“Did you now, Your Majesty?” The bed shifted beneath his weight as he sat
down beside her. “What made you so sure?”
Riordan smiled. “All the excitement is here in Kanarek.”
She was right, he realized. The rebuilding of Kanarek brought a sense of
anticipation he hadn't experienced before. He took her chin in his hand and
looked down into her face. “Are you well, Riordan?”
“Well enough. The sickness has passed.”
Covers slipped from her shoulders exposing the thin shirt that covered her.
The shirt was his, he noted. Perhaps it had comforted her when he was no longer
there.
Riordan relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder like she had
when she was a child. The weight of his arms around her was reassuring. He
smelled of horse and the cool night air.
For several moments she was content merely to listen to the steady beat of
his heart. But one nagging worry refused to stay banished. If Nhaille had
returned, then she wanted to settled what lay between them before another minute
passed.
She rose out of the solace of his embrace and moved to retrieve the jewelry
box she'd stowed with the rest of her gear. “I believe this belongs to you.”
His eyes fastened on the box in her hand. She watched as he caught his breath
and stilled completely.
But he took the box from her. Gingerly he opened the lid and peered inside.
Wistfully, he regarded the miniature. He reached for the golden ring. It slipped
over his index finger.
“Still fits,” he murmured. That seemed to surprise him.
His ring of office. Given to him by her father on his promotion. Suddenly she
understood its significance. And why he'd hidden it in the wall hoping to come
back for it some day. He'd expected Kanarek still to be there. As had they
all.
Green eyes dyed golden by the firelight watched her warily. “Riordan,
I--”
“Why have you never told me you were married?”
He let his breath go. “I would not have burdened you with my sorrows.”
“My sympathies,” she said gently. “To hear of the loss of your wife and
child.”
“Thank you, Your--” He reached out, pulled her close. “Riordan.”
“You blamed yourself,” she guessed.
Drawing away, he nodded, as if he didn't trust himself to speak.
“You blame yourself for too much, Kayr. Even for things that I do.”
Nhaille forced the shadow of a smile.
“Is that why you left? Were you afraid of history repeating itself?”
“I couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of me.”
“Don't worry. She'll be fine. So will I.”
“She?”
He looked so shocked, she covered his hand with hers to reassure him. “She. I
fancy the name Riaan, after my mother.”
“What makes you so certain the child is female?”
“I--” She faltered, afraid to tell him about the images that haunted her
dreams. “I have these...dreams. Vestiges of the Sword's power, ancestral
memories, I don't know what they mean. But in one of them I saw this vision of a
woman. Tall like you, dark like you. And I just knew she was our child.”
“You've seen this?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Truly?”
“I don't know how to explain it, Nhaille. I just know.”
He gave her a long look, then his expression softened, as if after wielding
the Sword of Zal-Azaar and winning back Kanarek a vision of their unborn child
was not so unusual. He was content to grant her this one indulgence.
It seemed so innocent, so normal, the two of them discussing the name of
their child. As if none of the rest of it had happened, not Rau, the Amber nor
the Sword of Zal-Azaar.
“We must choose a male name,” Nhaille said after a moment. “Riaan is no name
for a prince should your vision prove to be wrong.”
“I'm not wrong. You must trust my judgment in this one.”
Warm breath stirred her hair as he pulled her closer. “I am content to trust
your judgment in everything from now on.”
“Nhaille--” Did she have the strength to say what was on her mind, the
courage to offer him his freedom? “If you truly do not want to be my consort, I
would not ask it of you. I will always be grateful for the sacrifices you've
made for me and for Kanarek. You deserve your freedom and your privacy. It is
wrong for me to ask more of you.”
“You ask nothing of me that I'd not willingly grant.” His lips moved against
her forehead.
“Does this mean you've come back to stay?” She schooled her voice to a
neutral tone, carefully hiding the desperate hope inside.
Nhaille smiled. “I underestimated what a gaping hole there would be in my
life without you.”
“We need you here in Kanarek,” she said quietly. “I need you, Kayr. Don't go
live alone in the forest like a hermit. Stay here in Kanarek where you are
loved. Where you have family.”
“You seem to have managed well enough in my absence. The fields have been
planted. The huts have been rebuilt.”
“And what of the warriors to be trained? I have a score of grievances to hear
in the morning. And we've shortages of just about everything. There isn't
anything we have enough of. I can't do it all myself, and I'm desperate for the
counsel of someone I can trust.”
“I take it you don't care for your first taste of sovereignty, Your Majesty?”
There was laughter in his voice.
“I could most definitely use an assistant.”
Laughter died in his voice, replaced by seriousness. “Oh no, Riordan. The
life of an administrator is not for me.”
“Captain then, of her Majesty's Royal Guard.”
His face darkened, and her hand moved to touch his wounded shoulder. “My
career as a warrior is over, Riordan.”
“Now that I doubt. Even left-handed, you could still likely best me. If I
have my way, neither of us will ever see battle again. But I need you to help
train the army,” she said softly. “Just in case. I will never be unprepared, the
way my father was.”
“Captain then,” Nhaille agreed.
Having his consent, she should stop there. But she couldn't. If he was back,
she had to know the rest of it.
“And consort?” she asked quietly, and held her breath waiting for his answer.
“Consort,” he echoed. He placed his hand over the swell of her stomach, and
sighed deeply. “Your father would kill me if he knew.”
“Perhaps this is what he had in mind all along,” Riordan said, drawing a
breath in relief. “I suspect that fate is not yet finished with you,
Kayr-Alden-Nhaille.”
He sighed deeply. “I don't think I have it in me to raise another like
you.”
“Maybe she will be like you.”
That made him laugh. “Gods, I do hope not.”
THE END
Be sure to check out Stephanie’s first novel, The Bleeding Sun, available in
print and electronic form.
The Bleeding Sun
Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
ISBN 1-58608-055-5
Rocket eBook ISBN 1-58608-126-8
(c) Copyright October 1999 Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
Cover art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
The chandelier was crying, long tears of palest amber that streamed across
her line of sight. Her mind was like shattered glass, jagged pieces that no
longer fit together into a coherent whole. She lay, moored to the side of the
large bed, that even now seemed to be pitching and heaving beneath her, and
rummaged through her mind for thoughts that made sense. . .
Foremost in Melinda's mind was the paralyzing pain that ran down the right
side of her body, emanating in dizzying waves from the welt on her neck. She
probed gently at her throat, wincing as she touched the bruised and tender skin.
Dried blood crumbled beneath her fingertips, as she ran her hands down her chest
and arms to find the stinging traces of claw marks. She moaned and tried to turn
over, but she was too stiff. She felt as if she'd been dissected and pieced back
together.
Her memory yielded images unwillingly in self defense, as she fought her way
back to consciousness. She remembered fighting with her boyfriend, waiting alone
on the deserted subway platform, and the bright lights of the approaching
subway. She recalled boarding the train and staring at the drunken occupant who
had passed out in the seat across the aisle. The train crossed a junction in the
tracks, veering off to the right and downhill. The lights went out.
Something hunted her in the disorienting darkness, as she thrashed about the
empty subway car trying to escape. Taloned hands tore through clothing and skin
alike. She could still feel the hot breath upon her face, the odd pressure at
her neck, followed by blinding pain, and the thick, black darkness that sucked
her down into nothingness. . .
* * *
“You're awake,” said a soft voice from the end of the bed. He turned into the
candlelight, and Melinda looked into the face of her nightmare.
With a hoarse cry, she scrambled away from him, crouching in the corner of
the postered bed. The sudden effort sent points of light searing through her
vision. She fought for breath, for the tenuous hold on consciousness.
“Shh,” he whispered, coming to sit on the bed beside her. Melinda tried to
move away from him, but succeeded only in falling forward. He caught her in his
arms and placed a finger against her lips to quiet her. Helplessly, she looked
up into eyes that were a deep brown, bordering on black. He didn't look like the
horror her fragmented memory insisted he was. Rather, he resembled a dark angel
with his handsome face and head of unruly curls. But the powerful hands that
held her with much restrained strength ended in ten, long, talons. He let her
down against the bed and propped the pillows up beneath her head. His hands
lingered against her neck.
“Stiff?” he asked with genuine concern. His voice was deep and melodic. She
nodded dumbly.
With strong, warm hands he tenderly massaged the feeling back into her neck.
“It'll pass,” he said gently. And, for the first time he looked human,
almost.
Solemnly, he surveyed the damage, carefully running a finger over the red
welts on her throat and arms. “You're hurt,” he said, more as a statement than a
question.
“Yes,” she croaked, her voice a rasping remnant of its former tone.
“I'm sorry, you must believe that.”
Melinda choked back a sob and stared at him in mute terror.
“The first time is always a shock. But you're safe now.”
“Safe?” she whispered in absolute horror, “I don't think so.”
“You'll see,” he said, almost sadly. For a moment he looked as if his mind
was far away, dwelling on some old and familiar sorrow. He looked back at her
suddenly, making her jump. “Besides Melinda,” he said sweetly. “You really don't
have any other choice.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, trying to keep the tremors that
resonated out from her knees from working their way up into her voice.
“I looked at your driver's license, of course,” he said, as if she was
incredibly naive. Then he remembered his manners and said almost apologetically,
“Well, you've been asleep for a day and a half, it wasn't as if I could ask
you.”
She stared at him, waiting. “I don't suppose I'll need my license when I'm
dead,” she said finally.
“Dead? Whatever gave you the idea I was going to kill you?”
“Look what you did to me!” She wanted to scream. “You were trying to kill
me!”
“I am trying to save your life,” he said and looked away.
An icy shiver snaked down her spine. She hugged her wounded arms and
shuddered.
“Really,” he said gently. “I have no more choice in this than you.”
“I don't believe you.”
“As you wish,” he hissed. He grasped her head in his taloned hands and turned
her face so she was forced to look into his eyes. “But I want you to understand
something. You are in a situation in which you have very few options. In a few
short hours you will be thinking very differently about all of this. I will
await your call.”
He left the room, pulling the heavy metal door to with a loud resounding boom
that had an ominous note of finality to it. As if in emphasis, she heard the
jingle of keys as he locked the door.
The room was spinning, clockwise, then counterclockwise. Melinda looked about
slowly, trying not to turn her head too fast and send the dizziness flooding
back upon her.
The mammoth bed on which she lay was the only piece of furniture in the
cavernous room. It was an imposing creation with its heavy curtains and towering
columns. Judging from the tiled walls and floor and the persistent rumbling
above, she suspected she was still underground. An abandoned subway station
perhaps. She'd read once that there were a couple in the Toronto Subway System.
The place had a haphazard look to it, as if he made do in surroundings less
opulent than he was accustomed. Tapestries, embellished with gold and silver
thread covered the walls, and Persian rugs warmed the utilitarian tiled floors.
The foyer was flanked on either side by what looked to be a small study and a
large closet.
Gingerly, Melinda placed a tentative foot on the floor, then stood, holding
on to the tall posters for support. She willed herself to remain upright.
Awareness was her only defense. She had to find a way out.
Slowly, she walked about the perimeter of the room, lifting up the corners of
the heavy tapestries, examining the wall underneath. She pounded on the tile,
bruising her hand on the hard cement it covered. Not even an echo. The place was
as solid as a tomb. It was doubtful anyone would even hear her screams.
There were no windows, and the door was locked as securely as it sounded. She
threw herself against it, gaining only an aching shoulder for her efforts.