Warrior's Lady Page 8

  For several minutes, Jarrett lay where he’d fallen. A mist of blackness hovered around him, calling to him with a promise of eternal peace and rest, but he shook it off, clinging to the pain that spiraled though him even as he clung to Leyla.

  Gradually the worst of the pain subsided. With a grimace, he sat up, cradling Leyla in his arms. He sat there for a long while, gathering his strength, accepting the pain, and then, summoning all his energy, he stood up.

  “Leyla?” He shook her slightly. “Leyla?”

  Her eyelids flickered open. Closed again.

  “Leyla! I need your help.”

  She nodded, too weary to speak.

  “The dragon, Leyla. How do we get past the dragon?”

  “You must…speak…her name. Tell her…my name.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Dragora…three times. My name…” A violent shudder wracked her body. “Wait…white…smoke.” She shuddered and went still, her eyelids fluttering down to lay like dark fans against her pale cheeks.

  “Leyla!” His arms tightened around her as he bent to kiss her brow, praying that she wouldn’t die before he got her home, to the people who could help her. Her skin was dry and brittle, as hot as the dragon’s breath.

  Holding her close, he started walking up the steep slope, praying that she would live, praying for the strength to reach the top of the mountain before it was too late.

  Trees stood like black sentinels along the path. The air smelled of smoke and ash. He saw several blackened skeletons lying in a grotesque dance of death, the scorched carcass of a blue tiger, the charred remains of what looked like a horse.

  “Dragora!” He shouted the word.

  Twin tongues of flame arched heavenward trailing plumes of black smoke.

  “Dragora!”

  A thin finger of flame lanced through the air.

  “Dragora!”

  A low rumble sounded just ahead.

  “Leyla.”

  A white puff of smoke drifted toward him, the end curling upward like a beckoning finger.

  Jarrett brushed a kiss against Leyla’s cheek and then, resolutely, followed the blackened path to Dragora’s lair.

  There were no trees as he drew closer to the dragon’s cave, only rows of charred stumps.

  The dragon sat outside the cave, a great hulking, horned beast with glowing nostrils and bright-yellow eyes. Its scales were dark-green. The claws on its front feet were a foot long. Its tail swept back and forth, like a cat’s at a mouse hole. Each breath filled the air with warmth.

  “Dragora,” Jarrett murmured, his voice filled with awe.

  Slowly, the dragon nodded, its yellow eyes watching Jarrett’s every move.

  Jarrett waited, wondering if he’d be burned to ash, his soul sent to hell with one heated breath, and Leyla with him. No, he thought, Leyla’s soul would surely fly speedily toward heaven.

  And then the dragon stood up and moved to the side, revealing the entrance to its lair.

  Jarrett tightened his hold on Leyla. It took all the courage he possessed to walk toward the dark passage that led to the mountain stronghold of the Maje.

  He was conscious of the dragon watching him through sad yellow eyes as he closed the distance between them. Was it possible the beast knew of Leyla’s illness, that it felt sorrow?

  With a shake of his head, Jarrett put the fanciful thought from him, took a deep breath and took his first step into Dragora’s lair.

  The inside of the cave was rank with the dragon’s smell, with the odor of death and decay. Cautiously he picked his way across the scorched ground, stepping over bones and skulls and bits of charred fur.

  He was staggering with relief and fatigue by the time he reached the other end of the cave.

  For a moment he stood there, too weary to go a step farther.

  In the distance, a crystal geyser bubbled from the depths of a quiet blue pool. Tall trees shimmered and swayed in the moonlight, their golden leaves rustling softly in the early spring breeze. Giant blue ferns, blood-red midnight flowers and lacy peacock-blue willows swayed in the breeze, permeating the air with a heady fragrance.

  Beyond the pool rose a graceful building that seemed to be made of glass. A single light glowed like a beacon of welcome in one of the lower windows.

  Just a few more steps and he could rest. A few more steps…

  His arms felt like lead, his legs like reeds, as he made his way toward the light. Each breath sent daggers of pain through his side, and still he went on, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other, promising himself that he could surrender to the beckoning darkness as soon as Leyla was safe.

  But the darkness wouldn’t wait…

  Chapter Eleven

  He opened his eyes to darkness that was quiet and complete. For a moment, he thought he was back in the Pavilion. Stark fear clutched at his heart. And then he heard the sound of singing—a single clear voice rising in a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Removing the blanket from his face, he blinked against the rosy light filtering through a tall casement window. With a yawn, he sat up, glancing around the room. It was large and square, pale-yellow in color with an arched ceiling. The only furniture in the room other than the bed he occupied was a large throne-like chair and a small square table that held a crystal basin. There were windows in three of the walls and the fourth was covered with a large tapestry that depicted a raven-haired snow maiden astride a golden-horned stag.

  Jarrett swung his legs over the side of the bed, then paused. Frowning, he pressed a tentative hand over his ribs. There was no pain, no bruise.

  Someone had healed him while he was unconscious.

  They had also taken his clothing, leaving him nothing to wear but his whiskers.

  Rising, he went to the basin. It was filled with warm water. There was a large towel, a small square cloth, a long-handled razor and a cake of finely milled soap beside the basin.

  With a grunt of pleasure, Jarrett washed from head to foot and shaved off a two-day growth of beard. Wandering to the east window, he watched the sun give birth to a new day. And all the while, he thought of Leyla. Surely she had been healed as well. Was she nearby? Would he be allowed to see her before he left? The thought of never seeing her again filled him with a deep sense of loss.

  An emptiness in his belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for quite some time. Grabbing the sheet from the bed, he wrapped it around his waist and headed for the door, hoping that whoever had healed him would offer him something to eat.

  He was reaching for the knob, which appeared to be made of solid gold, when the door swung open.

  “Good morrow, my Lord Jarrett. Thee is well?”

  Jarrett nodded at the tall, fair-haired man.

  “First Meal will be ready soon if thee should care to join us.” The man handed Jarrett a dark-green robe made of soft silk. “The refectory is downstairs, to the left.”

  “My thanks,” Jarrett murmured.

  “Thee is welcome.” The man’s smile was pleasant. Serene.

  Jarrett stared after him for a moment, then slipped the robe over his head. It was long, the hem brushing the floor. The sleeves came to his elbows, and the neck was shaped like a V. It made him feel like a Gweneth monk.

  Stomach growling, he left the room and made his way down the stairs. He had no trouble finding the refectory—he just followed his nose.

  The room was long and narrow. The tables, also long and narrow, were covered with purple damask. The goblets were of gold, the plates of silver.

  The man who had come to Jarrett’s door rose from the head of the near table. “Welcome, Lord Jarrett.” He indicated a chair to his right. “Please, join us.”

  Feeling totally out of place, Jarrett moved to the offered chair and sat down. Immediately a girl dressed in muted shades of gray appeared at his side, a tray in her hands. With a smile, she filled his plate with something that might have been porridge, only it was thicker and smelled of wild berries and honey. Still
smiling, she lifted a pitcher of frothy goat’s milk and filled his goblet.

  Jarrett glanced at the man on his left, who said, “Please, eat.”

  Whatever it was, it was the best meal Jarrett had eaten in more than eight months.

  He ate in silence, noting that there was very little conversation at the tables and that there were no women in the room other than the serving maid.

  The girl brought three other courses and refilled his goblet twice. As he ate, the room gradually emptied, until only Jarrett and the fair-haired man remained.

  “Thee has done our people a great service,” the man remarked when Jarrett pushed away from the table. “We had thought Leyla forever lost to us.”

  “Is she well?”

  “Yes. Thy arrival was most timely.”

  Jarrett nodded, understanding what had been left unsaid. Had he delayed his journey, she would not have survived the night.

  “We are eager to repay thy kindness,” the man went on. “Only name thy reward, and it shall be thine.”

  Jarrett shook his head. “I don’t want anything, except perhaps a horse, if you’ve one to spare.” He smiled wryly. “One accustomed to dragons.”

  “To be sure.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Taking First Meal with her family. Unmarried men and women do not share a table except at Last Meal.”

  “I understand Leyla is betrothed.”

  “Yes.” A wide smile played over the Maje’s lips. “She is to be my wife.”

  So, this was Tor. Jarrett studied the man more closely. The Maje was tall, though not quite as tall as Jarrett, well-muscled. His skin was pale, but not sickly looking. His hair was thick and white, his eyes a deep dark-brown, filled with gentleness.

  A vague memory tugged at the corners of Jarrett’s mind. “It was you who healed me.”

  “Yes.”

  “My thanks.”

  Tor nodded. “Will thee stay with us long? I will make Leyla my wife when next the moons are full. It would do me great honor to have thee at our wedding.”

  A sharp pain ripped through Jarrett’s heart. Wedding! So soon? The time of the full moons was only a fortnight away.

  Tor regarded Jarrett for a moment. “Thee art a man of great courage, Lord Jarrett. Leyla has spoken of the Pavilion and what thee suffered at the hands of the Fen.”

  Jarrett grunted softly. He felt strangely betrayed that she had spoken of their time together to anyone else, especially to this man, whose clear brown eyes seemed able to divine the innermost secrets of his soul.

  “Great courage,” Tor repeated. “Many men would not have survived such an ordeal.”

  Jarrett shrugged. “I didn’t feel very courageous at the time.”

  The Maje smiled. “Courage takes many forms. For thee to leave here will no doubt take a great deal of fortitude.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Thee has strong feelings for Leyla.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  Tor shook his head.

  “Are you reading my mind against my will?”

  The Maje looked insulted. “Of course not. The feelings of thy heart are clearly revealed when thee speaks of her.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about. She told me all about you, how you’ve been betrothed since she was a young girl.”

  “Yes, I have always loved her.”

  Jarrett took a deep breath, released it in a long sigh, and then stood up. “My thanks, again, for your hospitality.”

  Tor rose to his feet in a fluid movement. “Please make our home thine. We ask only that thee does not enter the small chapel located in the west wing. It is considered hallowed ground.”

  Jarrett nodded. He started to ask where Leyla was, if he might see her, and then bit back the words. Seeing her again would only make it that much harder to leave.

  “May I tell Leyla that thee will honor us by attending our wedding?”

  Jarrett shoved his hands into the pockets of the robe and clenched his fists. He very much wanted to hate the man standing before him, but the Maje exuded such kindness, such concern, that it was impossible. To Jarrett’s dismay, what he really felt for the man was envy, not only because he was to marry Leyla, but because he was so clearly at peace with who and what he was.

  “Please stay and let us try to repay thy kindness,” Tor said, his voice filled with quiet dignity. He made a gesture that encompassed the crystal fortress and the lands beyond. “Surely thee would not mind spending a short time in this place? I think thee might find it to thy liking.”

  It would be an insult to refuse, Jarrett thought. And he had to admit he was intrigued by the place. As long as he was here, he might as well take advantage of it. To his knowledge, no outsider had ever been allowed into the fortress of the Maje. “I’d be honored to stay.”

  “If thee has need of anything, thee has only to ask. Second Meal will be served at midday, in this room.” Tor bowed. “Until then, Lord Jarrett.”

  No one bothered him as he strolled through the house. It was a place unlike any he had ever seen. The walls were of a kind of crystal. Light penetrated every room, picking up all the colors of the rainbow. The furniture was of polished ebony, the cushions of feather-soft velvet. The floors were like mirrored glass; the globes of the lamps were of hand-blown glass, the most delicate he had ever seen.

  The Maje greeted him politely, careful to keep their curiosity under control lest they offend him. The men were all tall, regal in their bearing, formal yet polite.

  The women, dressed in flowing robes of softsilk, were beautiful beyond description.

  Feeling like a thorn among roses, Jarrett left the house and made his way to a walled garden located near a small shrine housed beneath an arch of white stone.

  With a sigh, he dropped down on a wrought iron bench and closed his eyes. The mingled scents of spring flowers and earth rose all around him, their sweet fragrance soothing him somehow. Beyond the garden wall, he heard the sound of gentle laughter, and in the distance, the ringing of a bell.

  The Majeullian stronghold was like a monastery. Except for the presence of women, he might have been in Gweneth Abbey, surrounded by monks who thought only of service and sacrifice. For the first time in his life, he envied them. They had no time for worldly ambition. Their thoughts weren’t tormented by silver-haired goddesses who were out of reach or by blue eyes that captured a man’s heart and soul and haunted his dreams.

  Leyla. Her name whispered through his mind.

  When he opened his eyes, she was standing before him, a vision of femininity clothed in a robe of periwinkle-blue that made her look sensual and innocent at the same time.

  “Thee is well?” she asked.

  He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

  “May I?” She inclined her head toward the bench.

  Unable to think, unable to take his eyes from her face, he nodded again.

  “This is my favorite place.”

  She sat down beside him, obviously unaware of the effect her nearness had on him. He took a deep breath and her scent filled his nostrils, sweeter than the smell of the flowers.

  “Thee has met Tor?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was his touch that made thee whole again.”

  “I know.” Jarrett gazed into her eyes, aching to feel the touch of her hands upon him just once more.

  “We are to be married soon.”

  The words cut into his heart like Thai’s knife. “He told me.” Jarrett took a deep, calming breath. “I wish you both every happiness.”

  “I thank thee.” Her smile was as bright as the sunshine that warmed the garden. “My mother and father desire to meet thee. They have asked that thee would join us for Last Meal.”

  “All right.”

  “I will come for thee this evening.” She stood up, her smile warm as a summer day. “Until then, my Lord Jarrett.”

  “Until then,” he agreed. And knew he couldn’t stay for t
he wedding, knew it would kill him to stand by while she said the words that sealed her to another man.

  Chapter Twelve

  Leyla dressed with care that evening, choosing a full-skirted, gauze-like gown of crystal blue. She left her hair unbound, knowing Jarrett preferred it that way. Her only adornment was a ribbon that matched the color of her eyes.

  Because it was too early to go to dinner, she sat at her dressing table, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. It was good to be home. Her parents had welcomed her with tears and smiles, touching her both physically and mentally to make sure she was well. Tor had greeted her with his usual cool reserve, but she had seen the gladness that brightened his eyes when he drew her into his arms for a long hug of welcome.

  Today she had spent the afternoon with Tor, making plans for their wedding, telling him of her experiences in the Pavilion, making light of the hardships, the barbaric food, her imprisonment, assuring him that the Fen hadn’t molested her. She hadn’t told him of the nights she’d huddled in her dark cell, weeping in despair, fearing she would never see her family or her homeland again.

  Nor had she told him about the extra time she had spent in Jarrett’s cell after she had healed his wounds or how Jarrett’s presence had made her own captivity more bearable. She had felt an awful sense of guilt as she blocked her thoughts so Tor could not sense her true feelings for Jarrett, feelings she was reluctant to acknowledge.

  She looked at herself critically, wondering what Jarrett would think when he saw her. She had bathed in rose-scented water, washed her hair twice, then dressed with infinite care, telling herself she was doing it for Tor when she knew, deep within her heart, it was for Jarrett. She’d chosen the blue gown, not only because it made her eyes sparkle and complemented the color of her hair, but because of the way it outlined her figure. Because she wanted to look pretty for Jarrett.

  A gentle chiming of bells told her it was time to summon their guest to Last Meal. She couldn’t stifle her excitement at the thought of seeing Jarrett again, hearing the soft resonance of his voice.