Maggie shook her
head at him. “‘Tis false modesty to stand and hide yourself when as we wait,
the slime could be doing damage—permanent damage.” Kered wanted to rip the
dress from her. He imagined the spreading blisters all too well to wait more
than another moment.

She flushed red, with gray polka dots, and obliged. Bending,
she lifted the dress over her head and dropped it.

Kered watched her spread her hands to shelter her breasts
from his view. He tried to maintain the proper seventh level of control. He
almost succeeded in keeping his blood in the right place—almost. Dabbing the
gray paste on her neck and chest was not too bad. But when Maggie lowered her
fingers, keeping the tips over her nipples, his hand began to shake and his
blood rebelled and took the shortest path to its favorite place.

The slime had seeped through the thin fabric of her gown.
Long swaths of blisters trailed along the inside of her breasts—sweet, small
breasts with ripe, rosy nipples. He gulped and kept dabbing on the paste. His
blood raced and flooded through him. Stealing a glance at Maggie’s face, he
relaxed. Her eyes were closed as tight as a sealed cask of gold. She could not
see his difficulty. He peeled up one of her fingertips and soothed the salve
along a nasty blister.

One touch. He slicked his fingertip with the healing herbal
and swept it along the rise of her breast and under to the warm crease formed
by the slight swell of her breast. He lingered there, stroking her. If he
thought her nipples taut before, now they swelled like small berries, succulent
and full. He wanted to taste the fruit, but his desires had not slipped
entirely out of control. He smoothed the salve in long sweeps down her stomach
and thighs, then hesitated. “This undergarment? Is it made of more sturdy stuff
than the gown?”

Maggie did not open her eyes. She squeezed them even tighter
and flushed. “It’s cotton, kinda old and not too sturdy, I’m afraid.”

“Take it off.”

Maggie’s hands shook. She opened her eyes. Kered had half turned
to the pool. She slipped her panties down her legs a few inches and saw that
the skin beneath them was smooth and unblemished. She quickly tugged the
panties up. “I’m fine. Nothing got through both layers.”

Maggie watched him wade into the pool to his waist. He stood
in the cold water for a few minutes, hands on hips, staring across the expanse
of silver-slick water. The sky, suffusing to a light lavender, reflected in an
iridescent gleam across the water.

She groped at her feet for her dress.

“Do not touch the gown,” he ordered. Maggie snatched her
hands back. “Take my other shirt, in my pack.”

Maggie nodded to his back and flew to the horse. She groped
in the pack and drew out his crumpled shirt. Its scratchy, woolly surface would
chafe her skin and set her to sweating, but it reached past her calves,
offering complete concealment.

Kered left the water, pacing in long strides to her side. He
unstrapped his fur-lined cloak from beneath his pack and, using his knife,
sliced another strip from the hem. He neatly folded the cloak, then approached
her.

“To bind the shirt.” His hands were gentle as he reached
about her waist and wrapped the strip of cloth twice around her, knotting it
loosely. “The herbal will cling to the blisters until you bathe it off.”
Turning away, he lifted up her dress and inspected the damage, then whirled to
face her.

“Seven,” he growled.

“Seven?” Maggie repeated.

“Aye. Where once there were eight buttons, now there are
seven. ‘Tis unlucky.” He said it as if she were to blame for their troubles.

“I-I suppose I lost one somewhere. What difference will it
make?’’ She knew by his expression that this was important.

“Do you believe in omens?’’ He folded the gown into squares.

She considered her time on the Navajo reservation visiting
her grandmother. Although Maggie was only one-quarter Navajo, she had been
taught to respect the ideologies of all peoples. There were mysteries and
meanings unexplained in every religion.

“Yes, I do.” Maggie said it simply and sincerely.

“Seven is considered a dark numeral. There are eight
chiefdoms. If one rebels, there is war. You wear a pendant with the image found
on the sacred sword. It has eight strands for the eight heavenly bodies
circling our sun. Your gown was fastened with eight buttons. Surely you see?”

“I see that this is important to you. One button is gone.
How will that change what we are doing here?”

“I do not know.” He sighed. “I am weary. Perhaps I am unduly
concerned.” He shrugged and went to unsaddle Windsong, throwing the saddle and
bridle over the branch of a low-spreading tree, whose leaves reminded Maggie of
a sugar maple. He tethered the horse to graze on the tough, short grass
surrounding them.

“What are you going to wear?” Maggie nodded at his
squelching boots and dripping garments.

“I will dry my clothes by the fire.”

With a lithe motion, he stripped his shirt off and flung it
over a tree branch. Maggie stared, then groaned and spun away when he edged his
trousers down his hips. A bolt of sheer lust ran through her. She heard him
laugh as she marched to the edge of the pool to cool her thoughts.

After several moments he called out to her. “You may look,
little slave.”

She sneaked a peek over her shoulder. He had donned the worn
breeches from his trek to Hart Fell. His feet were bare and he was shaking
drops of water from his boots. Maggie edged near. “Aren’t you cold?”

He looked up and grinned, shaking his head and sending his
long hair tumbling about his shoulders. Back to mangy.

Maggie wondered how she was going to sit across from all
that naked flesh when he swept his blue cloak over his shoulders. She slumped
to the ground in relief. If he remained decently covered, she might be able to
think—might. But he didn’t remain sitting.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he shouldered his pack.

“I will hunt. Fresh meat will aid in your healing.”

Maggie watched him stride away to the gently rolling hills
covered in rough gorse. Tiny yellow flowers, like miniature daisies, clustered
near at hand. Maggie plucked several and began a daisy chain to still her
apprehension at being left alone.

When Kered returned a scant hour later, with several animals
strung on a cord, Maggie tried to contain her relief. She hopped to her feet
and grinned. “What did you find?” Her smile died. Hanging from the cord were
three cute, plump creatures. They had blue spines and Maggie knew instantly
where the bristles in Kered’s brush came from.

Despite growing up in a family of dedicated hunters, the
death of any animal bothered Maggie. With ill-concealed distaste, she watched
Kered slit the animals up the belly and in smooth, practiced strokes, separate
the hide from the animal.

Kered chattered as he worked. “The blue-Goh is a delicacy and
hard to trap, for they like to curl in a ball and hide in the brush. I am quite
proficient with the snare; thus you will dine well.”

“I wouldn’t brag, if I were you, about trapping some poor
defenseless animal,” Maggie protested.

Kered threw back his head and laughed. “Eat or not. Suit
yourself.” He tended his catch, spitting it and roasting it over the fire he
had built.

Maggie had to admit her mouth was watering by the time he
lifted the meat from the flames.

“A taste?” He tore a limb from the blue-Goh and held it out.

Maggie took it. It felt greasy and hot, but she blew on it
and tentatively took a small bite. “Delicious, I must admit.” They ate in
companionable silence.

When the meal was finished, they sat staring out at the
Sacred Pool. The sky darkened as the Tolemac sun briefly hid behind the clouds.
“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Ancient legend tells a tale that, until my visit to
Nilrem’s mountain, I had discounted as unworthy of a warrior’s notice.”

“Warriors being practical men who have no time for
stories?’’

“Aye.” He grinned, then sobered. “It is told in legend that
Leoh’s grandfather threw his sword into this pool.”

“Why do you refer to him as
Leoh’s
grandfather. Isn’t
he your ancestor, too?”

“I am not Leoh’s true son. He found me, an abandoned child,
and raised me as his own. But we wander from the legend. Leoh’s grandfather had
grown weary of war, was disillusioned—’’

“As are you,” Maggie interrupted.

“Aye. As am I.” He stoked the fire to a roaring
conflagration, then sat cross-legged. “I am weary of many things, but one may
not lay down one’s burden because one is fatigued.”

“I understand.” Maggie moved next to him and placed her hand
on his long, lean thigh. “You still haven’t answered my question. How do we get
the sword?” He pressed his warm hand over hers.

“‘Tis said in legend that Ruhtra threw his sword into this
sacred pool, proclaiming that he who bore the ancient mark, and only he, could
reclaim the sword and with it, Ruhtra’s might. Many have tried to call the
sword—and failed.”

“I heard Nilrem say you had this sign. What is it exactly?’’

Kered looked off across the water. Slowly, he opened his
cloak. Maggie leaned forward to see better. He hesitated, then touched his
chest. There, camouflaged by the dark hair, was the faint birthmark she had
noticed before.

“The sacred eight,” he said.

Maggie reached out and touched the mark—the mark of
infinity. No, her father would call it a lazy eight, a great brand for cattle.
She thought of what Kered had said about the number of her buttons and the
strands she’d soldered into her pendant.

His skin was otherwise flawless; all marks of his wounds had
healed so quickly. The air between them became charged with something unspoken.
Lightly, she traced the small birthmark. Her fingers strayed to explore the
crisp hair that concealed it. When his chest muscles flexed beneath her
fingers, she snatched them away and curled them into a fist in her lap. “How
will you be different than the others?”

He pulled the cloak across his massive chest, donning at the
same time a cloak of distance. “I know of no other who has this mark. The
legend also states that the man must be worthy. When the time comes, I will be
judged, just as the others were.”