Heart of Light (55 page)

It took her a moment, sitting on the ground, thinking. If she went to Kitwana, she would be shunned by all of English society. If she ever went back to English society. But who really cared? At this moment, here, in the depths of Africa, English society might as well be a chimera or a children's story. And then . . . and then perhaps Farewell was right. Perhaps she should go to Kitwana. Perhaps she should not make up his mind for him.

Doing all that was expected of her hadn't worked so far. Perhaps she should do what she must do for herself now.

Her body decided for her. She found herself by the trunk, looking through the contents for what to wear. Her sprig-embroidered nightgown, meant for her wedding night, had gotten torn in that dreadful night in the encampment. Yet she felt she should not go to the one who was her husband in everything but English law without proper raiment.

As she turned over cloth, she found her grandmother's shawl, embroidered with its vivid flowers. She grabbed it and ducked into the shadows, away from Peter's gaze. In the shadows she undressed quickly and, wrapped in the floral shawl, walked around the fire to where Kitwana lay.

She had a moment of blindness, from the fire, and then, as her eyes recovered, she saw him, laying on the ground. She'd thought he'd be asleep, but he wasn't. He was awake, his gaze turned to her.

She had imagined this moment many times, and she'd imagined what the man she married would say, what she'd answer.

Kitwana didn't say anything. He merely looked at her, his eyes widening. Then his lips curved slightly in a smile. And, sitting up, he opened his arms.

She stumbled into them as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And, indeed, clasped in his arms, she felt whole—as though she'd been away from home for a very long time and had now found her way back. As though she'd been lost in the desert and stumbled headlong into an oasis.

His muscular arms closed around her. She could feel their strength, their protection, and feel herself strong and safe within them.

He kissed her jaw and neck, and everywhere he could reach, and then their lips met.

Outside, a bird called and the elephant shuffled uneasily. Inside, the fire burned down, and presently they could hear Peter Farewell snoring softly from the other side of the embers.

But it didn't matter. For all that was concerned, they might have been alone in the whole world. Kitwana explored her body slowly and, in doing so, showed her the glories of his own. At the moment he entered her, she expected pain, but there was none. Instead, their minds merged, effortlessly, as they had before. His heartbeat was hers. She felt her pleasure and his. Her soft skin, his rougher one. Caught between physical pleasure and the magical sharing of it, she felt him within her and shared his sensation of being enveloped and embraced by her flesh. Surrounded by Kitwana's arms, united to his body and soul, Emily found the one place she belonged. Not India and not England, but with this one man.

EYE

Emily woke. There was light in the cave—gray and filtered
through the small opening. Kitwana had his arm and leg over her—as though unwilling to let her go.

A sound from the other side of the cave called her attention and she turned sleepily to look. Peter Farewell was awake, standing. She checked that the blanket was over her and Kitwana, then looked back at Farewell. He was looking through the trunks and she momentarily wondered why.

When he picked up the knife, she half sat up. But he did not cross the cave with the knife in hand—and indeed why should he, after almost dying saving them?

He must mean to go hunting, she thought, then closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

A cry woke her again, and she sat up. Peter Farewell had his back to her. He dropped the knife. She heard him whisper some incantation and said, “Mr. Farewell?”

He turned around. In his hand was an egg-size green globe, glowing. And one of his eyes was gone, tearing just a dark cavern, from which blood flowed down his cheek.

He didn't seem to notice the blood. Instead, as it dripped from his face, he extended the green globe to her, on his palm, and said steadily, “It worked, you see. I believe the eye of the dragon will help us find the ruby.”

FIGHTING FOR TRUTH

“Do you really mean to fight me?” Carew asked,
grinning in amusement. “Do you truly think, Nigel, that I would need to prove myself equal to . . . you?”

Nigel managed to grin, though inside he was cold with fear. “Oh, yes. If you don't fight me, I'll have to assume you're afraid of it.” He looked slyly behind Carew, at the men assembling on the clearing. “They'll know you're afraid. They'll remember that you weren't man enough to fight your brother—whom you outweigh considerably—and instead preferred to torture an African woman.”

Nigel could see his meaning hit Carew as his eyes lost their unconcerned look to become focused and suspicious. He slowly looked behind at his followers, then turned back to his brother and arched his eyebrows. “Oh, well played, Nigel, well played. Who would know you are truly my brother?” He stood and muttered something to the two men who had carried Nassira, then grinned at Nigel. “Very well, brother, how about this? I shall fight you. You can even have a knife to meet me on equal ground. And if I win, you will use the compass stone for me, until I have no use for it. It really is for the best, you know.”

Nigel nodded. He wasn't such a fool that he didn't know that Carew would give him a dull knife and not fight fairly. But Nigel's purpose was not to win. Even if he won, what would it mean? He couldn't activate the compass stone, and Carew would kill him. His purpose was to get Carew to confess to his intent about the ruby. If he got that out in the open, then at least the Africans would turn against him.

While Carew's lackeys cut through his bonds, Nigel thought that Carew, after all, had entirely too good an opinion of himself, and that the best way to get him to confess would be to taunt him.

He received the knife from the hands of the natives with a grin and said, “So, I assume this is not a fight to the death, since a fight to the death would mean you couldn't use my services with the compass stone afterward.”

Carew rounded, half-crouching, in the pose of the expert knife-fighter. “Oh, brother. I would not fight you to the death. It would be unfair.”

Nigel sprang, and managed to almost get his knife at Carew's throat before Carew threw him. But Nigel managed to get up quickly and come back at him.

He must argue. He must get Carew to defend himself.

“So you're going to all this trouble for Africa, are you?” Nigel asked, short of breath, as he came at Carew. He was aware that Carew had already knifed him, and that blood was trickling, warm and sticky, beneath his clothes.

“Why wouldn't I?” Carew asked, loudly, theatrically. “Why wouldn't I, when I saw the needs of these people and how badly they had been treated by our kind?”

Strangely, Nigel had heard the same from Peter. When Peter spoke of the people of Africa and of their being oppressed, Nigel felt that he spoke the truth, or the truth as he saw it. When Carew spoke of it, it held the same feeling as when Carew spoke of loving his mother. Or of protecting his little brother.

Nigel met Nassira's gaze. Her eyes, fixed on him, seemed to be trying very hard to tell him something.

Between parrying Carew's thrusts Nigel noticed she was looking at the lion tail and ears fetish on his belt, and he got her meaning. He allowed Carew to throw him yet again, and as he was getting up, he got the fetish out of his belt and held it with his knife. As he came back at Carew hotly, ducking under his arm and ignoring the knife at his throat, he pressed the lion fetish to the bare skin of Carew's arm. “Carew? Why do you really want the ruby?” he asked.

“The power, Nigel, the power,” Carew said. His voice was still hearty and bluff, but he looked surprised at hearing it, as though he wasn't sure at all what he might be saying. “Think of the power in that. Charlemagne made himself king of Europe forever. I could be king of the world.”

At that moment, Carew felt the lion tail upon his arm and shook, realizing what he'd done. He roared, from deep in his chest, and threw Nigel across the clearing, then ran at him with hot rage, knife drawn. “Traitor to your family, your race, your breed!”

Nigel closed his eyes as Carew raised his hand to slam his dagger through Nigel's heart. And then he heard a puzzling sound. The looked up to see a lance halfway through Carew's shoulder.

The man with the face like a bulldog was at the back, blinking—too far away to have thrown it. “Sometimes,” he said, sheepishly, “I throw things with my mind, when I'm mad. I can't help it.”

Nigel noticed his brother was still breathing, but it couldn't be for long. Time would take care of it. And though he hadn't intended for the man to kill him by accident, he had hoped for exactly this result.

He got up and dusted himself, and went to untie Nassira.

“Nigel, he said he couldn't find your wife's power, that she's either dead or somehow vanished.”

“Yes, I heard,” Nigel said, worried. “But there's not much I can do about it.” He felt too tired even to feel grief.

“No,” Nassira clutched at his wrist. “If your brother couldn't find it, perhaps the compass stone can't, either? Perhaps now you can bind to it? Isn't it worth a try?”