Herd Mistress (In Deception's Shadow Book 2) (13 page)

Shadowdancer stirred at last. Reaching down, he picked
up a stone and flung it with such force the rock skimmed across the surface of
the water and landed in the shallows of the opposite side.

“He shuns any who would comfort him. He won’t even let
me near him,”
Darkmoon said at last.

“I can’t force him to talk to anyone if that’s what
you’re hoping. Whatever friendship he and I had forged, died when Grey Spires’
defenses nearly seared his Larnkin to ash.”

“Harshly put, but partly true. My son is a cripple. He
may no longer hold high status among the herd, but his actions saved a Herd
Mistress from death on the Wild Path. He will hold a place of honor among the
herd because of that.”

“I doubt it will be enough to satisfy him.”

Darkmoon studied her.
“No, I don’t suppose considering…..well,
it won’t be enough to sooth his hurt, but perhaps being able to speak will
start him healing. I want you to convince him to allow my Herd Mistress to give
him the gift of languages.”

“I’m not his most popular person right now. He
couldn’t get away from me fast enough yesterday. Only your Herd Mistress’s
order forced him back at all.” The slow burn of shame heated her cheeks at the
admission. “You’ll notice he’s half way to those mountains in the distance and
still walking away from me.”

“He’s trying to walk away from what fate has demanded
he endure. Go to him. Talk with him. He will listen to you.”

“I will try.”

“Good,”
Darkmoon said, but he still continued to stare at her.

“Is there something else?”

He didn’t answer right away and Sorsha felt her
stomach tightening by degrees.

“Yes. I wish for your sake there was not.”

Sorsha sighed. “Then tell me.” She still didn’t look
away from Shadowdancer’s retreating form. Really, at the moment, she found it
hard to imagine what could be worse than Shadowdancer’s hatred.

“How much did my son tell you about magic and the
history of the Elementals?”

“He merely touched on the most basic of things. Mage
globes, summoning power to strengthen one’s body. He mentioned a bit about what
a bonded pair like my sister and her Phoenix would have to deal with. We spent
a number of evenings practicing using mind speech and how to narrow that link
down to use over a great distance.”

“Then he covered a great deal of magic training in a
very short time. What you speak of are lessons that seem deceptively easy at
first, but in reality take a long time to master, and yet you do it as
naturally as breathing.”

“I’ve always been quick to pick up new skills.”

“I am told Ashayna is a quick learner as well, but she
distrusts magic to an extent it’s doubtful she’d ever do what you did to save
my son. How did you have the knowledge to save my son’s life?”

“My Larnkin. Where else would I have gained it?”

Darkmoon paced a half circle around her, bowing his
head low, he turned and took several strides in the opposite direction.
Finally, he planted all four hooves firmly on the ground and watched her with
guarded intensity.
“It was not a remembered skill?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t think about it. I just did
what felt right. Why do you ask?”

“Because what I and the others here witnessed was not
the haphazard magic of instinct or luck. It was a power of the highest
working.”

“Up until two moon spans ago, I knew nothing about
magic. Not really. I was aware I possessed a gift, or more likely a curse if
the Acolytes ever sniffed me out. But beyond that, I knew nothing, not its
origins, its purpose, not even how to control it,” Sorsha said, truly confused
about the direction of the conversation. “Because of magic, I almost died. More
than once, in fact. I know so little about magic I don’t even know what you’re
accusing me of.” Sorsha started laughing. It struck her so funny she couldn’t
stop. Tears started down her cheeks. She wiped at them and looked back to
Darkmoon. “Please, enlighten me. Maybe than I can answer your question?”

Darkmoon arched his neck. Nostrils flaring, he
stretched his head toward her. After a snort and quick shake of his head he
answered her.
“I smell no deception upon you. You truly don’t know what you
did.”
He paused and eyed her with new interest.
“I believe you’re one of
the Twelve, even though neither you nor my son wears the Mark.”

“Twelve of what?” Sorsha snapped, her reply made
sharper by the nagging sensation she should be pursuing Shadowdancer, not
mincing words with his sire. “What Mark?”

“The Mark is an intricate knot symbol borne over the
hearts of the Twelve.”

Tired of his evasions and riddles, Sorsha rubbed at
her eyes and believed she was beginning to understand why Ashayna hated magic.
“Not helping.”

Darkmoon snorted and shook his mane in humor.
“I’m
sorry. There is just so much you don’t know. Let me explain. There are twelve
great magical talismans in our world, gifts from the gods to the Elemental
races. Each talisman has a wielder. During times of war and great strife, the
flesh and blood Twelve are born into the world and seek out their talismans.
When the Circle unites with all Twelve Talismans and their Wielders, they
become a power to match even the gods. The circle’s members are Light’s champions—God-sent
to destroy whatever evil walks the land.”

“Why would you believe I’m that? Wouldn’t I know if I
was some great power?”

“Normally, yes. But I have an idea about that, too.
There are a set of paintings deep in the heart of Grey Spires, which only
members of the Elemental Council are ever allowed to lay eyes upon. Those
panels showed the Twelve Talismans and their Wielders. But these dark paintings
depicted the atrocities of war in vivid color. During the last great battle
between good and evil, an army of light and an army of shadows met across the
field of battle. The army of light was led by the Circle of Twelve. Opposite
them, was Dakdamon, god of chaos and destruction.”
A visible shudder crawled down Darkmoon’s body.
“Those pictures were enough to give me nightmares. The third painting in the
series showed what I’d always thought was impossible. The Judge, Leader of the
Twelve, was captured and his talisman, a staff crowned with the likeness of a
falcon, lay broken beneath the Dark One’s clawed feet.

The next panel in the series showed the Judge chained
upon a slab of rock in a cavern of stone; the place where Dakdamon made the
leader his creature. In the following panels, the newly remade Leader of the
Twelve returned, now leading the army of darkness. He came to claim his
bondmate for his new master. If the Destroyer had become the pawn of her
bondmate, we would live in a very different world today.

But she didn’t surrender to the dark temptation her
bondmate offered. In that final panel, a horror I hope to never witness in my
life took place. The Destroyer took the life of her own bondmate, breaking the
most forbidden rule. By that act, she destroyed herself body and soul. And
saved our world, for if she’d been seduced by his darkness, she would have been
remade like him. Her final act destroyed them both, utterly. Or so we thought.
Now I am not so sure.

I think Ashayna and Sorntar are the Judge and
Destroyer born again. If they are, I would wager you and Shadowdancer are also
members of the Twelve. But that long ago interference by Dakdamon did
something; changed some fine balance and neither you nor my son were born with
the Mark of the Twelve or the knowledge about your roles. And now you must
prove yourselves—find a way to heal your Larnkins and complete the Twelve.”

It felt like her stomach had fallen down to her toes. “You’re
just guessing.”

“I wish I was. But all the clues lead to that dire
truth.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Sorntar has enslaved Ashayna and fled the city. No
one knows where they are. He took my daughter and her mate with them.”

“Ashayna is missing? And Winter’s Frost and Summer
Flame, too? How could this happen?”

“Sorntar has turned against his people.”

“No, not possible. Sorntar is the gentlest soul I
know. Besides, even I could see he was utterly devoted to Ash, much to her
dismay. It must be the Dead King that Shadowdancer told me of…or Trensler and
his Acolytes. Some of them might have invaded the city and captured my sister
and her bondmate. If that’s so, then they are in terrible danger.”

“I’m sorry little one. While I don’t know what role
Trensler plays in all this, I know he hasn’t invaded the city and he didn’t
have a direct hand in Ashayna’s capture. There were witnesses to Sorntar’s
betrayal.”

“Then Sorntar must have done it to protect Ash from
the Dead King,” Sorsha said even as she shook her head in denial.

“The Dead King is the city’s protector. He must have
sensed something of darkness within Sorntar, and captured Lamarra to protect
her. He would have brought you all to his underground kingdom for your
protection. Reports have reached my ears explaining Trensler’s interference,
but I don’t know what he is or if it was something he did that changed Sorntar.
All I know is that my son is crippled and my daughter is missing.”

Sorsha was filled with confusion; though she was
uncertain what shocked her more, the horrifying possibility that Lamarra and
Ashayna were both being held captive, or the harsh tale of the shattering of
the Twelve, when in a time of death and betrayal, a long ago Ashayna might have
murdered her bondmate to prevent a greater evil. Only, it must not have killed
the evil if Sorntar had kidnapped Ashayna.

“Fate is moving its greatest warriors across the field
of battle. And I want those with power to help me save my family. I believe you
are one of those powers. Know I will aid you in whatever way I can. But for now
I must return to my mate, as she awaits me in Grey Spires with the rest of the
Council. We will convene and make plans. Don’t let my son do anything foolhardy
while I’m away. As soon as I know anything of Ashayna’s or Lamarra’s fates, I
will let you know.

Until I return, my Herd Mistress Neveyah, will teach
you what history she knows. Whatever comes, you and my son must be prepared.”

Sorsha stood back and frowned at the older stallion.
Was he really turning to leave, just like that?

Yes, he was.

He galloped away in a shower of dust and churned
grass. She watched him until he vanished around another of the pavilions and
she decided he was clearly a defining influence behind a few of Shadowdancer’s
more arrogant personality traits. Thinking of her friend caused worry to renew
its worming in her middle. If she was to help Ashayna and Lamarra, she would
need allies. And her heart told her that Shadowdancer was the ally she needed
most. Perhaps Darkmoon was correct and she and Shadowdancer were members of the
Twelve. But what good did that do them? They were both damaged.

An idea manifested out of desperation. Shadowdancer
knew about magic and the history of the Magic Wielders. Perhaps something he
knew would help them remember who they were and how to restore their power. If
they truly were god-sent, as Darkmoon claimed, there must be a way to heal
their Larnkins. Otherwise, what other possible purpose could they serve?

Sorsha’s hands slowly closed into fists. Together they
would rescue their missing family members. It didn’t matter if she had to face
the Dead King or something dark that was once Sorntar, she’d battle them both
for the chance to free her family. And then they would turn their attention to
what her gut told her was the real danger—Lord Master Trensler.

“Death to any creature foolish enough to cross a
Stonemantle and think it can get away with it,” she whispered.

If Shadowdancer took one more step away from her,
Sorsha would start screaming insults at his retreating back. Damn the prideful
fool; she’d trailed after him for half the morning. Only sheer Stonemantle
stubbornness kept her going long after her legs wanted to call a stop. She
didn’t care if he didn’t want to speak with her. They
were
going to talk
and he
was
going to listen.

Presently, he was a good two hundred paces off, facing
away from her as he stared into the distance. The river Shadowdancer had been
doggedly ‘exploring’ all morning finally offered Sorsha a service. The twisting
waters coiled back upon itself. Unless Shadowdancer planned to go swimming to
get away from her, she had him hemmed in.

“You’re such a coward.” She commented as she came
alongside.

He glanced in her direction then looked away. A muscle
ticked in his jaw, but he held his ground.

“Coward,” she said just to see if he’d try bolting
again. He didn’t, but his posture wasn’t exactly welcoming. He huffed out an
annoyed sounding sigh.

“We’re going to talk.”

Shadowdancer turned to her with one eyebrow raised.

“Fine. You can’t talk. But you’ll listen.”

He flared his nostrils in a very horse-like fashion.
His lips compressed into a pale line.

“We have some very important things that need
discussing. If you hadn’t made me chase you half the morning, we’d already be
closer to rescuing our families.”

He turned fully toward her and took three steps in her
direction. Towering over her like that, he was imposing. But she didn’t back
down and took another half step closer. Her boots brushed his toes. His bare
feet were dusty and she’d bet her next meal he’d cut his feet to ribbons.

“You’re being an idiot. I can’t believe I fell in love
with an idiot. Perhaps I’m the greater fool.”

Shadowdancer rocked back on his heals like she’d
slapped him. She continued while he was off balance.

“We would have been bondmates, and I plan on honoring
that bond. And even if we weren’t fated bondmates, I’d have still chosen you as
my Stallion Mage. But we have greater concerns beyond our personal issues or
our damaged Larnkins—if your father is correct, we are also members of the
Twelve. You must have a better idea what that means than I do. And somehow I
doubt our duty to the Twelve is negated by having crippled Larnkins. I plan on
fulfilling that duty. You’re welcome to help if you want.” Sorsha spun away and
started back toward camp.

She didn’t look back or slow her determined pace, but
she listened. And when she was a hundred paces away, she heard the sound of
running feet. Shadowdancer circled in front of her and put himself dead in her
path. She kept walking—straight at him, not turning her course in the least.
She was within a pace of walking into his chest when he started backpedaling so
fast he almost landed on his rump. He recovered and continued backing up with
more grace. He gestured at her. Pointing at her chest, and then slapping a hand
over his own. When that did not earn him a response, he began gesturing wildly.

“I know we don’t have the Marks. Darkmoon said that
because of what happened in the past between the Leaders, all the Twelve have
been weakened. He thinks we must prove ourselves, find a way to heal our Larnkins
and take up the fight. I believe him.” She paused and reached out to lay a hand
against Shadowdancer’s chest, over his heart where it pounded a steady rhythm
against her hand. It was the only part of him to show signs of life—otherwise,
he held himself so rigid, she might have been touching bedrock. “You were
there. You saw what Trensler and his men can do. He’s evil. I think he serves
the evil that has caused the Twelve to be reborn. I don’t begin to pretend to
understand all that Darkmoon said, but in my gut I know Trensler is the reason
we’re here. We have to find Ashayna and Sorntar and then together we need to
face the Dead King, get Lamarra, and ultimately find a way to stop Trensler. If
we don’t stop him from harvesting magic, none of us will be safe.”

Shadowdancer snapped out of his shock and placed one
hand on her right shoulder. The other found its way under her chin, and tilted
her head up. When she drew breath to continue, she suddenly found a finger
pressed against her lips, effectively forcing her to a halt. His eyes searched
her face, questioning, and yet there wasn’t the amount of doubt she’d expected.

He tapped a finger against his own lips, and then
released her.

“Now you want to talk.” She smiled as she said it to
take the sting out of her words, and then leaned forward to press her lips
against his. His were warm and firm. A surprised grunt escaped him. He held
himself immobile. For the second time in less than a day, shame colored her
cheeks. Sorsha started to pull away only to have him mold his lips to hers.
Hungry, desperate, his fierceness sent a shiver down her spine.

His hands trembled upon her shoulders, and it wasn’t
until that moment she realized he needed her as much as she did him. They were
a part of each other—soulmates, even if they couldn’t be bondmates. She broke
away, gasping for breath. He let her take a couple breaths before his mouth
descended upon hers again. By the gods, it felt so good.

She allowed herself to touch him, her hands trailing
down his bare chest to settle low on his hips. Her thumbs hooked into the top
of his pants and she dragged him closer. She broke the kiss a second time,
needing air and to taste his skin. Pressing open mouthed kisses along his neck,
she savored the salty male flavor of him. His skin quivered under her light
touch. Unable to resist, she nipped at his shoulder playfully.

Shadowdancer laughed. Slowly, with a patient caution,
as if he was afraid she’d break or bolt if he was too aggressive, he rained the
gentlest of kisses upon her brow, eyelids, lips and jaw. He lazily explored on
down the length of her neck. Where the curve of her neck joined her shoulder,
he buried his nose and sighed contentedly. His nuzzling continued for a few
more moments before he finally straightened.

He opened his mouth to say something, his lips shaping
her name, but he closed his mouth again. Frustration made clear by his narrowed
eyes and tight jaw.

She ran her thumb along his lower lip. “Now will you
let the Herd Mistress give you the gift of speech? Darkmoon told me you were
being stubborn earlier, and wouldn’t allow anyone near you. Now, you wouldn’t
do that, would you?” she asked sweetly.

Swifter then she could avoid, a sharp sting burned
along her rump where he’d swatted her. Sorsha shouted in mock anger. After a
moment of laughter, she admitted she deserved it.

“I won’t mock your male pride anymore.”

He glowered at her.

“Sorry.” Her mumbled apology sounded weak to her own
ears. Reaching behind her, she caught his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s go
home.”

* * * *

Back in the tent where she’d first awakened at dawn,
Sorsha surveyed Herd Mistress Neveyah and Shadowdancer where they sat
cross-legged on a thick carpet. They faced each other over a low, knee high
table piled with the Herd Mistress’s supplies. While her own Larnkin still
wasn’t able to summon much more than a spark of power after Shadowdancer’s
healing, Sorsha could feel what Neveyah did. She found it fascinating that one
person could give another person an entire language with just a touch of magic
and what appeared to be a strange mix of herbs ground down into a powder and
blended with pigments to make a crude kind of paint.

The Herd Mistress had already done the transfer and
was questioning Shadowdancer in firm tones.

“Well, say something then,” Herd Mistress Neveyah
demanded. Though, she didn’t look up as she carefully returned the remainder of
her unused pigments and herbs to their marked jars.

Ignoring the Herd Mistress, or perhaps honestly
wanting to get rid of the smears of paint covering his forehead and throat,
Shadowdancer reached across the table and dragged a bowl of water closer and
started to dab at his paint encrusted skin with a damp rag. Even after all
traces of paint were gone from his skin, Shadowdancer hesitated, and Sorsha
remembered back to the night he’d come to her rooms back in River’s Divide. She
thought she understood his hesitation. He must still feel embarrassed over that
incident. Her heart did a strange little lurch and she stood. He watched her,
eyes hooded, his face a blank mask, likely trying to hide what was really going
on in his mind. Sorsha wasn’t fooled. She’d seen the glimpse of uncertainty.
Rocking forward on her toes, she wiped her hands on her trousers and squared
her shoulders before walking to his side with a determined step. She reached
for him, wiggling her fingers with impatience when he didn’t immediately
respond.

“Give me your hand.”

He did, and she tightened her fingers around his and
tugged him up to his feet.

“Say something.”

“Sorsha,” he said as he met her gaze, and then quickly
glanced back down, as if to study the wood grain of the table.

She smiled at him. “That’s a start.”

A thoughtful look crossed his features a moment before
he looked back up, his gaze steady and intense. “I lack the words to describe
your beauty.”

“No lies,” she said with a laugh, suddenly nervous.

He tilted her chin up to look at him. “None. Never
between us.”

Heat climbed her face, but she kept her chin up.

Shadowdancer looked down at her, his eyes full of
gratitude. Heat radiated off his body, and Sorsha fought the urge to touch him.
It was probably a good thing they weren’t alone. If they were, things might
escalate rather too quickly.

An impish smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Mild doubt assaulted her. “Are you sure you can’t read
minds?”

He laughed. “That I was never able to do, my little
mane ornament.” A moment later another emotion swept across his face and
sadness glittered in his eyes. He shook it off and continued. “Even when I was
at full strength, I couldn’t read minds. I could sense emotions and intent. During
mind speech both participants can hear what the other says and sometimes
thinks, but that isn’t the same as reading minds.”

“Close enough.” Sorsha relaxed another degree. He was
beginning to sound like the Santhyrian she knew. While it might not last long,
at least it was a start. Clearly, this particular battle was far from over, but
she’d fight for Shadowdancer as long as required.

A throat being cleared made Sorsha turn toward the
sound. Neveyah smiled at them in such a way Sorsha wondered how sappy they must
have appeared to earn such an expression.

Shadowdancer stiffened, and then gave the Herd
Mistress an elegant bow. “Many thanks, Lady Neveyah.”

“You are most welcome.” The Herd Mistress shared a
look with Sorsha. “If either of you have questions or otherwise need guidance
at any time, simply come to me.”

“Thank you.” Sorsha bowed to the Herd Mistress,
copying Shadowdancer’s earlier gesture. “We will.”

“One final thing, and then I’ll let both of you rest.
I’m not sure how much Shadowdancer has told you, but this camp,” the Herd
Mistress gestured with a wide swing of her arm, “is one of our temporary camps,
midway between our summer and winter homes. We have very limited accommodations
and supplies until we reach our summer territory.”

Shadowdancer interrupted the Herd Mistress. “I can
sleep with the herd. Sorsha can stay here with you.”

“No need. As I was going to say, one of the Lupwyn
healer’s apprentices offered you the use of his tent. It’s only right that the
new Herd Mistress have her own place.”

Sorsha frowned. “But I’m not a Herd Mistress, not
anymore.”

“I can feel your Larnkin’s power again. She is weak,
but growing stronger. She didn’t burn herself out saving Shadowdancer.”

Exhaling sharply, Sorsha jerked her gaze to
Shadowdancer before she could think better of it. His eyes widened. This was
news to him as well. He covered his shock with a wan smile then nodded to
Sorsha.

“It is good we will have another Herd Mistress. The
gods have been merciful.” His tone was carefully guarded but Sorsha detected
the pain behind the words.

At first she didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t he be
happy for her? If she could heal, he might too. Then she realized something
else. If he didn’t heal and she did, one day her Larnkin would choose a
Stallion Mage to compliment her power, and that was a role Shadowdancer could
no longer fill.

Sorsha frowned, not liking the idea, but they would
worry about that later.

“I am tired,” Sorsha took Shadowdancer’s hand before
he could stop her. “Show me where I’ll be staying, and then maybe we can find
some food.”

The Herd Mistress didn’t give Shadowdancer a chance to
baulk. “Forgive me. I’ll have food sent to your quarters at once. And a bath as
well.”

“Thank you.” Sorsha nodded to Mistress Neveyah, then
sent Shadowdancer a bright smile she hoped looked reassuring.