Part 33 (1/2)

39.

Duncan Surrendering his body to death's sure grip, Duncan's thoughts fled to Kath. Moonlight s.h.i.+mmered through the trees as he lifted her in his arms, carrying her to their marriage bower. Naked in the silvery light, she quivered beneath his touch. Bud-tight b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a slender waist, his lips and hands played across her, exploring all the tender places, slowly rousing her pa.s.sion. A blazing heat built between them till the wanting became unbearable. Moist and open, she waited beneath him. Beloved! He entered her with a rush of ecstasy.

Rough hands on his body...they grasped his arms, pulling him down. A thunderous pain roared through him, racking his back and arms, a terrible torture...but then the weights were gone. No weights, no chains, no endless pull, was this death? Was this heaven? Confused, his mind hung in a daze. Water at his lips...but he wanted to stay in the silvery forest, to stay with Kath. He reached for her, struggling to find his way back.

Rough hands held his face, prying his eyelids open. Light spiked his eyes. Duncan tried to flinch away, but they held him fast. A centurion's face leaned close, staring down. A man's harsh voice beat against him, slaying the silvery dream. ”A golden cat-eye, just as they said. You're lucky he still lives.”

No!!! Duncan howled in his mind...so close to heaven...one more step and he'd be there...but instead, they s.n.a.t.c.hed him back, pulling him down into h.e.l.l.

”Clean him up. This one's for the Mordant.”

40.

Katherine Like spirits escaping the netherworld, they climbed from the depths, leaving the Womb of the World. The lion-faced man carried the Old One, while Kath walked a step behind, clutching a lighted candle. Smoke clung to her hair and clothes, a cloud of scent evoking half-formed memories. So many twists and turns, yet the lion-faced man took them in stride, never hesitating. Kath walked behind in a daze, her mind a tumult of thoughts. Her right hand clutched the crystal dagger sheathed at her belt, making sure it was more than a dream.

The candle guttered and nearly went out, a slender light against the labyrinth of darkness. s.h.i.+elding the flame, she rushed to keep up, relieved when they finally pa.s.sed through the lightning-bolt crack.

Crude handprints gave way to galloping horses. They returned to the occupied caverns, the clean smell of rock giving way to the jumbled scents of habitation. Kath began to recognize the drawings, a splendor of ocher, umber, and charcoal decorating familiar ceilings. Painted people emerged from the side pa.s.sages. Thera was the first, the raven faced healer falling into step behind Kath. The Old One gained a following as they made their way through the cave dwellings. Men in jerkins of pale white leather embroidered with fine beadwork and women in sheepskin cloaks, carrying wooden staves adorned with small bra.s.s bells. All of them bore the tattoo of the raven or the snarling mountain lion. A soft chime of bells marked their steps, like a secret sect summoned to ritual.

Kath walked among them, keeping a step behind the Old One, caught up in something she did not understand. A s.h.i.+ver ran down her back. She gripped the crystal dagger, knowing the ordeal of the depths was not yet over.

A murmur of voices filled the pa.s.sage. Like the rush of a mighty river, the voices pulled the procession forward. The pa.s.sageway spilled into an enormous cavern, unlike anything Kath had ever seen. Glow crystals lined the walls, revealing magnificent drawings. Three beasts of mythical proportion rampaged along the far wall, huge curved tusks and flared ears raised in warning, like mighty war beasts drawn from legend. A vast migration of animals galloped across the vaulted ceiling, a wild celebration of life, so lifelike Kath could almost hear the thunder of their hooves. The magnificent murals transformed the cavern into a stone cathedral. Beneath the drawings sat a river of people. A great host crowded together, men and women, young and old, all of them marked with blue tattoos.

Startled, Kath stared at the a.s.sembly, ambushed by the numbers.

Thousands of tattooed faces turned to stare. The river of voices stilled to a reverent hush. Like a pebble dropped in a pond, a path opened for the procession. The lion faced man led the way, holding the Old One cradled in his arms, his pale leather jerkin startlingly white against the dull browns of the crowd. A rain of soft chimes marked each step like a blessing. Kath stayed close to the lion faced man, held in the grip of the procession. Solemn and slow, they walked the length of the cavern, through a crush of tattooed faces. Buffeted by an avalanche of stares, Kath endured a gauntlet of hostility, struggling to make sense of the gathering.

At the cavern's heart they reached a raised platform, a natural dais of rust red rock, a raised island of stone in a sea of faces. The lion-faced man climbed the steps and settled the Old One on a mound of sheepskins. One at a time, the members of the procession mounted the dais and nodded to the Ancestor. They nodded but they did not bow...that told Kath a lot. The Old One was respected, even revered, but she did not rule, not like a queen. The painted people displayed a fierce pride, jealously guarding their freedom. They'd make fine allies if she could just win their trust. Wary of making a mistake, she watched as the others sat cross-legged in a solemn circle around the dais, a ring of ravens and snarling mountain lions staring back at her.

Kath was the last one standing. Clutching the lighted candle, she waited at the edge of the dais, unsure what was expected of her.

The Old One gestured. ”Come, child, set your candle on the pillar.”

A single pillar of rust colored rock thrust up from the heart of the dais. Five foot tall, the pillar was sheathed in a thick shroud of white wax, as if thousands candles had wept upon the rock. Approaching the pillar, Kath tilted her candle, letting droplets of warm wax puddle before crowning the stone with her lighted candle.

An angry murmur swept through the crowd.

A s.h.i.+ver of foreboding raced down Kath's back. She needed to gain the trust of the painted people but a chasm of differences gaped between them.

One of the lion faced men strode to her side. A tall man with dark hair, he faced the crowd, his voice echoing across the cavern. ”Strangers have come among us. Without runes, without brands...without any marks of enslavement...without proof they understand the cost of freedom. They bear no tattoos yet they seek our help. Our help, when so for so long none have come to our aid.”

The crowd stirred.

”I say, they are not worthy.”

Kath remained statue still, swallowing her unease.

The lion faced man resumed his seat and Thera rose to take his place. The raven faced healer turned toward the crowd, her voice rising to fill the cavern. ”A handful of barefaced strangers have come where armies fear to tread. They claim to oppose the Mordant, and they ask for our aid, but they also bring word of one of our own. Over two long years ago, Valdur, a Taishan of the mountain lions, was lost on a vision quest. Lost but never forgotten. Now a barefaced stranger comes to bring us word of his fate.” She gestured to Kath, her voice dropping to a whisper. ”Turn and face the people.”

Kath slowly turned, impaled by a thousand stares. So many tattooed faces, most of them full of smoldering outrage, as if she'd defiled a sacred ritual. Bears, boars, badgers and wolves, hawks, eagles, and owls, a press of predators stared back at her, studying their prey, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Kath fought the urge to flee, and then she saw them. Her companions sat at the base of the dais. Blaine in his silver surcoat, looking lost without his sword. Zith in his robes of midnight-blue, his face haggard from his ordeal, his ruined arm held in a sling. And Danya, looking strangely confident, her right hand buried in the wolf's dark fur. A rush of grat.i.tude filled her; she was not alone.

Another lion faced man strode to the heart of the dais. A wild mane of auburn hair gave him a feral look. His voice boomed through the cavern, pulling Kath back to the proceedings. ”We meet in the Great Hall to bear witness to the fate of every Taishan. Listen and hear the fate of Valdur, a Taishan of the mountain lions.” He sketched a strange sign with his hand, as if drawing a rune in the air. ”May the G.o.ds grant us the wisdom to defeat the Dark.”

”Show us the Light.” The words rippled like ritual through the crowd.

He gestured for Kath to step forward. ”Tell us what you know.” He sent her a piercing glare and then took a seat with the others.

Kath stood alone at the heart of the dais, surrounded by thousands of hostile stares.

A chime of bells s.h.i.+vered through the cavern.

Kath shuddered, feeling the crus.h.i.+ng weight of destiny. Somehow this lost man of the mountain lions was of great importance...but it was an importance she did not understand, a riddle mired in the mysticism of a fiercely proud people. Yet instinctively she knew her fate was bound to his, tied by destiny to a dead man she did not even know. Kath felt as if she walked along a cliff edge, where a single wrong word would send her plummeting to the depths.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to still her mind...but each breath was laced with smoke from the Womb of the World. It clung to her clothes, a rich earthy scent of sage and peat and something else, something mysterious. Memories flooded her mind, as vivid as if they'd happened yesterday. Kath closed her eyes, shutting out the hostile stares. ”It happened on a crisp spring morning, the first rays of sunlight hitting the castle ramparts. Late for the healery, I took a shortcut through the great yard. A cavalcade of mounted knights returned to the castle, their armor gleaming bright, maroon octagons emblazoned on their s.h.i.+elds, a proud sight...till I saw the horses lathered with sweat. Something was wrong. The patrol leader called for the healer. Trapped by curiosity, I had to see for myself. No one noticed as I drew near. And then I saw him.” s.h.i.+vers feathered down her spine, as if a ghost reached out to touch her. ”He was slumped on the back of a horse. Pale white leather embroidered with delicate blue flowers marked him as a stranger. And then I saw his face. Whirls of blue ink transformed him into a snarling mountain lion. For the first time, I saw a Painted Warrior.” She gripped the crystal dagger, struggling to hold her voice steady. ”But beneath the blue tattoos, he'd turned ashen, one step away from death's door. I ran for a water skin. Most of it dribbled down his chin...but then his eyes flew open, a sky blue stare filled with desperate need. His b.l.o.o.d.y hand gripped my tunic.” Kath's eyes flew open, fleeing the past...but the present crowded close, trapping her in the grip of a thousand anxious stares. Strangled by a truth she dare not say, her voice fell to a harsh whisper. ”He died in my arms...in the heart of Castlegard. No one even knew his name.”

The stares of the crowd impaled her.

”Tell us how he died.” It was the voice of the Old One...prodding her toward the cliff edge.

Trapped, Kath teetered on the edge of destiny. Everything she'd learned of the painted people screamed of a warrior's pride. And this man of the mountain lions was somehow special, even revered. How could she tell them the truth? How could she speak of arrows protruding from his back? That he'd died running...taken by a coward's death.

”Tell us.” The whisper came from every direction, a cold chant pelting her like hailstones, pus.h.i.+ng her toward the precipice.

Forced to speak, Kath reached for a sliver of truth, hoping it would be enough. ”He was wounded, slain by soldiers of the Mordant.”

The crowd stirred, anger and disbelief warring across their faces.

Kath dared a glance to the Old One, desperate for guidance, but the wrinkled face remained impa.s.sive, her voice a persistent goad. ”How did he die?”

The truth was so hurtful, even d.a.m.ning...but she could not bring herself to lie. If she wanted the painted people's trust, she would have to trust in return. Kath nodded to the Old One and then turned to face the crowd, braced for the backlash. ”The truth is...he died from his wounds...two black and gold fletched arrows skewering his back. He died fleeing the soldiers of the Mordant.”

A gasp rippled through the cavern.

Kath remained statue-still, struggling to understand.

”Did he speak before he died?”

The question carried the weight of destiny.

Kath nodded. As if it had happened yesterday, the dead man's words rang through her mind. ”Be prepared! The G.o.ds give warning! A great Evil returns!” Kath rocked back on her heels, stunned by the strength of her memories.

The Old One prodded. ”What else?”

”He grabbed my tunic and pulled me close...and with his dying breath he said, Claim the war helm...yours to use.”