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STARSIGHT - VOLUME IICHAPTER ONETHE ENEMY’S MOVE &n...

STARSIGHT - VOLUME IICHAPTER ONETHE ENEMY’S MOVE                              The Mourna stretched her wings in the dead night and honed her beak against the ancient stones for what must have been the hundredth time. Nissa stood on the central tower and craned her neck to see beyond the horizon. Initially all that greeted her almost human eyes was the black night in a clear eastern sky and faint icy stars. Had there been anything left of her heart, it would have broken. Crippling loneliness had turned her emotions to stone long ago, so that now all she could feel was a kind of soft pain and a thud of emptiness.         Where is Dornarth? Why has he not returned? She scanned the horizon with those odd eyes and took a deep breath. If Dornarth dies, there will be only one of us left—me. The thought sparked something deep within her like satisfaction. Perhaps it is better that way.         The Mourna had flown to the tower because of the starling dreams. She had dreamt she was a child again, a human child. Dewy grass had cooled her tiny pink feet and a garland of wild korfra had crowned her golden hair like jewels. It was a happy time, a time of innocence, a springtide of youth.         How did it happen? How did I become this monster? Oh, yes, now I remember. It was an attack by night, the screams of her mother and father, the sudden silence—the blood. Then he came. Sirdar, the madman, surrounded by his servants, the giant ebony sasarans with their shining black horns, the laminia with their hideous mouths, and a shadow of fear, the daligon. How old had she been? Six? Seven? Nissa did not know or care anymore. All she had known then was fear, then later pain, and still later complete degradation when she woke one morning forever encased in the body of a grim and deadly bird.         Nissa looked at the wings where hands and arms had been and the taloned claws that were once running feet—human feet.         How she hated him. How she loathed him for the creature he had made her—and yet, how faithfully the Mourna had served him, as they all had. Her mother and father who died early, her brother who went mad and threw himself from this very ledge, the villagers and royalty of Cortaim, each tortured, broken, and then enslaved by the touch of the catalyst and Sirdar’s compelling persuasion.         Sirdar said only the most worthy would receive the gift: a nightmarish existence as the black Mourna. That honor went to twenty-five of them. Sirdar created the horrors in the far north and then waited until he could force a human spirit into the feathered monsters. He tortured them into submission, so they could release the deadly cry of the creature’s voice, fill the blank eyes with human fire, and bring to life the lump of ice that served as a heart.         Yes, they had all served him—and hated him.         Then he had fallen, had died under the mountain. They were free from his corrupt touch. Their joy was short-lived. People hunted them like the atrocities they had become. They knew no better. One by one, the Mournas fell to the blades of revenge, until deep beneath the blackened waste of Mt. Cortaim, starved, weak, and beaten, the final six hid from sight.         Season after season passed, and over the long torment, four more died. When the master returned, only two remained—Dornarth the Warrior, and his mate Nissa, the Weaver of Enchantment. When Sirdar came before them with renewed strength and demands, they tried to rail against him—tried to fight the words, the voice, the compelling command of the red fire—but they could no longer resist his will. Again, they served him.         Nissa could not decide, even now, whom she hated more—Sirdar or herself. She had wanted to live, even if it meant a half-life in the shell of a perversion. No, she thought again, I hate him more. It was the only thing that kept her alive.         “Do you despise me so much, my pet? Have I not been kind to you?”         Nissa bowed her head low and closed her eyes to the shadow that had appeared at her back, terror seizing her heart. “Forgive me, master. I did not hear you approach. What is your command?” It was everything she could do to keep the spite from her voice.         “You can answer my question, Mourna.” The finely manipulated tones of Sirdar’s voice made Nissa cry out in pain. “Do you hate me so much?”         The Mourna cursed herself for not guarding her thoughts. “Hate you, sire?” She did not lift her eyes for fear they would betray her. “You are my lord, my master. How could I hate you?”         “It is well to remember that, my pet.” Sirdar then chuckled. “Keep your hate, Nissa. It will serve me, as all things do, in the end.” He crossed to the stone railing and leaned toward the east. “You seek news of Dornarth, yes?”         The bird lifted her head and regarded the demon’s back. “I was wondering when he would return, my lord.”         Sirdar folded his hands and the crimson hood tilted. “He will not return. But you already knew that.”         The Mourna stared at the dark sea, her voice as fragile as spring ice. “Yes, sire. I suppose I have always known.”         There was a sadistic glower in the eyes that sparkled from beneath the cowl. “Does it bother you?”         Nissa twisted her neck and blinked at the sky, trying desperately to dig up some emotion from deep within her numbed existence. She knew there should be sadness, loss, or even hopelessness, but those feelings were as foreign to her now as dewy grass on naked human feet. There was nothing left in her—only hate. “No,” she answered flatly. Sirdar’s cruel chuckle rolled harshly on the air. “Has he failed in his mission, lord?”         “No, my pet, he has succeeded; he and Balinar both. They will fall as planned. Joshan will come to me now. Sanctum will also fall. Assemblage will be helpless without their power. It will be your turn soon.”         Nissa’s eyes sparked with hope. Would the master release her from life as well? Had she dared, she would have begged it. “Will I be expended like Dornarth, sire?” She could not keep her voice from breaking.         “No, Nissa. I have something entirely different planned for you.” The hood pivoted back to her and those soulless eyes cut into her hate like hot knives. “How would you like to have your human form back?”         A faint light akin to interest flashed in her eyes for the first time in many seasons, quickly replaced by suspicion. “The lord teases me,” she replied dryly, ruffling her feathers.         “No, Mourna, I do not tease you.” His voice was suddenly smooth and kind, making Nissa cringe at its sweetness. She had learned long ago not to trust that voice, although she would obey it without hesitation. “Come, if you do not believe me. I will show you.” There was a murmur of soft sound followed by a tinge of red power and the air became black around them. “Watch.”         A faint luminosity irised slowly from within the darkness. Like a midnight flower opening, the light took on form, hazy at first, then suddenly very clear. An elongated bed of crystal appeared in the middle of the darkness. A transparent dome covered it. Within the glass, shrouded by mist from head to foot, reclined a naked human. The woman had long golden tresses that cascaded over her shoulders and around her breasts to end in fine silky curls at her hips. Her lifeless eyes were radiant blue-green. She stared up without blinking. Her form was slight, but flawless. Nissa stepped back from the vision in shock, and Sirdar brought up a gloved hand to touch it. It passed through the illusion like a cloud.         “Yes, Nissa, it is you, if you had been allowed to keep the human body.” He let a faint lusty breath escape his teeth. “Beautiful, isn’t she? She is almost my greatest achievement. The body has life and breath; she grows and matures. However, her life is small. You could give it more, Nissa. You could give it passion and fire again. All you have to do…”         His voice chocked to a stop abruptly and he staggered back. It was the first time she had ever seen fear in those blazing red eyes and it terrified her. “Quickly, Nissa, take me to the Tower,” he said harshly. He jumped to her back and clung to the feathers until her eyes watered. She leapt into the air and took him high above the castle.         When they landed on the landing before the tall tower, he stumbled to the railing like a drunkard and stared out at the sea. Uncertainty trembled in his hands as they rested on the ancient stone. The daligon appeared as a shadow behind them and rushed to Sirdar.         “Master!” the shadow hissed urgently. “I felt…”         “Silence!”         Sirdar leaned against the railing and intently watched the horizon. He spoke fiercely under his breath in a language Nissa did not know. Then, for a long time he stood very still. A small breeze lifted from the east. As it picked up speed, Sirdar swayed to its rhythm. In a startling movement, he brought a black-gloved fist hard against the stone railing that shattered the ancient granite.         “No! I am not ready!” Sirdar cried at the stars. He put a finger to his lips and thought for a long time. He finally whirled on the shadow at his back. “What strength have we left in reserve?” he spat at the daligon.         “Nearly three-quarters, my lord,” the shadow whispered. “They prepare for the final attack.”         “How is our progress on the field?”         The daligon moved closer to Sirdar. “Would you have me speak truthfully, lord?”         Sirdar’s eyes flashed brightly and the cloud surrounding his head swirled in violent eddies. “Do you imply the reports are false, demon?”         The shadow lowered before the hooded Sirdar. “Not false, sire. However, your generals are perhaps more optimistic than the facts warrant. The troops move the humans back, yes, though slowly, mere inches in days rather than leagues, as they should. There is a captain among them, a westerner named Sark DeMontaire. He drives his people with hope and fills them with such strength of will, everywhere he appears the humans sing as they fight. The idiot laminia flee from his bright eyes and many southern humans have deserted our ranks to join the Thrain scum. Wherever he rides, he cries the emperor’s name and his soldiers take up the challenge until the field rings with the noise.         “Lord,” he continued urgently in that dark whisper. “If I could have your leave, I would take half of those that yet remain and march them against this cur from the west. We will trample him under our beasts’ hooves to capture Thrain. I would deem it a personal honor, my lord, to rid the Palimar Plains of this menace Sark, whom I am certain would flee like a frightened mongrel at my approach.”         “You think so, daligon?” Sirdar said quietly. “Then you do not know this mercenary or the master he serves so well.”         “You know him, my lord?”         “It is the breed I know; the hero who fights for what he thinks is right, then finds in the end it is all for nothing, save the vile taste of honor.” Sirdar’s bitter words robbed the air of substance for a moment, and both creatures gasped for breath until his rage passed. “We have little time, watchman. I will give you what you wish…indeed, more. Release all that remain tonight and smash them down!”         “All, lord?” the daligon hissed. “That would leave Cortaim without protection.”         “It will matter little, daligon. You will do as I say.”         The shadow bowed low. “Immediately, my lord.”         “Now,” Sirdar said to the shadow, but regarded Nissa, “that boy, the one Balinar said the deinos captured. Where is he?”         “We still have not been able to locate him,” the daligon replied. “We suspect he must be somewhere east of Dru. I can send the tarsian out again to search if you wish, sire.”         “No,” Sirdar replied thoughtfully. “I will attend to it personally. How long will it take the soldiers to reach the Palimar Plains?”         The daligon remained silent as he calculated. “From here, lord, a fortnight, perhaps a day or two longer.”         There was no passion in Sirdar’s smoldering eyes. “You have fifteen days, no more, watchman. Do you understand?”         Again, the daligon bowed. “Yes, my lord, fifteen days. With your permission, I must make haste to the camps.” Sirdar nodded and the daligon rushed down the wide ramp, disappearing into the night.         Nissa returned her master’s gaze and lowered her head. “What is your command, lord?”         Sirdar ran a gloved hand seductively along her neck, sending a repugnant chill through her spine. “A special task for you, my sweet, to prove your loyalty.” She looked down at him and those crimson eyes narrowed. “No, I do not trust you, but I do not need to. After you take me on a small errand, you will fly to the Isle of Dru. If you succeed, we will reunite you with your lost humanity. What would you do for that?”         Desire flickered unguarded through her mind. “Anything, my lord,” she whispered.         Sirdar pointed to the east. “You are about to witness the end of many things. After you have watched, then give me your answer.”         On the horizon, looking like the rosy haze of sunrise, a faint light began to shine. The hour was too soon for dawn. She suddenly realized what it was, a pillar of fire rising in the sky.         “You witness the fall of Sanctum, Nissa, the fall of wisdom, knowledge, and the last hope of peace for these people. You also witness the destruction of Dornarth your lover, Balinar the Heretic, and Palarine the old fool. An era has passed, my pet, and a new world is about to emerge. The Sight is born tonight.” The unbridled fervor in his voice startling Nissa. “Watch well. For a force has awoken in the world you will never see again. Trenara will be mine—all of creation will be mine—and Joshan will fall to darkness, as the island has. Light will be gone from the universe forever. Such is my revenge.         “I now ask you again, Mourna. What would you do to become human, faced with only eternal darkness?”         Great tears formed in her cold, almost-human eyes for the first time in twenty seasons, but she did not speak. “What will you do, Nissa?” he breathed into her ear.         “Anything, my master,” she whispered.         Sirdar’s voice was as cold as death. “Then this is what I command…”         As the light faded, a great rolling thunder of drums echoed across the valley floor beyond Cortaim, heralding the troops that would march to crush the empire.

Starsight I on AmazonSTARSIGHT - VOLUME ICHAPTER ONETHE S...

Starsight I on AmazonSTARSIGHT - VOLUME I
CHAPTER ONETHE STARGUIDER   Age crept through her certainty like a malignancy, leaving the guider feeling old and sick inside, as she stared up at the menacing black wall. She couldn’t hold it back—her magic was simply too weak. Trenara stood alone, trembling as the darkness towered above her. It was so long, it faded into distance on either side of her frail form; and so tall, it fused into black clouds high above her head as a deafening thunder pounded the sky and scattered lightning blinded her.  She stood between the wall and the world. The shadow rushed forward, eating away at everything so quickly there was no time to respond. When she could do nothing else, Trenara howled up in frustration, her tiny fists quivering with fury, her mouth silent in the roar of the ruin. There was nothing she could do to stop it from shattering the Imperium, not even a hope she could grasp in her tiny fingers. When the world surrendered, a feeble shaft of light opened the blackness for a fleeting instant and showed her once again the only promise against destruction: a frightened child—and a broken wand. The starguider screamed.  *****  Trenara came out of the dream with a start and sat up. Scanning the room, she thought she had heard a scream and then realized it must have been her own. Her vocal chords still ached as she touched her throat uncertainly, scowling at the early morning. The guider’s nightgown was soaked with sweat, and clumps of waist-long gray hair clung to her forehead and neck. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and buried her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably for a moment. Taking a deep breath to stop the tremors, Trenara got up to cross to her dressing room.  She tried to dislodge the dream that haunted her as she dressed, but her trembling hands were making the simple action of buttoning her undershirt almost impossible. She dressed as quickly as she could. Her aide Ena had laid out food and tea on the table, but Trenara ignored it, as she tied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and stepped to the balcony to try to calm her shattered senses in the morning breeze.  Far below, she could see the tide was in and the ships, so very few it seemed, were moored haphazardly to the docks. She frowned at the harbor, wondering why it seemed so empty. The captain would be furious if he were alive, Trenara thought. Blue and black sea scalards flew in large flocks as they screamed and darted in the salty air. The pound of the surf and the hiss of the tide were very faint as they drifted up the castle wall. The sound helped to soothe her mangled nerves.  The nightmare was approaching the realm of vision, she knew, but of what she didn’t know, and the thought unsettled her. It felt as if the gods were meddling again, directing her, forcing her toward something. But, as always, she didn’t know what. They had done this to her many times, for as long as she could remember. The guider told no one, of course; it wasn’t something you shared. This time the visions were frightening, confusing and involved not only herself, but also a child she loved—Joshan. Trenara shivered, returned to the room to grab her satchel, and left in a black mood.  *****  “No, no, lad!” Haiden brought his quarterstaff up and pounded it into the ground. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and spat into the dust at his feet. “Put your back into it, not your arms. I’ve seen you fight better with your nurse.”  Joshan, perhaps half the size of the grizzly older man and a fraction of his age, circled around, and adjusted his grip; this man was notorious for his speed and trickery. The boy’s tunic was streaked with sweat and his face red with exertion. With energy he didn’t feel, Joshan again lunged at Haiden uselessly.  “That’s better, lad.” The sergeant gave him a half crooked smile and switched the staff to his other hand. “Now, let’s see what you can do with some real fighting.” He crouched low and readied his attack.  Joshan put up his stave and massaged his side. “A moment, Haiden. Let me catch my breath.”  “Your breath, is it? Well, if you think your enemy will give you time to catch your breath, think again.” He gave a vicious cry and charged.  In the same instant Joshan dived for the ground. The tip of Haiden’s staff just missed the prince’s ear and Joshan pushed his staff across the sergeant’s legs. Haiden didn’t have time to stop before winding his burly limbs around the shaft and stumbling headlong into the dusty courtyard. He spun around, spitting out dirt and glared at the young prince with a mute smile. Joshan was beside himself with laughter.  “You’ll be sore a week for that!” Haiden hauled himself up and ran after the boy, who stopped his laughter only long enough to skirt a battle dummy.  “You should be proud, sergeant.” Joshan wiped his eyes, which glistened darkly in the morning light. “I’ve only done what you taught me.”  “I’ll teach you a thing or three when I get my hands on you. Now hold still.”  Haiden feinted to the left, causing the boy to move a little too quickly to the right, and then he had him. Weak with laughter, they went down in a tangle of arms and legs and dust. Over and over they rolled, almost ending under the hooves of two very frightened eechas tethered nearby. The creatures arched their high backs, and a shudder sent the long fur rippling as they skirted the two and shrieked their displeasure.  Guards gathered to watch the play. Though the boy was barely ten and the guard close to sixty, they were admired by everyone who knew them. Their laughter mingled in a delightful harmony of youthful giggle and aged guffaw.  A voice ripped through the courtyard with a sudden, sharp edge that broke the noisy revelry. “Haiden!” Both turned to see the regal figure of Jenhada glaring down at them from a balcony, and smiles dissolved. Haiden and the others fell to one knee and bent their heads.  The emperor clutched a heavy cloak around once strong shoulders as if to ward off chill, although the air was quite warm and approaching the torridness of high season. Deep lines etched his face, and his eyes were shadows under a course mane of graying hair.  “It seems, sergeant, you would have better things to do with your time than this foolery.” His voice was edged with a contempt that sent shivers through Haiden’s spine; but in it, too, was the underlying fatigue of sleepless nights. The emperor’s illness showed in the lines around his mouth, the furrows in his formerly smooth brow, and in those restless eyes. “You will see to it this does not happen again. Failing this, I will find my son another trainer. What brawling you do with your men, is your business. The prince is mine. Do I make myself clear?”  “Yes, sire.” Haiden nodded once humbly.  Jenhada snorted an acknowledgement and exchanged a glance with Councilor Pravius who stood at his back. The man returned the look with a nod of approval. “Isn’t it time for your lessons?” The emperor barely glanced at Joshan as he pulled the collar up around his neck. “That is, if that magician of yours hasn’t forgotten again. Get yourself cleaned up and at least somewhat presentable. You are not a beggar. I will not have you looking like one!”  “Yes, father.” Joshan lowered his eyes so his father would not see the anger. The blush of embarrassment turned his face scarlet to the ears.  Jenhada leaned on his cane and limped off without another word, as the bent figure of Pravius glared at Joshan. The prince thought for a fleeting moment the councilor’s face had changed; it was hard and cruel, a side of Pravius Joshan had never seen before. When he blinked, the expression had faded and the man was once again the tiny, pale figure with massive sad eyes Joshan had known since he could remember. Pravius spared the prince a languid nod before turning to catch up with the emperor.  Haiden got up and brushed dust from his clothes, looking after Jenhada. The crowd disbanded in silence as Joshan straightened his tunic and retrieved his staff. “I’m sorry, Haiden,” he said. “Father’s been very sick lately. I don’t know what comes over him sometimes.”  “I know, lad. I’ve known your da a long time.” Grabbing the prince’s shoulders, he pushed him gently toward the entrance. “But off with you. I got work to do and Trenara will have my hide if you’re late.”  “Tomorrow, then.” Joshan ran for his quarters, throwing his staff to a guard.  *****  Joshan had just arrived at Fourth Gate when he saw his mentor’s beautiful white eecha charging down the road at full gallop, the stallion’s flat face and long ears rippling in the wind. There was no mistaking the Starguider Trenara, even at that distance. Her tall, slim figure was held straight in the saddle, a magnificent silver mane of wayward hair flowing behind her like a tempest, despite feeble attempts to tame it. Piercing azure blue eyes shone from a face that seemed ageless, despite soft lines and the mantle of gray around it. Her beauty was still striking, and she often turned heads, even at fifty-two seasons.  Trenara was wearing blue today, a sign she was in a pensive mood. Joshan had been with the guider on a daily basis for so long, knowing her moods had become second nature to the boy. No stories today, he thought dismally. He wished he could stay with Haiden, but knew better. It was going to be another day of rote lessons and boring recitals.  Trenara spotted the lad and gave him a curt nod, catching the flash in the young eyes. Joshan had the oval shape of his mother’s face and the dark coloring of his father, but the eyes, not the mother’s nor even the father’s, shone brown-black in the mid-morning light and were distinctly his own.  The black and white eecha he was straddling reared as Trenara approached, spooked by the crystal scepter tucked in her robes. The animal jostled him on the high saddle until Joshan got her under control. “Where to today, guider?” he asked cheerfully, undaunted by the guider’s mood.  “The High Cliffs, I should think.” Trenara shaded her eyes to measure the sun. “But I’d like to stop in the forest first.” She dug her heels into her eecha and did not look back to see if Joshan followed.  As they emerged from the thick archway of Fourth Gate, a huge open plaza spread out before them, alive with marching guards, fighting men and women, and soldiers doing what they did best—marshalling together in perfectly formed straight columns. Joshan glanced at them longingly, again wishing he could stay. There hadn’t been a war in the provinces in nearly thirty seasons, but the Guards still recruited, trained, and prepared though the numbers had dwindled to less than a fraction of their old force. The massive military grounds looked strangely deserted.  On the other side of great courtyard, beyond the training fields, barracks, and medical facilities loomed an enormous steel reinforced wall; Third Gate. The large entrance was always open at this time of day. A squad of Elite, the emperor’s personal guard, stood at attention on either side like vivid blue standards, bright against the aging stone blocks. The village of Keepton could be seen through the gate, the bustling market at the height of its trade.  Between the noise of the shouting guards on one side and the crying vendors selling their wares on the other, Joshan and Trenara had to cover their ears as they passed through the echoing tunnel.  Trenara was thankful to be leaving the Keep, as the wet weather had trapped them in the castle for nearly a month. She glanced up at the pale blue sky, the wisps of grey-white clouds floating delicately above their heads and the mayhem of humanity parting for them as they moved through the first of two villages sheltered in the immense fortress. In earlier times, an escort of several guards would have been required for them to leave the castle. Thank the gods they don’t do that anymore, she thought as they moved through the milling crowd. The Imperium had enjoyed thirty seasons of peace and the countryside was safe again, not to mention the fact that most people would think twice about attacking a Starguider.  As they made their way through the streets of the village, she saw several uniformed men, but they seemed out of place. Trenara didn’t think much of it until they reached Second Gate. She knew many of the guards personally and had for years; but at each of the three gates leading to the countryside, these men seemed to be strangers to her now. The guider eyed a few of them suspiciously, knowing they were not from Thrain.  They were dark, swarthy men who leered at them. Her eyesight wasn’t good without the spectacles she habitually left behind, and they all looked alike to her, so she passed it off as fancy. However, as they approached First Gate, Trenara noticed where once there had been a full complement of guards, there seemed to be a minimal crew. Odd, since she knew Haiden kept the gates fully manned at all times. She would talk to the emperor about it next time she saw him, but wondered again when that would be.  Her mind wandered to Jenhada. The emperor hadn’t called her in several months, and she missed the dinners they usually shared to discuss the Imperium, both the Empire and Assemblage. Trenara knew of his illness, of course, his lack of sleep and the blinding headaches. When she tried to reach him, she was refused by the Elite, stating the emperor would call at need. Trenara thought she was getting sensitive in her old age. After all, the emperor was a busy man and she had her books, her studies, and Joshan to look after.  “What are you thinking, guider?” Joshan asked, seeing his mentor scowling.  “Oh, nothing, lad,” she replied pensively as they approached the tunnel to First Gate. “Let’s get going.”  “Good enough!” Without warning, Joshan spurred his eecha into a full dash down the long passageway and disappeared in a cloud of dust before Trenara could call. The guider tapped her mount irritably.  “Come along, Gliding. We better catch the young idiot before he breaks his neck.” She goaded him into a gallop, the stones echoing the hoof beats like drum rolls.  Some leagues from the Keep, after a grueling race through rutted fields and hidden sands surrounding the fortress walls, the guider caught the spirited rider. Joshan had slowed his mare to a trot and was casually taking in the sights and sounds of the beautiful high season day.  “A marvelous morning, don’t you think?” he ventured, as the guider rode up beside him.  “Don’t give me that. You’re fortunate you didn’t break your neck, charging off like that. Your father would roast me alive if anything were to happen to you. I’ll thank you not to risk your neck along with mine. Though both are probably worth little, I still value them!”       Joshan gave her one of those special, disarming smiles. “Please don’t scold me, not today. This one feels special somehow. I promise I won’t do it again.”  “I doubt that. But it is a lovely day and there is something rather special I wanted to show you.”  Joshan regarded her wide-eyed and stood up in the stirrups. “What?” Trenara’s “something specials” were really to be marveled.  Trenara chuckled. “Well, you’re going to have to behave yourself. That eecha of yours is too large for you as it is. How Haiden ever talked me into it, I’ll never know. At the very least, you could cause her a fall and possibly break her leg, not to mention your own. Then where would you be?”  Joshan sat back in the saddle and patted the mare’s neck affectionately. “Not Whirl. She’s very sure footed and Haiden says she seems to have more sense than me.”  “That I won’t contest,” she said flatly. “Come on. We’ve a lot of trail to cover, so step it up.” They left the main road and proceeded to the forest that lined it. Once through the trees they picked up a well-used path and followed in silence.  Something is gnawing Trenara, Joshan thought. He decided not to dwell on it, though he did wonder what the starguider had in store for him. He knew when he woke this day was going to be exceptional. He didn’t want anything to spoil it. Unfortunately, Trenara did not share the lad’s enthusiasm. The dreams still haunted her, awakening something she hadn’t felt in seasons. Even Andelian, the crystal scepter tucked in her robes, felt colder somehow today. She began to feel ancient.  They finally reached a moss-blanketed clearing in the trees, where they went through the hour or so of voice training. Joshan hit the notes exactly as Trenara had taught him, each one perfect in his high voice. The boy’s talents had always been uncanny, almost genius. It was the main reason the prince was chosen to train for Assemblage. His mastery of the musical notes that amplified the power with their resonance was unsurpassed by anyone of his age, or very possibly, anyone this side of second trial. He had been a phenomenon almost since birth.  Not just with the control notes. The boy had a talent for spoken manipulation as well, which usually came only after many seasons of training for any other guider. When very young, Joshan found if he pitched his voice in a certain way, his nurse would do almost anything. That all ended, of course, when Trenara took over his training. She was immune to his pranks, and he was usually punished severely when he tried to manipulate her. Without knowing it, he could have seriously hurt or even killed someone. It was for this reason Trenara had been selected to train the prince. Her voice and techniques were equally uncanny. On the few occasions when they sang together, everyone within earshot had to stop to listen. The sound was exquisite.  After the lessons, they remounted to travel to the High Cliffs. This was a long journey as the climb was taxing on the animals, so they had to be rested often. Neither the guider nor her pupil minded, however. Despite their differences, they enjoyed each other’s company.  On long journeys, Trenara usually told wonderful stories as they rode. If asked, she would take you to ancient times, long before the Crystal of Healing fell from the heavens, or Assemblage and the Empire governed the world. Back to Kerillian the Prophet, and his travels through the old provinces. Sometimes, she spoke quietly of the dark times: tales of monsters, wars, and brave deeds. Trenara would often talk about Assemblage itself, its greatness, and its failings. She would speak longingly of Mathisma, the Assemblage home nestled in an island fortress far over the Ethosian Sea to the east. Or she’d tell you about the Starguiders, their queer, enigmatic ways and the music of power, always with a bemused smile.       If you were very, very good, the guider would sing the histories, her contralto voice so pure it would take you to another world entirely. At times Joshan would join her in his favorites, his high voice adding complicated harmonies and intricate melodies. This was always the best time for both of them.  Her tales were not limited to the power. They included the history of the provinces, the empire, and the grand (and not so grand) deeds of Joshan’s ancestors, the long line of emperors and empresses that preceded him. The prince felt he learned more from these ancient stories than from any books, and Trenara silently agreed.  The eechas plodded along the trail, their hoof beats dulled by the soft ground, as green-filtered sunrays danced solemnly around them. The trees chattered with life and the fragrance of the afternoon had an intoxicating appeal. It caused the guider’s mood to soften, and the prince’s to mellow. Each was once again immersed in the friendship they had grown to love.  “What tale shall it be today, lad?” Trenara asked cheerfully.  Joshan thought for a moment, but hesitated to ask for what he really wanted. The guider was in such a wonderful mood, it might be the perfect time; or then again, the worst.  “Come, come, out with it. The story of Cessas and the Crystal? The Sea Tarsian and the Princess? The…”  “Well, I had thought, perhaps the story of… of Sirdar, ma’am.”  Trenara pulled her reins and shot Joshan a stern look. “Sirdar?” Narrowing her eyes, she didn’t speak at once, looking the boy over carefully.  This was too much for Joshan, who stared down at his hands. “That is… of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”  “Hmmm.” Trenara clicked to her eecha and continued down the path with Joshan riding in tortured silence beside her.  “It’s a dark story,” the guider said at length, gazing at the trail, “and to be honest, one I should have told you before this. I suppose now would be as good a time as any.” She settled into the saddle and Joshan didn’t say a word.  “It was almost thirty seasons ago when the signs came… signs that something was wrong.  “It was a good season.” Trenara sighed, an old memory sparking a small smile. “One of the finest, as I recall. Your father was at his peak in those days; young, headstrong and untried, yet brave and wise when the empire needed him to be. The young man who had been simply Prince Jenhada had become Emperor Jenhada Thoringale Kanaine.” She paused for a moment, staring off into the woods.  “The first reports came from Badain in the south; reports that a large flying lizard had destroyed several small villages and was terrorizing the populace. The scholars consulted their books and discovered that the monster could only be a flying tarsian. It was an ancient reptile, a creature bent on the destruction of anything living. But tarsians had been extinct for centuries. The emperor sent soldiers, of course, and passed it off as an isolated incident. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. More villages burned, more lives were lost, more soldiers sent, never to return.  “Then other creatures began to appear… some of them so strange and unfamiliar we had a hard time believing they could possibly exist. That is, until we saw them with our own eyes,” she continued gravely. “There was the sasaran, a perversion of a beast that walked like a man, had immense black horns, hoofed feet, and a wicked temper. The laminia, creatures who lived on the blood of the helpless. The Mourna… the Assemblage Bane. Its voice drew the unsuspecting guider to do the bidding of its master. It appeared as an enormous black bird…” The drone of her voice stopped as a memory sent shivers through her. “There were others.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead. “Gruesome to see—dangerous to cross.  “A seditious starguider named Balinar took the Crystal of Healing from Sanctum where it had been safe for millennia. He escaped to Badain, where he became captain to the master who had summoned him.  “A terrible fear weakened the Imperium. Without the Crystal, the power was erratic and often lethal. Assemblage was crippled, and the name of Sirdar spread like fire as his forces marched toward Thrain. The horde blackened the land and the hearts of men as they advanced. Faithful men succumbed to his spell daily, taking up his banner and joining his ranks—hundreds of thousands of them. Edicts poured into the Keep proclaiming Sirdar master, threatening complete annihilation if the emperor did not throw open his gates and surrender.  “By the end of Meridian, the enemy crossed the borders of Thrain, driving a multitude of refugees before them that filled the Keep to overflowing. Sirdar’s army stood like a massive wave at our gates. No assault could move them, or tricks deter them. Finally, we could do nothing more than quake behind Thrain’s last defense. After a long siege, the emperor and his armies marched out to meet them.  “While the battle raged at The Keep hundreds of leagues away, Sirdar stayed at his fortress in Badain, afraid to move from its protection until his victory was assured. Assemblage sent its strongest men and women to face him. A hundred Starguiders marched on the castle at Mt. Cortaim.” Trenara lowered her head and tears filled her eyes. “We believe most were lost to Sirdar’s creatures or destroyed by the blackest magic. What few remained charged his fortress and there passed out of knowledge.  “No one knows what happened that day in Badain. All we know is the darkness was soon abated, the creatures drew back from our borders, and the land cleared of foe. The war, which had raged at the Keep’s gates, ended all at once when the enemy fled in terror. Many were trampled by their own eechas and more killed by our advancing armies. The rest were captured and eventually sent back to their homes, most uncertain why they waged war to begin with. Sirdar’s power over them had been complete.  “None of the Assemblage who traveled to Badain ever returned, and like a miracle, the Crystal of Healing was found back in its place of honor at Sanctum. By what device, no one knows.” She stopped for a moment and turned her head away.  “There are many conjectures as to what happened in the south.  The only thing we are reasonably certain of was that Sirdar and Balinar were destroyed. When reports came in later, it was found that Mt. Cortaim, where Sirdar kept his headquarters, was nothing more than a pile of rubble and melted rock. No one could have survived. We searched, of course, but there was nothing to find. Safeguards were put into place in Badain and the emperor ordered that no starguider be allowed to set foot in the province again.  “That was the end of it. It took seasons to heal, but the reasons for Sirdar’s rise and the cause of his fall are lost in a mountain of fused glass. I suppose the mysteries will never be solved.” She grew still then.  The afternoon began to fade to early dusk and the forest was quiet. Joshan glanced at the furrowed brow of his mentor and put a small hand on hers as it rested on the saddle. “It’s over now,” he whispered.  “Yes—over. It brings back memories just as soon forgotten.” She remained silent for some time and finally breathed deeply to shake the feelings. “Enough of this gloom,” she said at length, throwing him a glorious smile. “What say we see who has the fastest eecha?”  Joshan grinned broadly. “I’ll wager we beat you by twenty spans, at least,” he said, hastily adjusting his reins.  “And I’ll wager a month’s lessons we leave you behind by at least a league.”  “You’re going to miss me for a whole month. To the ridge?”  “As you wish.”  They went thundering down the path in a spray of mud and grass. Despite the prince’s best efforts, Trenara won the race and Joshan heartily vowed to beat her one day, to which the guider chuckled. She knew it would not be far in the future, having won this one by no more than a hand’s breadth by what she considered luck—with possibly a dash of treachery.  When they reached the High Cliffs, it was approaching dusk. After a light supper, they sat on the edge of the towering rock face that fell thousands of spans below their dangling feet, the Keep to the left and the Ethosian Sea to the right. The sun was a giant red disc hanging lazily on the western horizon, with endless drifts of red and purple clouds billowing across the evening sky. The star Ethos shone like a fiery beacon on the eastern horizon, and the two watched the spectacle of sunset in silence.  “You see the star?” the guider asked at length, pointing to the flickering brilliance as it rose from the sea.  “She always rises before the moons, doesn’t she? Why is it Ethos seems larger than the other stars and so much brighter?” Joshan threw pebbles into the chasm under his feet and watched as they bounced off the cliff face below.  “It’s closer to our world than the other stars, so it only appears larger.” Trenara pointed to the large rosy moon starting its climb. “Both moons, Redwyn and Whilema, would seem like stars if you could stand on Ethos. As would our own world, I’d venture. Though the star is nearer, it is still some billion, billion leagues away.”  The boy whistled softly. “I can’t even imagine a distance that far.”  The guider laughed. “You will, if you pay attention to your lessons. When we reach Mathisma, you’ll learn under more knowledgeable teachers than I. Astronomy has never been one of my strengths.”  The boy regarded the darkening sky. “When will I reach first trial, Trenara?” he asked dreamily.  “Oh, not for many seasons—at least three or four. After that, you will travel to the island and learn so much more of your craft.”  “If I ever get to Mathisma.”  Trenara shot up an eyebrow. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”  Joshan shook out of his reverie and looked at the guider with a wistful smile. “I don’t know. Sometimes I get the impression… well I just can’t seem to picture myself studying in the Learning Halls of Assemblage.” He turned to regard the Keep and put his chin in his hands. “Just a feeling, I guess.”  “More like wishful thinking, if you ask me,” she replied, throwing a stone down the cliff face. “You’ve never been overly fond of book learning.”  “Can you blame me? All cooped up with a bunch of dusty old books?”  “Dusty old—scoundrel! You are beginning to sound like Vanderlinden,” Trenara exclaimed, but Joshan gave her a sad nod.  “That does sound like the captain, doesn’t it? I miss him sometimes.”  Trenara’s eyes dulled for a moment. “As do I, my boy. He was a good friend.” She drew a deep breath. “But once you get to Mathisma, I think you’ll enjoy it.”  Joshan gave her a half smile. “We’ll see.”  He jumped up and hung from the limb of a nearby tree. “Guider, tell me more about the stars.”  Trenara rose stiffly and brushed the dirt from her robes. “Not just now. I had something entirely different in mind.”  Joshan loosened his grip on the limb and dropped to the ground, the excitement making his eyes twinkle. “What?”  “Come on. Let’s go back to the clearing. It’ll be safer there.”  They walked through the few sparse trees that outlined the cliffs and came into a large clearing blanketed by wild green grasses and night-dark flowers. Trenara went to the eechas, threw her cloak over Gliding, and then put her satchel on the saddle horn. She drew her via Andelian from her robes and returned to Joshan. The crystal rod caught the early moonlight and colors flashed brightly in the segmented orb at its top.  “Sit there,” she said, indicating a small boulder at one end of the glade. Joshan stared at her wide-eyed with anticipation and silently did her bidding, as the guider stepped to the center to survey the grass and trees surrounding them. When she seemed satisfied, she turned to the boy and winked.  “I thought you might like to see what the power can do.”  “Oh, yes, please,” Joshan exclaimed, clapping his hands.  “Very well, then. But first, tell me how it works.”  The prince was disappointed by the delay, but said, “The power comes from the star Ethos, then into the Crystal of Healing which lies in Sanctum on Mathisma, and then to one of the Assemblage vias where it’s amplified with the musical notes.” The words tumbled out like spilled water, but he added more slowly, “Uh, your via is Andelian.”  Trenara scowled. “Well, basically correct, though sketchy at best. I’ll forgive your curt reply since I know you’ve learned more than this in all your seasons of training.” A guilty look flashed over his young face, but it was soon replaced by excitement, and the chide was quickly forgotten.  “Now…” Trenara began and lifted her arms to allow the sleeves of her robe to fall back.  The clearing was dark. The sun had taken its last yawn at the sky and nestled beyond the horizon to the west, while the larger of the two moons, Redwyn the Giant, rose stiffly from his slumber in the east and cast a ruby hue over the night. Whilema would soon slip from the waves of the Ethosian Sea and try to drown her brother’s light. Though a great deal smaller, the moon was several times more brilliant. Their battle for the dominion of the night would begin. Neither moon was full that night, allowing the milliard of stars to litter the sky like a thrown handful of magic dust. A night fowl shrieked, a rodent screamed, and then all was very still.       Trenara faced the east with Andelian held high. She closed her eyes and a barely audible chant chimed on the air, the crystal rod beginning to take on an almost imperceptible glow. A single exquisite musical note came from her throat: low, resonating, and perfect. There was a sudden hiss of wind that whipped the guider’s robes around her, and then a blaze of white radiance that flashed through the glade and settled into a frosty glow around the guider’s tall form.  She took a deep breath to ease the tension in her limbs and then sang another high note that floated a long time on the air. It focused the swirling light until she glowed like a white flame. Ecstasy enfolded her face as the power took hold and a radiant expression chased the age and wrinkles away, leaving not a woman, but an ethereal spirit, a shining goddess. When she lowered her eyes to Joshan, they glowed with white-hot fire that painted the young boy’s face with awe.  Trenara’s smile was glorious.  “You like magic, don’t you?” the guider asked, her voice dulcet and reverberating. Joshan nodded mutely. “Then, let’s see if we can conjure some.”  She pointed her scepter just to the right of Joshan’s ear and began her song, so beautiful the boy’s heart skipped a beat. A beam of light escaped the orb with a crackle and stopped where she intended, leaving a white spot no larger than a coin. The beam returned, but the spot remained and began to dance merrily in the darkness to the rhythm of her music. Joshan held his breath and heard a soft tinkling, like suspended glass in the wind.  The air began to fill with tiny dancing lights as Trenara struck fire again and again, until the sound of their music blended with her singing. It became a chorus of delightful bells.  Joshan’s intoxication with the lights grew as he jumped from the rock and began to chase the elusive pseudo stars. They evaded his every move, teasing him mercilessly as they glided between splayed fingers, around his head or through his legs. Trenara’s laughter echoed through the clearing in rippling waves that shook the leaves of the nearby trees.  The lights seemed to be strangely attracted to the boy as they gathered around him like so many moths to a flame. The guider hadn’t given it much thought, however. Ethotic starmoths were an independent lot with likes and dislikes of their own. She remembered vaguely hearing they preferred children to adults. Something about being attracted to purity of heart or that strange, enigmatic quality that youngsters had, which seemed to harden with age.  After the frantic chase, Joshan sat heavily on the grass and Trenara decided to end the chaos. They had a long, hard ride ahead and she didn’t relish the thought of carrying a sleeping prince back to the Keep. Off in the distance she caught the faint sound of horns coming up the cliff walls. The gates would be closed soon.  She lifted her scepter once more and spoke to the starmoths gently. “Come, children, time to go.” Waving Andelian twice, Trenara sang to the wind and one by one, the lights were extinguished. Joshan held out his hands, watching the failing stars sadly, as they brushed his palms in farewell and then sighed when they were gone.  Andelian lost her sheen at once, and Trenara put the via back in her robes. Exhausted, she sat next to the prince and put her arm around his small shoulders. “Well, lad, what did you think?” Joshan was speechless for a moment, but then took the guider’s hand and kissed it.  “Oh, Trenara, that was the most wonderful, the most spectacular… I’ve never seen anything like it. They are—delightful.” Joshan felt it inadequate, but could think of nothing better.  “Perhaps, but the moths can be the devil’s own when they want to be, especially to those they don’t like.” She smiled at an old memory and rose stiffly.  “I’m glad you enjoyed them… and they you. But we need to go. We’ll barely make it back before they close the gates.” She went to Gliding and donned her cloak, throwing the satchel over her shoulder. She turned to Joshan. “Are you coming?”  “In a moment, guider. I just wanted…” His voice was cut off as a strong gust of wind swept from the east, so powerful it threw Trenara into her eecha. Joshan’s eyes widened in terror, and his feet became anchored to the ground. He stood as still as stone, although Trenara was having trouble keeping upright. His mouth hung open at an odd angle, moving as though he were trying to speak, but couldn’t.  “No!” Trenara screamed against the wind. “Not now!” Fear ripped through the guider when she realized what was happening. She cursed the gods for choosing a time when she was unprepared. She had seen first trial several times, but each time the same foreboding took her. Will the child survive the trial? Will my own power be enough? And, strangely… is the child old enough? Never in her experience had the power taken one so young.  She struggled to get to the boy and pulled the still warm Andelian from its place. Joshan went to his knees as Trenara reached him, some silent demand having been given. The guider raised the scepter high above her head. As she placed her free hand on Joshan’s brow, anger welled inside her at this unfortunate turn of events. Here, in the middle of the woods, leagues away from another living soul, there was nothing to help her but her via and her courage. She hoped they would be enough.  This time the notes she sang were very low, like the sound of distant thunder on a rising storm, a deep solemn song drowned by the power’s wind. The notes bolted to the heavens and a faint echo answered. The power came as a mist from the sky and quickly turned to a torrent of glistening light as it drifted into the scepter she held tightly in her hand. Joshan paled and his breathing became shallow as the power took him.  Trenara’s body stiffened, her breath became labored and fear threatened to consume her; and would have, had it not been for the overwhelming force suddenly thrust into her hands. The fire spread to her arms, her middle, her legs. With a jolt of clarity, it took over her mind in a single instant. She felt suddenly young and strong, certain of her abilities, and absolutely trusting of the power that engulfed her.  The guider fought desperately for the boy’s consciousness, which seemed to slip away like sand through her fingers, and just as desperately not to harm the young mind as she entered its fringes. With every awareness, Trenara could feel Joshan’s terror deepening to insanity and she struggled to hold him.  All the seasons of training and experience came to this one moment, this brief second in time. If she failed now, the child would die. When the guider had control of the white energy around them, she whispered gently into his ear, “Joshan, don’t fight it. Let the power touch you. You’ll feel pain—terrible, terrible pain—but I promise it will pass quickly. Remember your training. Let it touch you.”  The light around them blazed, but Joshan’s eyes were dull and vacant. “Trust me,” Trenara rasped. “If you don’t let the fire touch you, you’ll die. You must master it. There’s no other choice. Let it touch you.” Slowly, almost unseen, a dim light began to grow in Joshan’s eyes. “Yes!” Trenara exclaimed, trying to control her own use of the power now. “You must sing, Joshan. I can’t help you.” The drone of the wind swept her words away like dust.  Joshan could feel the presence of the power now and was suddenly unafraid. Exhilaration lit his mind with fire; a joy that few mortals could know filled him with ecstasy. He could hear every sound, feel each vibration on the air as though he were somehow linked with the life surrounding him. From the spider clinging desperately to the blade of grass at his feet, to the ancient trees that bowed low to the wind, he felt entangled with them, as if their awareness were his.  Joshan was no longer the child of ten seasons, full of wonder and awe. In an instant, he was beyond mortal flesh, beyond the primitive sight of man, into a new awareness that shouted at him madly and made mortality a small thing—very small. He was ultimate, alive, free.  Then, by degrees, the light began to change. It swirled around them, sparkling with the moon’s brilliance reflected on its white beauty, when the fringes became tainted a pale blue. The blue deepened at an accelerated rate, alarming the guider so much she nearly dropped her via. Second trial, by the color, but that wasn’t possible.  The blue veil pulsated, undulating around the two, while the trees watched and the world stood still for a breathless moment. With the abruptness of a lightning bolt, the blue became a shower of green flame, pouring down on them in a torrent, engulfing them with energy Trenara had never known. Third trial!  “Joshan, you must sing!” Trenara’s demand grated on the boy’s mind like a slap in the face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and a wave of terror swept through him. Joshan strained to move the notes to the outside, but they died in his throat. The color of the flame deepened and became as dense as smoke. He felt the danger. He knew he would die and the guider with him, if he did not sing to end the power.  Visions came so suddenly to his mind, they made him sick with their intensity: his father’s death, a vague shadow of a woman who could bring him triumph or terrible defeat, an annihilation of the empire more horrible than any imagining, a golden sword and then a black one, shot with red and Trenara—Trenara?  The power blackened. A scream pierced his mind. The pain was intolerable. It burns!  It burns!  Then the final vision came and his destiny opened like a gaping wound. Joshan knew what his purpose was, knew what it would mean for the world, and it almost drove him mad. The horror shook his tiny body like an earthquake. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t form the words. Trenara’s thoughts reached out to him as a burst of fire in the darkness.  SING BEFORE WE BOTH PERISH!  A note of absolute perfection flowed from the boy’s throat, controlled and sustained with such skill, the power began to fall away from them in vast, vibrating waves. Then another note, even more beautiful than the first, reverberated on the air with a command that made Trenara gasp. She had never heard anything more stunning, the voice of the gods. The notes grew to a crescendo that echoed down the cliffs and out to the sea taking the deadly light with them.  The power disappeared in a spark of brilliance, and the wind settled to a gentle evening breeze around them. The glimmer was gone and the glade was once again silent. Joshan fell unconscious into Trenara’s arms, as she wept openly and clutched him to her chest.  After what seemed like hours, she put the scepter back in her robes with a trembling hand, and lay the boy on the ground, the springy turf cushioning her knees when she nearly dropped him. The mentor was weary to the bone and had to fight to keep unconsciousness from robbing her of this experience.       Trenara stared down at the sleeping child, finding it difficult to believe he could be breathing. Joshan should have died in such a conflict. They both should have died. The guider had never seen anything like this—the greatest contest and the longest possession by the power at first trial. If it was first trial she witnessed. The boy had seen. The green hue had shown that, but seeing wasn’t possible until third trial. Trenara herself had not reached that pinnacle, though she had been a starguider for almost forty seasons.  Joshan moaned and tossed fitfully on the grass. Trenara struggled to her feet, pushing back the fearful implications that haunted her, to let a deeper, more maternal instinct take over. A light rain began to fall. With an effort, Trenara removed her cloak from the silent eecha and stumbled to throw it over the prostrate boy. Joshan cried out in his sleep; convulsions began to contort his body.  The guider reached into her satchel and removed a vial of imaka. She parted Joshan’s lips gently and poured a few drops on the fevered tongue. The liquid worked quickly, changing the pale in his cheeks and stilling the torrents that twisted his small body. Joshan slept peacefully then, and Trenara knew the worst was over.  She wrapped her arms around the sleeping child and closed her eyes to let exhaustion take her, gratefully surrendering to sleep. The night quietly surrounded them, hiding their secret, immune to all experience.

STARSIGHT - VOLUME ICHAPTER ONETHE STARGUIDER A...

STARSIGHT - VOLUME I
CHAPTER ONETHE STARGUIDER
  Age crept through her certainty like a malignancy, leaving the guider feeling old and sick inside, as she stared up at the menacing black wall. She couldn’t hold it back—her magic was simply too weak. Trenara stood alone, trembling as the darkness towered above her. It was so long, it faded into distance on either side of her frail form; and so tall, it fused into black clouds high above her head as a deafening thunder pounded the sky and scattered lightning blinded her.  She stood between the wall and the world. The shadow rushed forward, eating away at everything so quickly there was no time to respond. When she could do nothing else, Trenara howled up in frustration, her tiny fists quivering with fury, her mouth silent in the roar of the ruin. There was nothing she could do to stop it from shattering the Imperium, not even a hope she could grasp in her tiny fingers. When the world surrendered, a feeble shaft of light opened the blackness for a fleeting instant and showed her once again the only promise against destruction: a frightened child—and a broken wand. The starguider screamed.  *****  Trenara came out of the dream with a start and sat up. Scanning the room, she thought she had heard a scream and then realized it must have been her own. Her vocal chords still ached as she touched her throat uncertainly, scowling at the early morning. The guider’s nightgown was soaked with sweat, and clumps of waist-long gray hair clung to her forehead and neck. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and buried her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably for a moment. Taking a deep breath to stop the tremors, Trenara got up to cross to her dressing room.  She tried to dislodge the dream that haunted her as she dressed, but her trembling hands were making the simple action of buttoning her undershirt almost impossible. She dressed as quickly as she could. Her aide Ena had laid out food and tea on the table, but Trenara ignored it, as she tied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and stepped to the balcony to try to calm her shattered senses in the morning breeze.  Far below, she could see the tide was in and the ships, so very few it seemed, were moored haphazardly to the docks. She frowned at the harbor, wondering why it seemed so empty. The captain would be furious if he were alive, Trenara thought. Blue and black sea scalards flew in large flocks as they screamed and darted in the salty air. The pound of the surf and the hiss of the tide were very faint as they drifted up the castle wall. The sound helped to soothe her mangled nerves.  The nightmare was approaching the realm of vision, she knew, but of what she didn’t know, and the thought unsettled her. It felt as if the gods were meddling again, directing her, forcing her toward something. But, as always, she didn’t know what. They had done this to her many times, for as long as she could remember. The guider told no one, of course; it wasn’t something you shared. This time the visions were frightening, confusing and involved not only herself, but also a child she loved—Joshan. Trenara shivered, returned to the room to grab her satchel, and left in a black mood.  *****  “No, no, lad!” Haiden brought his quarterstaff up and pounded it into the ground. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and spat into the dust at his feet. “Put your back into it, not your arms. I’ve seen you fight better with your nurse.”  Joshan, perhaps half the size of the grizzly older man and a fraction of his age, circled around, and adjusted his grip; this man was notorious for his speed and trickery. The boy’s tunic was streaked with sweat and his face red with exertion. With energy he didn’t feel, Joshan again lunged at Haiden uselessly.  “That’s better, lad.” The sergeant gave him a half crooked smile and switched the staff to his other hand. “Now, let’s see what you can do with some real fighting.” He crouched low and readied his attack.  Joshan put up his stave and massaged his side. “A moment, Haiden. Let me catch my breath.”  “Your breath, is it? Well, if you think your enemy will give you time to catch your breath, think again.” He gave a vicious cry and charged.  In the same instant Joshan dived for the ground. The tip of Haiden’s staff just missed the prince’s ear and Joshan pushed his staff across the sergeant’s legs. Haiden didn’t have time to stop before winding his burly limbs around the shaft and stumbling headlong into the dusty courtyard. He spun around, spitting out dirt and glared at the young prince with a mute smile. Joshan was beside himself with laughter.  “You’ll be sore a week for that!” Haiden hauled himself up and ran after the boy, who stopped his laughter only long enough to skirt a battle dummy.  “You should be proud, sergeant.” Joshan wiped his eyes, which glistened darkly in the morning light. “I’ve only done what you taught me.”  “I’ll teach you a thing or three when I get my hands on you. Now hold still.”  Haiden feinted to the left, causing the boy to move a little too quickly to the right, and then he had him. Weak with laughter, they went down in a tangle of arms and legs and dust. Over and over they rolled, almost ending under the hooves of two very frightened eechas tethered nearby. The creatures arched their high backs, and a shudder sent the long fur rippling as they skirted the two and shrieked their displeasure.  Guards gathered to watch the play. Though the boy was barely ten and the guard close to sixty, they were admired by everyone who knew them. Their laughter mingled in a delightful harmony of youthful giggle and aged guffaw.  A voice ripped through the courtyard with a sudden, sharp edge that broke the noisy revelry. “Haiden!” Both turned to see the regal figure of Jenhada glaring down at them from a balcony, and smiles dissolved. Haiden and the others fell to one knee and bent their heads.  The emperor clutched a heavy cloak around once strong shoulders as if to ward off chill, although the air was quite warm and approaching the torridness of high season. Deep lines etched his face, and his eyes were shadows under a course mane of graying hair.  “It seems, sergeant, you would have better things to do with your time than this foolery.” His voice was edged with a contempt that sent shivers through Haiden’s spine; but in it, too, was the underlying fatigue of sleepless nights. The emperor’s illness showed in the lines around his mouth, the furrows in his formerly smooth brow, and in those restless eyes. “You will see to it this does not happen again. Failing this, I will find my son another trainer. What brawling you do with your men, is your business. The prince is mine. Do I make myself clear?”  “Yes, sire.” Haiden nodded once humbly.  Jenhada snorted an acknowledgement and exchanged a glance with Councilor Pravius who stood at his back. The man returned the look with a nod of approval. “Isn’t it time for your lessons?” The emperor barely glanced at Joshan as he pulled the collar up around his neck. “That is, if that magician of yours hasn’t forgotten again. Get yourself cleaned up and at least somewhat presentable. You are not a beggar. I will not have you looking like one!”  “Yes, father.” Joshan lowered his eyes so his father would not see the anger. The blush of embarrassment turned his face scarlet to the ears.  Jenhada leaned on his cane and limped off without another word, as the bent figure of Pravius glared at Joshan. The prince thought for a fleeting moment the councilor’s face had changed; it was hard and cruel, a side of Pravius Joshan had never seen before. When he blinked, the expression had faded and the man was once again the tiny, pale figure with massive sad eyes Joshan had known since he could remember. Pravius spared the prince a languid nod before turning to catch up with the emperor.  Haiden got up and brushed dust from his clothes, looking after Jenhada. The crowd disbanded in silence as Joshan straightened his tunic and retrieved his staff. “I’m sorry, Haiden,” he said. “Father’s been very sick lately. I don’t know what comes over him sometimes.”  “I know, lad. I’ve known your da a long time.” Grabbing the prince’s shoulders, he pushed him gently toward the entrance. “But off with you. I got work to do and Trenara will have my hide if you’re late.”  “Tomorrow, then.” Joshan ran for his quarters, throwing his staff to a guard.  *****  Joshan had just arrived at Fourth Gate when he saw his mentor’s beautiful white eecha charging down the road at full gallop, the stallion’s flat face and long ears rippling in the wind. There was no mistaking the Starguider Trenara, even at that distance. Her tall, slim figure was held straight in the saddle, a magnificent silver mane of wayward hair flowing behind her like a tempest, despite feeble attempts to tame it. Piercing azure blue eyes shone from a face that seemed ageless, despite soft lines and the mantle of gray around it. Her beauty was still striking, and she often turned heads, even at fifty-two seasons.  Trenara was wearing blue today, a sign she was in a pensive mood. Joshan had been with the guider on a daily basis for so long, knowing her moods had become second nature to the boy. No stories today, he thought dismally. He wished he could stay with Haiden, but knew better. It was going to be another day of rote lessons and boring recitals.  Trenara spotted the lad and gave him a curt nod, catching the flash in the young eyes. Joshan had the oval shape of his mother’s face and the dark coloring of his father, but the eyes, not the mother’s nor even the father’s, shone brown-black in the mid-morning light and were distinctly his own.  The black and white eecha he was straddling reared as Trenara approached, spooked by the crystal scepter tucked in her robes. The animal jostled him on the high saddle until Joshan got her under control. “Where to today, guider?” he asked cheerfully, undaunted by the guider’s mood.  “The High Cliffs, I should think.” Trenara shaded her eyes to measure the sun. “But I’d like to stop in the forest first.” She dug her heels into her eecha and did not look back to see if Joshan followed.  As they emerged from the thick archway of Fourth Gate, a huge open plaza spread out before them, alive with marching guards, fighting men and women, and soldiers doing what they did best—marshalling together in perfectly formed straight columns. Joshan glanced at them longingly, again wishing he could stay. There hadn’t been a war in the provinces in nearly thirty seasons, but the Guards still recruited, trained, and prepared though the numbers had dwindled to less than a fraction of their old force. The massive military grounds looked strangely deserted.  On the other side of great courtyard, beyond the training fields, barracks, and medical facilities loomed an enormous steel reinforced wall; Third Gate. The large entrance was always open at this time of day. A squad of Elite, the emperor’s personal guard, stood at attention on either side like vivid blue standards, bright against the aging stone blocks. The village of Keepton could be seen through the gate, the bustling market at the height of its trade.  Between the noise of the shouting guards on one side and the crying vendors selling their wares on the other, Joshan and Trenara had to cover their ears as they passed through the echoing tunnel.  Trenara was thankful to be leaving the Keep, as the wet weather had trapped them in the castle for nearly a month. She glanced up at the pale blue sky, the wisps of grey-white clouds floating delicately above their heads and the mayhem of humanity parting for them as they moved through the first of two villages sheltered in the immense fortress. In earlier times, an escort of several guards would have been required for them to leave the castle. Thank the gods they don’t do that anymore, she thought as they moved through the milling crowd. The Imperium had enjoyed thirty seasons of peace and the countryside was safe again, not to mention the fact that most people would think twice about attacking a Starguider.  As they made their way through the streets of the village, she saw several uniformed men, but they seemed out of place. Trenara didn’t think much of it until they reached Second Gate. She knew many of the guards personally and had for years; but at each of the three gates leading to the countryside, these men seemed to be strangers to her now. The guider eyed a few of them suspiciously, knowing they were not from Thrain.  They were dark, swarthy men who leered at them. Her eyesight wasn’t good without the spectacles she habitually left behind, and they all looked alike to her, so she passed it off as fancy. However, as they approached First Gate, Trenara noticed where once there had been a full complement of guards, there seemed to be a minimal crew. Odd, since she knew Haiden kept the gates fully manned at all times. She would talk to the emperor about it next time she saw him, but wondered again when that would be.  Her mind wandered to Jenhada. The emperor hadn’t called her in several months, and she missed the dinners they usually shared to discuss the Imperium, both the Empire and Assemblage. Trenara knew of his illness, of course, his lack of sleep and the blinding headaches. When she tried to reach him, she was refused by the Elite, stating the emperor would call at need. Trenara thought she was getting sensitive in her old age. After all, the emperor was a busy man and she had her books, her studies, and Joshan to look after.  “What are you thinking, guider?” Joshan asked, seeing his mentor scowling.  “Oh, nothing, lad,” she replied pensively as they approached the tunnel to First Gate. “Let’s get going.”  “Good enough!” Without warning, Joshan spurred his eecha into a full dash down the long passageway and disappeared in a cloud of dust before Trenara could call. The guider tapped her mount irritably.  “Come along, Gliding. We better catch the young idiot before he breaks his neck.” She goaded him into a gallop, the stones echoing the hoof beats like drum rolls.  Some leagues from the Keep, after a grueling race through rutted fields and hidden sands surrounding the fortress walls, the guider caught the spirited rider. Joshan had slowed his mare to a trot and was casually taking in the sights and sounds of the beautiful high season day.  “A marvelous morning, don’t you think?” he ventured, as the guider rode up beside him.  “Don’t give me that. You’re fortunate you didn’t break your neck, charging off like that. Your father would roast me alive if anything were to happen to you. I’ll thank you not to risk your neck along with mine. Though both are probably worth little, I still value them!”       Joshan gave her one of those special, disarming smiles. “Please don’t scold me, not today. This one feels special somehow. I promise I won’t do it again.”  “I doubt that. But it is a lovely day and there is something rather special I wanted to show you.”  Joshan regarded her wide-eyed and stood up in the stirrups. “What?” Trenara’s “something specials” were really to be marveled.  Trenara chuckled. “Well, you’re going to have to behave yourself. That eecha of yours is too large for you as it is. How Haiden ever talked me into it, I’ll never know. At the very least, you could cause her a fall and possibly break her leg, not to mention your own. Then where would you be?”  Joshan sat back in the saddle and patted the mare’s neck affectionately. “Not Whirl. She’s very sure footed and Haiden says she seems to have more sense than me.”  “That I won’t contest,” she said flatly. “Come on. We’ve a lot of trail to cover, so step it up.” They left the main road and proceeded to the forest that lined it. Once through the trees they picked up a well-used path and followed in silence.  Something is gnawing Trenara, Joshan thought. He decided not to dwell on it, though he did wonder what the starguider had in store for him. He knew when he woke this day was going to be exceptional. He didn’t want anything to spoil it. Unfortunately, Trenara did not share the lad’s enthusiasm. The dreams still haunted her, awakening something she hadn’t felt in seasons. Even Andelian, the crystal scepter tucked in her robes, felt colder somehow today. She began to feel ancient.  They finally reached a moss-blanketed clearing in the trees, where they went through the hour or so of voice training. Joshan hit the notes exactly as Trenara had taught him, each one perfect in his high voice. The boy’s talents had always been uncanny, almost genius. It was the main reason the prince was chosen to train for Assemblage. His mastery of the musical notes that amplified the power with their resonance was unsurpassed by anyone of his age, or very possibly, anyone this side of second trial. He had been a phenomenon almost since birth.  Not just with the control notes. The boy had a talent for spoken manipulation as well, which usually came only after many seasons of training for any other guider. When very young, Joshan found if he pitched his voice in a certain way, his nurse would do almost anything. That all ended, of course, when Trenara took over his training. She was immune to his pranks, and he was usually punished severely when he tried to manipulate her. Without knowing it, he could have seriously hurt or even killed someone. It was for this reason Trenara had been selected to train the prince. Her voice and techniques were equally uncanny. On the few occasions when they sang together, everyone within earshot had to stop to listen. The sound was exquisite.  After the lessons, they remounted to travel to the High Cliffs. This was a long journey as the climb was taxing on the animals, so they had to be rested often. Neither the guider nor her pupil minded, however. Despite their differences, they enjoyed each other’s company.  On long journeys, Trenara usually told wonderful stories as they rode. If asked, she would take you to ancient times, long before the Crystal of Healing fell from the heavens, or Assemblage and the Empire governed the world. Back to Kerillian the Prophet, and his travels through the old provinces. Sometimes, she spoke quietly of the dark times: tales of monsters, wars, and brave deeds. Trenara would often talk about Assemblage itself, its greatness, and its failings. She would speak longingly of Mathisma, the Assemblage home nestled in an island fortress far over the Ethosian Sea to the east. Or she’d tell you about the Starguiders, their queer, enigmatic ways and the music of power, always with a bemused smile.       If you were very, very good, the guider would sing the histories, her contralto voice so pure it would take you to another world entirely. At times Joshan would join her in his favorites, his high voice adding complicated harmonies and intricate melodies. This was always the best time for both of them.  Her tales were not limited to the power. They included the history of the provinces, the empire, and the grand (and not so grand) deeds of Joshan’s ancestors, the long line of emperors and empresses that preceded him. The prince felt he learned more from these ancient stories than from any books, and Trenara silently agreed.  The eechas plodded along the trail, their hoof beats dulled by the soft ground, as green-filtered sunrays danced solemnly around them. The trees chattered with life and the fragrance of the afternoon had an intoxicating appeal. It caused the guider’s mood to soften, and the prince’s to mellow. Each was once again immersed in the friendship they had grown to love.  “What tale shall it be today, lad?” Trenara asked cheerfully.  Joshan thought for a moment, but hesitated to ask for what he really wanted. The guider was in such a wonderful mood, it might be the perfect time; or then again, the worst.  “Come, come, out with it. The story of Cessas and the Crystal? The Sea Tarsian and the Princess? The…”  “Well, I had thought, perhaps the story of… of Sirdar, ma’am.”  Trenara pulled her reins and shot Joshan a stern look. “Sirdar?” Narrowing her eyes, she didn’t speak at once, looking the boy over carefully.  This was too much for Joshan, who stared down at his hands. “That is… of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”  “Hmmm.” Trenara clicked to her eecha and continued down the path with Joshan riding in tortured silence beside her.  “It’s a dark story,” the guider said at length, gazing at the trail, “and to be honest, one I should have told you before this. I suppose now would be as good a time as any.” She settled into the saddle and Joshan didn’t say a word.  “It was almost thirty seasons ago when the signs came… signs that something was wrong.  “It was a good season.” Trenara sighed, an old memory sparking a small smile. “One of the finest, as I recall. Your father was at his peak in those days; young, headstrong and untried, yet brave and wise when the empire needed him to be. The young man who had been simply Prince Jenhada had become Emperor Jenhada Thoringale Kanaine.” She paused for a moment, staring off into the woods.  “The first reports came from Badain in the south; reports that a large flying lizard had destroyed several small villages and was terrorizing the populace. The scholars consulted their books and discovered that the monster could only be a flying tarsian. It was an ancient reptile, a creature bent on the destruction of anything living. But tarsians had been extinct for centuries. The emperor sent soldiers, of course, and passed it off as an isolated incident. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. More villages burned, more lives were lost, more soldiers sent, never to return.  “Then other creatures began to appear… some of them so strange and unfamiliar we had a hard time believing they could possibly exist. That is, until we saw them with our own eyes,” she continued gravely. “There was the sasaran, a perversion of a beast that walked like a man, had immense black horns, hoofed feet, and a wicked temper. The laminia, creatures who lived on the blood of the helpless. The Mourna… the Assemblage Bane. Its voice drew the unsuspecting guider to do the bidding of its master. It appeared as an enormous black bird…” The drone of her voice stopped as a memory sent shivers through her. “There were others.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead. “Gruesome to see—dangerous to cross.  “A seditious starguider named Balinar took the Crystal of Healing from Sanctum where it had been safe for millennia. He escaped to Badain, where he became captain to the master who had summoned him.  “A terrible fear weakened the Imperium. Without the Crystal, the power was erratic and often lethal. Assemblage was crippled, and the name of Sirdar spread like fire as his forces marched toward Thrain. The horde blackened the land and the hearts of men as they advanced. Faithful men succumbed to his spell daily, taking up his banner and joining his ranks—hundreds of thousands of them. Edicts poured into the Keep proclaiming Sirdar master, threatening complete annihilation if the emperor did not throw open his gates and surrender.  “By the end of Meridian, the enemy crossed the borders of Thrain, driving a multitude of refugees before them that filled the Keep to overflowing. Sirdar’s army stood like a massive wave at our gates. No assault could move them, or tricks deter them. Finally, we could do nothing more than quake behind Thrain’s last defense. After a long siege, the emperor and his armies marched out to meet them.  “While the battle raged at The Keep hundreds of leagues away, Sirdar stayed at his fortress in Badain, afraid to move from its protection until his victory was assured. Assemblage sent its strongest men and women to face him. A hundred Starguiders marched on the castle at Mt. Cortaim.” Trenara lowered her head and tears filled her eyes. “We believe most were lost to Sirdar’s creatures or destroyed by the blackest magic. What few remained charged his fortress and there passed out of knowledge.  “No one knows what happened that day in Badain. All we know is the darkness was soon abated, the creatures drew back from our borders, and the land cleared of foe. The war, which had raged at the Keep’s gates, ended all at once when the enemy fled in terror. Many were trampled by their own eechas and more killed by our advancing armies. The rest were captured and eventually sent back to their homes, most uncertain why they waged war to begin with. Sirdar’s power over them had been complete.  “None of the Assemblage who traveled to Badain ever returned, and like a miracle, the Crystal of Healing was found back in its place of honor at Sanctum. By what device, no one knows.” She stopped for a moment and turned her head away.  “There are many conjectures as to what happened in the south.  The only thing we are reasonably certain of was that Sirdar and Balinar were destroyed. When reports came in later, it was found that Mt. Cortaim, where Sirdar kept his headquarters, was nothing more than a pile of rubble and melted rock. No one could have survived. We searched, of course, but there was nothing to find. Safeguards were put into place in Badain and the emperor ordered that no starguider be allowed to set foot in the province again.  “That was the end of it. It took seasons to heal, but the reasons for Sirdar’s rise and the cause of his fall are lost in a mountain of fused glass. I suppose the mysteries will never be solved.” She grew still then.  The afternoon began to fade to early dusk and the forest was quiet. Joshan glanced at the furrowed brow of his mentor and put a small hand on hers as it rested on the saddle. “It’s over now,” he whispered.  “Yes—over. It brings back memories just as soon forgotten.” She remained silent for some time and finally breathed deeply to shake the feelings. “Enough of this gloom,” she said at length, throwing him a glorious smile. “What say we see who has the fastest eecha?”  Joshan grinned broadly. “I’ll wager we beat you by twenty spans, at least,” he said, hastily adjusting his reins.  “And I’ll wager a month’s lessons we leave you behind by at least a league.”  “You’re going to miss me for a whole month. To the ridge?”  “As you wish.”  They went thundering down the path in a spray of mud and grass. Despite the prince’s best efforts, Trenara won the race and Joshan heartily vowed to beat her one day, to which the guider chuckled. She knew it would not be far in the future, having won this one by no more than a hand’s breadth by what she considered luck—with possibly a dash of treachery.  When they reached the High Cliffs, it was approaching dusk. After a light supper, they sat on the edge of the towering rock face that fell thousands of spans below their dangling feet, the Keep to the left and the Ethosian Sea to the right. The sun was a giant red disc hanging lazily on the western horizon, with endless drifts of red and purple clouds billowing across the evening sky. The star Ethos shone like a fiery beacon on the eastern horizon, and the two watched the spectacle of sunset in silence.  “You see the star?” the guider asked at length, pointing to the flickering brilliance as it rose from the sea.  “She always rises before the moons, doesn’t she? Why is it Ethos seems larger than the other stars and so much brighter?” Joshan threw pebbles into the chasm under his feet and watched as they bounced off the cliff face below.  “It’s closer to our world than the other stars, so it only appears larger.” Trenara pointed to the large rosy moon starting its climb. “Both moons, Redwyn and Whilema, would seem like stars if you could stand on Ethos. As would our own world, I’d venture. Though the star is nearer, it is still some billion, billion leagues away.”  The boy whistled softly. “I can’t even imagine a distance that far.”  The guider laughed. “You will, if you pay attention to your lessons. When we reach Mathisma, you’ll learn under more knowledgeable teachers than I. Astronomy has never been one of my strengths.”  The boy regarded the darkening sky. “When will I reach first trial, Trenara?” he asked dreamily.  “Oh, not for many seasons—at least three or four. After that, you will travel to the island and learn so much more of your craft.”  “If I ever get to Mathisma.”  Trenara shot up an eyebrow. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”  Joshan shook out of his reverie and looked at the guider with a wistful smile. “I don’t know. Sometimes I get the impression… well I just can’t seem to picture myself studying in the Learning Halls of Assemblage.” He turned to regard the Keep and put his chin in his hands. “Just a feeling, I guess.”  “More like wishful thinking, if you ask me,” she replied, throwing a stone down the cliff face. “You’ve never been overly fond of book learning.”  “Can you blame me? All cooped up with a bunch of dusty old books?”  “Dusty old—scoundrel! You are beginning to sound like Vanderlinden,” Trenara exclaimed, but Joshan gave her a sad nod.  “That does sound like the captain, doesn’t it? I miss him sometimes.”  Trenara’s eyes dulled for a moment. “As do I, my boy. He was a good friend.” She drew a deep breath. “But once you get to Mathisma, I think you’ll enjoy it.”  Joshan gave her a half smile. “We’ll see.”  He jumped up and hung from the limb of a nearby tree. “Guider, tell me more about the stars.”  Trenara rose stiffly and brushed the dirt from her robes. “Not just now. I had something entirely different in mind.”  Joshan loosened his grip on the limb and dropped to the ground, the excitement making his eyes twinkle. “What?”  “Come on. Let’s go back to the clearing. It’ll be safer there.”  They walked through the few sparse trees that outlined the cliffs and came into a large clearing blanketed by wild green grasses and night-dark flowers. Trenara went to the eechas, threw her cloak over Gliding, and then put her satchel on the saddle horn. She drew her via Andelian from her robes and returned to Joshan. The crystal rod caught the early moonlight and colors flashed brightly in the segmented orb at its top.  “Sit there,” she said, indicating a small boulder at one end of the glade. Joshan stared at her wide-eyed with anticipation and silently did her bidding, as the guider stepped to the center to survey the grass and trees surrounding them. When she seemed satisfied, she turned to the boy and winked.  “I thought you might like to see what the power can do.”  “Oh, yes, please,” Joshan exclaimed, clapping his hands.  “Very well, then. But first, tell me how it works.”  The prince was disappointed by the delay, but said, “The power comes from the star Ethos, then into the Crystal of Healing which lies in Sanctum on Mathisma, and then to one of the Assemblage vias where it’s amplified with the musical notes.” The words tumbled out like spilled water, but he added more slowly, “Uh, your via is Andelian.”  Trenara scowled. “Well, basically correct, though sketchy at best. I’ll forgive your curt reply since I know you’ve learned more than this in all your seasons of training.” A guilty look flashed over his young face, but it was soon replaced by excitement, and the chide was quickly forgotten.  “Now…” Trenara began and lifted her arms to allow the sleeves of her robe to fall back.  The clearing was dark. The sun had taken its last yawn at the sky and nestled beyond the horizon to the west, while the larger of the two moons, Redwyn the Giant, rose stiffly from his slumber in the east and cast a ruby hue over the night. Whilema would soon slip from the waves of the Ethosian Sea and try to drown her brother’s light. Though a great deal smaller, the moon was several times more brilliant. Their battle for the dominion of the night would begin. Neither moon was full that night, allowing the milliard of stars to litter the sky like a thrown handful of magic dust. A night fowl shrieked, a rodent screamed, and then all was very still.       Trenara faced the east with Andelian held high. She closed her eyes and a barely audible chant chimed on the air, the crystal rod beginning to take on an almost imperceptible glow. A single exquisite musical note came from her throat: low, resonating, and perfect. There was a sudden hiss of wind that whipped the guider’s robes around her, and then a blaze of white radiance that flashed through the glade and settled into a frosty glow around the guider’s tall form.  She took a deep breath to ease the tension in her limbs and then sang another high note that floated a long time on the air. It focused the swirling light until she glowed like a white flame. Ecstasy enfolded her face as the power took hold and a radiant expression chased the age and wrinkles away, leaving not a woman, but an ethereal spirit, a shining goddess. When she lowered her eyes to Joshan, they glowed with white-hot fire that painted the young boy’s face with awe.  Trenara’s smile was glorious.  “You like magic, don’t you?” the guider asked, her voice dulcet and reverberating. Joshan nodded mutely. “Then, let’s see if we can conjure some.”  She pointed her scepter just to the right of Joshan’s ear and began her song, so beautiful the boy’s heart skipped a beat. A beam of light escaped the orb with a crackle and stopped where she intended, leaving a white spot no larger than a coin. The beam returned, but the spot remained and began to dance merrily in the darkness to the rhythm of her music. Joshan held his breath and heard a soft tinkling, like suspended glass in the wind.  The air began to fill with tiny dancing lights as Trenara struck fire again and again, until the sound of their music blended with her singing. It became a chorus of delightful bells.  Joshan’s intoxication with the lights grew as he jumped from the rock and began to chase the elusive pseudo stars. They evaded his every move, teasing him mercilessly as they glided between splayed fingers, around his head or through his legs. Trenara’s laughter echoed through the clearing in rippling waves that shook the leaves of the nearby trees.  The lights seemed to be strangely attracted to the boy as they gathered around him like so many moths to a flame. The guider hadn’t given it much thought, however. Ethotic starmoths were an independent lot with likes and dislikes of their own. She remembered vaguely hearing they preferred children to adults. Something about being attracted to purity of heart or that strange, enigmatic quality that youngsters had, which seemed to harden with age.  After the frantic chase, Joshan sat heavily on the grass and Trenara decided to end the chaos. They had a long, hard ride ahead and she didn’t relish the thought of carrying a sleeping prince back to the Keep. Off in the distance she caught the faint sound of horns coming up the cliff walls. The gates would be closed soon.  She lifted her scepter once more and spoke to the starmoths gently. “Come, children, time to go.” Waving Andelian twice, Trenara sang to the wind and one by one, the lights were extinguished. Joshan held out his hands, watching the failing stars sadly, as they brushed his palms in farewell and then sighed when they were gone.  Andelian lost her sheen at once, and Trenara put the via back in her robes. Exhausted, she sat next to the prince and put her arm around his small shoulders. “Well, lad, what did you think?” Joshan was speechless for a moment, but then took the guider’s hand and kissed it.  “Oh, Trenara, that was the most wonderful, the most spectacular… I’ve never seen anything like it. They are—delightful.” Joshan felt it inadequate, but could think of nothing better.  “Perhaps, but the moths can be the devil’s own when they want to be, especially to those they don’t like.” She smiled at an old memory and rose stiffly.  “I’m glad you enjoyed them… and they you. But we need to go. We’ll barely make it back before they close the gates.” She went to Gliding and donned her cloak, throwing the satchel over her shoulder. She turned to Joshan. “Are you coming?”  “In a moment, guider. I just wanted…” His voice was cut off as a strong gust of wind swept from the east, so powerful it threw Trenara into her eecha. Joshan’s eyes widened in terror, and his feet became anchored to the ground. He stood as still as stone, although Trenara was having trouble keeping upright. His mouth hung open at an odd angle, moving as though he were trying to speak, but couldn’t.  “No!” Trenara screamed against the wind. “Not now!” Fear ripped through the guider when she realized what was happening. She cursed the gods for choosing a time when she was unprepared. She had seen first trial several times, but each time the same foreboding took her. Will the child survive the trial? Will my own power be enough? And, strangely… is the child old enough? Never in her experience had the power taken one so young.  She struggled to get to the boy and pulled the still warm Andelian from its place. Joshan went to his knees as Trenara reached him, some silent demand having been given. The guider raised the scepter high above her head. As she placed her free hand on Joshan’s brow, anger welled inside her at this unfortunate turn of events. Here, in the middle of the woods, leagues away from another living soul, there was nothing to help her but her via and her courage. She hoped they would be enough.  This time the notes she sang were very low, like the sound of distant thunder on a rising storm, a deep solemn song drowned by the power’s wind. The notes bolted to the heavens and a faint echo answered. The power came as a mist from the sky and quickly turned to a torrent of glistening light as it drifted into the scepter she held tightly in her hand. Joshan paled and his breathing became shallow as the power took him.  Trenara’s body stiffened, her breath became labored and fear threatened to consume her; and would have, had it not been for the overwhelming force suddenly thrust into her hands. The fire spread to her arms, her middle, her legs. With a jolt of clarity, it took over her mind in a single instant. She felt suddenly young and strong, certain of her abilities, and absolutely trusting of the power that engulfed her.  The guider fought desperately for the boy’s consciousness, which seemed to slip away like sand through her fingers, and just as desperately not to harm the young mind as she entered its fringes. With every awareness, Trenara could feel Joshan’s terror deepening to insanity and she struggled to hold him.  All the seasons of training and experience came to this one moment, this brief second in time. If she failed now, the child would die. When the guider had control of the white energy around them, she whispered gently into his ear, “Joshan, don’t fight it. Let the power touch you. You’ll feel pain—terrible, terrible pain—but I promise it will pass quickly. Remember your training. Let it touch you.”  The light around them blazed, but Joshan’s eyes were dull and vacant. “Trust me,” Trenara rasped. “If you don’t let the fire touch you, you’ll die. You must master it. There’s no other choice. Let it touch you.” Slowly, almost unseen, a dim light began to grow in Joshan’s eyes. “Yes!” Trenara exclaimed, trying to control her own use of the power now. “You must sing, Joshan. I can’t help you.” The drone of the wind swept her words away like dust.  Joshan could feel the presence of the power now and was suddenly unafraid. Exhilaration lit his mind with fire; a joy that few mortals could know filled him with ecstasy. He could hear every sound, feel each vibration on the air as though he were somehow linked with the life surrounding him. From the spider clinging desperately to the blade of grass at his feet, to the ancient trees that bowed low to the wind, he felt entangled with them, as if their awareness were his.  Joshan was no longer the child of ten seasons, full of wonder and awe. In an instant, he was beyond mortal flesh, beyond the primitive sight of man, into a new awareness that shouted at him madly and made mortality a small thing—very small. He was ultimate, alive, free.  Then, by degrees, the light began to change. It swirled around them, sparkling with the moon’s brilliance reflected on its white beauty, when the fringes became tainted a pale blue. The blue deepened at an accelerated rate, alarming the guider so much she nearly dropped her via. Second trial, by the color, but that wasn’t possible.  The blue veil pulsated, undulating around the two, while the trees watched and the world stood still for a breathless moment. With the abruptness of a lightning bolt, the blue became a shower of green flame, pouring down on them in a torrent, engulfing them with energy Trenara had never known. Third trial!  “Joshan, you must sing!” Trenara’s demand grated on the boy’s mind like a slap in the face. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and a wave of terror swept through him. Joshan strained to move the notes to the outside, but they died in his throat. The color of the flame deepened and became as dense as smoke. He felt the danger. He knew he would die and the guider with him, if he did not sing to end the power.  Visions came so suddenly to his mind, they made him sick with their intensity: his father’s death, a vague shadow of a woman who could bring him triumph or terrible defeat, an annihilation of the empire more horrible than any imagining, a golden sword and then a black one, shot with red and Trenara—Trenara?  The power blackened. A scream pierced his mind. The pain was intolerable. It burns!  It burns!  Then the final vision came and his destiny opened like a gaping wound. Joshan knew what his purpose was, knew what it would mean for the world, and it almost drove him mad. The horror shook his tiny body like an earthquake. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t form the words. Trenara’s thoughts reached out to him as a burst of fire in the darkness.  SING BEFORE WE BOTH PERISH!  A note of absolute perfection flowed from the boy’s throat, controlled and sustained with such skill, the power began to fall away from them in vast, vibrating waves. Then another note, even more beautiful than the first, reverberated on the air with a command that made Trenara gasp. She had never heard anything more stunning, the voice of the gods. The notes grew to a crescendo that echoed down the cliffs and out to the sea taking the deadly light with them.  The power disappeared in a spark of brilliance, and the wind settled to a gentle evening breeze around them. The glimmer was gone and the glade was once again silent. Joshan fell unconscious into Trenara’s arms, as she wept openly and clutched him to her chest.  After what seemed like hours, she put the scepter back in her robes with a trembling hand, and lay the boy on the ground, the springy turf cushioning her knees when she nearly dropped him. The mentor was weary to the bone and had to fight to keep unconsciousness from robbing her of this experience.       Trenara stared down at the sleeping child, finding it difficult to believe he could be breathing. Joshan should have died in such a conflict. They both should have died. The guider had never seen anything like this—the greatest contest and the longest possession by the power at first trial. If it was first trial she witnessed. The boy had seen. The green hue had shown that, but seeing wasn’t possible until third trial. Trenara herself had not reached that pinnacle, though she had been a starguider for almost forty seasons.  Joshan moaned and tossed fitfully on the grass. Trenara struggled to her feet, pushing back the fearful implications that haunted her, to let a deeper, more maternal instinct take over. A light rain began to fall. With an effort, Trenara removed her cloak from the silent eecha and stumbled to throw it over the prostrate boy. Joshan cried out in his sleep; convulsions began to contort his body.  The guider reached into her satchel and removed a vial of imaka. She parted Joshan’s lips gently and poured a few drops on the fevered tongue. The liquid worked quickly, changing the pale in his cheeks and stilling the torrents that twisted his small body. Joshan slept peacefully then, and Trenara knew the worst was over.  She wrapped her arms around the sleeping child and closed her eyes to let exhaustion take her, gratefully surrendering to sleep. The night quietly surrounded them, hiding their secret, immune to all experience.

THE EDGE OF HONORChapter I The ex-centurion knew ...

THE EDGE OF HONOR
Chapter I

The ex-centurion knew if the Romans caught him, he was dead. Marius felt the horse strain under his thighs. The animal’s head split the air in front of them. Wind roared, mingling with the pounding of Marius’ heart and the jolting rumble of hooves against the forest floor. Blood flowed from a throbbing wound on his shoulder and spattered behind him, staining the horse’s rump. He tightened his grip on the reins, bowing his head low over the animal’s neck. The smell of horseflesh was stringent in his nose.

A grim thought flashed through his mind. He may never hold Delia again. Marius’ throat tightened. He dug his heels into Brutus and forced him to move faster. He would make it up to the horse later, if he survived.

The forest blurred around him. Brown, green, branches growing like twisted mirages charging at him out of the foggy morning. He dodged them, sometimes successfully–sometimes not. His head and good shoulder ached where they sliced him. The movement of the horse’s massive leg muscles deadened his thighs, making it difficult to manipulate the beast. Despite the speed, Brutus knew his master well and needed little guidance. Marius missed the Roman armor he had worn for twenty-five years, but the Celtic clothes gave him more freedom to manage the animal. He was slowly adjusting to being a citizen—very slowly.

Risking another glimpse over his shoulder, Marius saw nothing but the trees receding. The sound of jangling Roman horse tack, the shouts of Latin curses, and the frustrated bellows of General Suetonius had also faded. If he was lucky, the soldiers followed him into the woods, giving the refugees a chance to escape the blades or manacles of the governor’s revenge. A wave of satisfaction sent a bemused smile across his face knowing they had once again out maneuvered the general. Except for the unexpected pila that grazed his arm, he had done well. If they did not catch him, he would count this a success.

When it was safe, Marius stopped and examined the wound, wincing when the gap opened a little wider beneath his fingers. It would need a surgeon’s needle to close it properly. Delia was going to be furious. He could almost hear her voice; Not ONLY have your ruined the shirt I made for you, but they could have killed you. You have to be more careful! I will not raise this child on my own. Do you understand me?

Even seven months pregnant, Delia was still a fortune of fire, a passion of untamed spirit. Marius sighed. This would not improve her mood and another fight was inevitable. He sometimes forgot Delia was a Briton queen and leader of the Corieltauvi tribe. This always made their relationship interesting.

“You are going to have to be faster than that, liberatio.”

Marius drew his sword, forcing Brutus to rear onto his back legs when the voice bounced against the trees to his right. The armored figure emerged from the forest with seven Roman soldiers at his back. Marius swore.

“Aelius, that is a damn good way to get yourself killed.” He slammed his sword into the scabbard, pulling the red mask from his head. He patted the horse’s neck to calm him. “Report.”

The young man’s dark blue eyes sparkled from underneath a crown of rumpled black hair. Aelius threw him a half-crooked smile. The innocence Marius used to associate with his ward was gone now, burned out of his eyes on the battlefield the year before, and replaced by the grim countenance of a veteran. He had seen it too many times and in too many men. It was disturbing to see it in the young man he had raised.

With a silent hand signal, Aelius ordered his men to take up their positions. “Forgive me—sir—but you should learn to pay more attention. Had this been a patrol...”

“You would be dead,” Marius snorted and urged Brutus forward. “Report, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.” Aelius suppressed the grin that edged its way around his mouth. “The general’s men abandoned the chase about two miles back. They were confounded by the woods and by the fact that there were four different trails to follow and four different masked men. The centurion had us lead the bulk of Suetonius’ men north. The road should be clear for the refugees. The queen’s warriors are leading them to Hillfort. They will probably beat us there. The queen sent word that you should...” Aelius pursed his lips and tightened his fists on the reins. “Well, that you should get home soon, sir.”

“Very good.” Marius carefully tucked the red mask into an inside pocket of his heavy tartan cloak.

“Careful they do not catch you with that. It would be worth your head. The bounty has quadrupled in the last five days.” The mischievous glint in his eyes made them twitch in the muted early morning sunlight sifting through the boughs. “Almost high enough for me to collect it myself.”

Marius grunted and increased his pace when they hit the main road. “The higher it goes, the better we are doing our job. How many this time?”

Aelius shrugged and examined his men. “Two hundred, maybe a few more; mostly women and children. I think that is the last of them here. Do you want us to search for more this week?”

“No. You need to get the century to your patrol area before command gets suspicious. We will start again next week. Is Kuna coming back tonight?”

“No, sir.” Aelius fell into step. “The centurion has gone to Londinium to fetch Aunt Antonia, and then he has been ordered to command camp by Tribune Quintius. Kuna says to tell you he would prefer to ignore the order again, but that they are getting insistent. He cannot disregard it. He will see us at Hillfort in the morning.”

Marius nodded and watched the fog dissipate.

They were out of danger for the time being but it was getting more difficult every day. Marius’ time was running out. His guise as the liberatio mysticus would soon do nothing for Delia’s people. The Romans were forcing their advantage and more Britons were dying every day.

* * * *

“... do you have any idea what would happen to us without you?” Delia tried without success to remove Marius’ arms from around her swollen belly.

They stood naked next to the balcony in their bedroom. The late moon was the only light in the room. It streamed through the intricate balustrade.

He ignored her outburst and kissed her behind the ear. “Do you really want to argue, my love?”

“No. Yes!” She gave him a frustrated huff. “I could not bear it without you, you must understand that.” Tears saturated her dark lashes, making the green eyes shine in the soft light. “Please be more careful.”

“I promise,” he whispered, breathing in her scent and luxuriating in her presence.

“Do you remember the day we were married?” he asked.

“Of course, I do.”

“I had never been anywhere that held such power of spirit than that small clearing in the woods with its pillar of stone. I began to think your gods might hold sway over even Mars.”

Delia smiled in his arms. “I remember.”

“You told me the goddess had blessed the standing stone… that the sanctuary was a sacred place.”

“It is. My ancestors have been crowned and married there for generations.”

“You also told me something I will never forget.”

“Which is?”

Marius ran long fingers through her hair. It was warm and soft in his hand. “That you would trust me. You promised me.”

“Yes, well…”

“I will hold you to that promise, my queen. Trust me now. I will always come home to you.” The passion of the words whispered into her ear surprised him.

Marius leaned down, touched his lips very softly to the side of her neck, and a gratifying shiver run through her body. Encouraged, he cupped her breasts in his hands and gently touched the nipples with his thumbs, one after the other, making her take a deep inward breath. The sound set off a twinge deep in his loins and he tightened his buttocks to increase it.

Marius shifted his weight so that his hardness rubbed against her naked back. “I missed you.”

Delia chuckled and put her hands behind her to encircle his neck, allowing him full access to her body. “Obviously.”

Marius ran his hands down her belly where the moonlight shimmered against the taut skin. Strands of hair lay softly against it, golden in the light. He could feel the bulge of her distended belly and allowed his fingers to linger. The stretched skin was silky under his rough fingertips. He loved touching the softness. A quick movement responded to his caress and Delia let out a gasp.

“Oh, he moved,” she said. She took Marius’ hand and guided his fingers a little lower, making him push in. His fingers brushed the hard outline of something, a leg, or an arm, but then it shifted on its own. “There, feel?”

A kind of satisfaction sent waves of warmth through him when a little kick of life blossomed in her belly.

A sudden deep revelation struck him, chasing away the warmth.

The stern, self-assured centurion he had once been was gone. He could not stop the wash of fear sending shivers up his spine. The loss constricted his abdomen. Marius would never again feel the power of command coursing through his blood, never again hear the tromp of hundreds of marching horses, the jingle of armor, or the clash of blade against shield in battle. He would never again be a centurion. The notion sent regret through every corner of his mind. The hero was gone.

Only a man, like other men. The thought thundered through his head.

Marius pulled his hands away and stared at the back of Delia’s head.

“What is the matter?” Delia turned to examine his face.

Marius forced a smile onto his lips and took her in his arms. “Nothing. A little pain. Your healer is less skilled with the needle than my medico.” Marius bent down to kiss her, but she pushed him back.

“No, there is something wrong.”

He rubbed his face with one hand, scrambling for a response.

“It is nothing. Now, come here.” He coerced the smile more successfully, swept her up into a long kiss, and then lifted her into his arms. Delia softened against his body and the moment of doubt melted under the heat of her skin. When he looked into her eyes, he knew he had made the right decision a year ago.

THE EDGE OF HONORChapter I ...

THE EDGE OF HONOR
Chapter I                 The ex-centurion knew if the Romans caught him, he was dead. Marius felt the horse strain under his thighs. The animal’s head split the air in front of them. Wind roared, mingling with the pounding of Marius’ heart and the jolting rumble of hooves against the forest floor. Blood flowed from a throbbing wound on his shoulder and spattered behind him, staining the horse’s rump. He tightened his grip on the reins, bowing his head low over the animal’s neck. The smell of horseflesh was stringent in his nose.         A grim thought flashed through his mind. He may never hold Delia again. Marius’ throat tightened. He dug his heels into Brutus and forced him to move faster. He would make it up to the horse later, if he survived.         The forest blurred around him. Brown, green, branches growing like twisted mirages charging at him out of the foggy morning. He dodged them, sometimes successfully–sometimes not. His head and good shoulder ached where they sliced him. The movement of the horse’s massive leg muscles deadened his thighs, making it difficult to manipulate the beast. Despite the speed, Brutus knew his master well and needed little guidance. Marius missed the Roman armor he had worn for twenty-five years, but the Celtic clothes gave him more freedom to manage the animal. He was slowly adjusting to being a citizen—very slowly.         Risking another glimpse over his shoulder, Marius saw nothing but the trees receding. The sound of jangling Roman horse tack, the shouts of Latin curses, and the frustrated bellows of General Suetonius had also faded. If he was lucky, the soldiers followed him into the woods, giving the refugees a chance to escape the blades or manacles of the governor’s revenge. A wave of satisfaction sent a bemused smile across his face knowing they had once again out maneuvered the general. Except for the unexpected pila that grazed his arm, he had done well. If they did not catch him, he would count this a success.         When it was safe, Marius stopped and examined the wound, wincing when the gap opened a little wider beneath his fingers. It would need a surgeon’s needle to close it properly. Delia was going to be furious. He could almost hear her voice; Not ONLY have your ruined the shirt I made for you, but they could have killed you. You have to be more careful! I will not raise this child on my own. Do you understand me?         Even seven months pregnant, Delia was still a fortune of fire, a passion of untamed spirit. Marius sighed. This would not improve her mood and another fight was inevitable. He sometimes forgot Delia was a Briton queen and leader of the Corieltauvi tribe. This always made their relationship interesting.         “You are going to have to be faster than that, liberatio.”         Marius drew his sword, forcing Brutus to rear onto his back legs when the voice bounced against the trees to his right. The armored figure emerged from the forest with seven Roman soldiers at his back. Marius swore.         “Aelius, that is a damn good way to get yourself killed.” He slammed his sword into the scabbard, pulling the red mask from his head. He patted the horse’s neck to calm him. “Report.”         The young man’s dark blue eyes sparkled from underneath a crown of rumpled black hair. Aelius threw him a half-crooked smile. The innocence Marius used to associate with his ward was gone now, burned out of his eyes on the battlefield the year before, and replaced by the grim countenance of a veteran. He had seen it too many times and in too many men. It was disturbing to see it in the young man he had raised.         With a silent hand signal, Aelius ordered his men to take up their positions. “Forgive me—sir—but you should learn to pay more attention. Had this been a patrol...”         “You would be dead,” Marius snorted and urged Brutus forward. “Report, soldier.”         “Yes, sir.” Aelius suppressed the grin that edged its way around his mouth. “The general’s men abandoned the chase about two miles back. They were confounded by the woods and by the fact that there were four different trails to follow and four different masked men. The centurion had us lead the bulk of Suetonius’ men north. The road should be clear for the refugees. The queen’s warriors are leading them to Hillfort. They will probably beat us there. The queen sent word that you should...” Aelius pursed his lips and tightened his fists on the reins. “Well, that you should get home soon, sir.”         “Very good.” Marius carefully tucked the red mask into an inside pocket of his heavy tartan cloak.         “Careful they do not catch you with that. It would be worth your head. The bounty has quadrupled in the last five days.” The mischievous glint in his eyes made them twitch in the muted early morning sunlight sifting through the boughs. “Almost high enough for me to collect it myself.”         Marius grunted and increased his pace when they hit the main road. “The higher it goes, the better we are doing our job. How many this time?”         Aelius shrugged and examined his men. “Two hundred, maybe a few more; mostly women and children. I think that is the last of them here. Do you want us to search for more this week?”         “No. You need to get the century to your patrol area before command gets suspicious. We will start again next week. Is Kuna coming back tonight?”         “No, sir.” Aelius fell into step. “The centurion has gone to Londinium to fetch Aunt Antonia, and then he has been ordered to command camp by Tribune Quintius. Kuna says to tell you he would prefer to ignore the order again, but that they are getting insistent. He cannot disregard it. He will see us at Hillfort in the morning.”         Marius nodded and watched the fog dissipate.         They were out of danger for the time being but it was getting more difficult every day. Marius’ time was running out. His guise as the liberatio mysticus would soon do nothing for Delia’s people. The Romans were forcing their advantage and more Britons were dying every day.         * * * *         “... do you have any idea what would happen to us without you?” Delia tried without success to remove Marius’ arms from around her swollen belly.         They stood naked next to the balcony in their bedroom. The late moon was the only light in the room. It streamed through the intricate balustrade.         He ignored her outburst and kissed her behind the ear. “Do you really want to argue, my love?”         “No. Yes!” She gave him a frustrated huff. “I could not bear it without you, you must understand that.” Tears saturated her dark lashes, making the green eyes shine in the soft light. “Please be more careful.”         “I promise,” he whispered, breathing in her scent and luxuriating in her presence.         “Do you remember the day we were married?” he asked.         “Of course, I do.”         “I had never been anywhere that held such power of spirit than that small clearing in the woods with its pillar of stone. I began to think your gods might hold sway over even Mars.”         Delia smiled in his arms. “I remember.”         “You told me the goddess had blessed the standing stone… that the sanctuary was a sacred place.”         “It is. My ancestors have been crowned and married there for generations.”         “You also told me something I will never forget.”         “Which is?”         Marius ran long fingers through her hair. It was warm and soft in his hand. “That you would trust me. You promised me.”         “Yes, well…”         “I will hold you to that promise, my queen. Trust me now. I will always come home to you.” The passion of the words whispered into her ear surprised him.         Marius leaned down, touched his lips very softly to the side of her neck, and a gratifying shiver run through her body. Encouraged, he cupped her breasts in his hands and gently touched the nipples with his thumbs, one after the other, making her take a deep inward breath. The sound set off a twinge deep in his loins and he tightened his buttocks to increase it.         Marius shifted his weight so that his hardness rubbed against her naked back. “I missed you.”         Delia chuckled and put her hands behind her to encircle his neck, allowing him full access to her body. “Obviously.”         Marius ran his hands down her belly where the moonlight shimmered against the taut skin. Strands of hair lay softly against it, golden in the light. He could feel the bulge of her distended belly and allowed his fingers to linger. The stretched skin was silky under his rough fingertips. He loved touching the softness. A quick movement responded to his caress and Delia let out a gasp.         “Oh, he moved,” she said. She took Marius’ hand and guided his fingers a little lower, making him push in. His fingers brushed the hard outline of something, a leg, or an arm, but then it shifted on its own. “There, feel?”         A kind of satisfaction sent waves of warmth through him when a little kick of life blossomed in her belly.         A sudden deep revelation struck him, chasing away the warmth.         The stern, self-assured centurion he had once been was gone. He could not stop the wash of fear sending shivers up his spine. The loss constricted his abdomen. Marius would never again feel the power of command coursing through his blood, never again hear the tromp of hundreds of marching horses, the jingle of armor, or the clash of blade against shield in battle. He would never again be a centurion. The notion sent regret through every corner of his mind. The hero was gone.         Only a man, like other men. The thought thundered through his head.         Marius pulled his hands away and stared at the back of Delia’s head.         “What is the matter?” Delia turned to examine his face.         Marius forced a smile onto his lips and took her in his arms. “Nothing. A little pain. Your healer is less skilled with the needle than my medico.” Marius bent down to kiss her, but she pushed him back.         “No, there is something wrong.”         He rubbed his face with one hand, scrambling for a response.         “It is nothing. Now, come here.” He coerced the smile more successfully, swept her up into a long kiss, and then lifted her into his arms. Delia softened against his body and the moment of doubt melted under the heat of her skin. When he looked into her eyes, he knew he had made the right decision a year ago.         Marius carried her to a thick mat on the floor and laid her down. He kissed her eyelids, her nose and then tenderly brushed her lips with his own. She sighed deeply and ran her hands through his hair, bringing fire to the kiss. Marius pulled away and moved a lock of hair from her face.         “Are you certain? I can wait,” he said.         The radiating smile shining back at him gripped his heart. “But I cannot. I know you will be gentle.” Delia pulled him back to her lips and he basked in her warmth.         Marius ran his lips over her face, neck, and shoulders slowly, until he came to the delicate breasts. The soft flesh yielded to his rough hands and a jolt of passion sparked every nerve in his body. He took each nipple into his mouth, one at a time, biting gently until they hardened against his tongue. A satisfying gasp escaped Delia’s lips. She reached down to take his erection into her hot hand and caressed it lightly, sending another surge of lust through his body. He bit down firmly and Delia let out a playful ouch.         Careful not to move too quickly, Marius ran his hand over her swollen belly and then along her thighs, until her back arched at his touch. He brought his fingers up slowly and then cupped them between her open legs, pushing with a measured caress that made her gasp again. Running his tongue mercilessly over her nipple, he slid his middle finger to open her so slowly her whispered please let him know the rhythm was right. Using her moisture, he ran his finger up and down until the swollen lips were completely open to his advance. He lingered at the top, rubbing her until the silky wetness covered his fingers. He pulled his erection out of her reluctant hand.         Kneeling between her legs, Marius opened them wide and ran his tongue along the crevice, up and then down, prolonging the motion until Delia moaned in need. Taking the button between his lips and sucking lightly, he watched as her belly quivered in short, panting breaths. When she drew close, he withdrew his mouth and stopped, causing her to whimper and swear. He laughed at her.         Repositioning himself on his side next to her, he lifted Delia’s leg over his waist and ran his hand up her inner thigh, positioning himself to enter her torrid body. In a measured stroke, he pushed inside her, feeling her heat as it slowly engulfed him, inch by inch, concentrating to keep the sensation from overwhelming him, careful not to enter too quickly. The incredibly hot folds of silky skin and tight muscle bore down on him, craving the extent of his firmness. Marius kept it slow, even, allowing Delia to set the depth, the pace. In and out, again and again, gradually increasing the speed, he sank into her, watching her hair fly from side to side like wind-blown rushes.         Delia reached down to touch both herself and him, her wet fingers sliding against the engorged muscle as he thrust it forward and then back. The touch nearly sent him over the edge, but he held it back. Again, he took her nipple into his mouth and bit on it, increasing the pace of his thrusts until neither of them could take anymore. The screams of release resounded through the house when they gave into the intensity and let the spasms consume them. Lost in their passion, the trembling contortions knocked them off the mat.         Laughing from the floor, Marius inspected her thoroughly, making certain she and the baby were all right.         “Maybe we should stop…”         “Not on your life, sir.” Delia wrapped her arms around him. “You are not getting away that easily.”         Marius touched her golden hair and took in a breath of air when her jade eyes sparkled in the moonlight. His doubt slipped into a memory.             * * * *         The next day, Marius and Delia interviewed a parade of poor Briton mothers, daughters, sons, uncles, and other relatives. The fortitude of these displaced people impressed Marius; they were all gaunt and dark with exhaustion, yet they held themselves with a quiet dignity he had seldom seen in a defeated people. Every day his respect for the Celts deepened. He was ashamed he had not taken the time before now to explore it.         “Mother,” he said to the older woman staring up at him now. Attached to her hands were two small children dressed in tatters with dirty faces and awe-filled eyes. “You are welcome to take refuge with us as long as you need. We will do what we can to find the children’s mother.” He glanced at his wife who smiled back at him proudly. “Perhaps she will be in the next group we find. Just give her name to one of my warriors and they will…”         A loud murmur rose from the milling crowd and Marius looked up sharply. Making his way through the few people remaining, Delia’s commander, Evyn, firmly gripped the elbow of a hooded figure, who stumbled next to him. The figure struggled, but Evyn had a good grip.         “We caught this one trying to sneak in through the back gate.” He yanked the hood off her head.         The woman was beautiful, tall, a tangle of deep auburn hair surrounding light blue eyes, with an aristocratic sulk lining an otherwise striking face.         “Rheydyn!” Delia cried.         Evyn drew his sword.         Standing before them was a ghost; the woman who had enslaved Delia, fought with the warriors to challenge the Romans almost a year ago, the proud princess of a dead kingdom. Boudiga’s daughter frowned at them and the room went silent.

The Centurion & The Queen on AmazonTHE CENTURION &amp...

The Centurion & The Queen on AmazonTHE CENTURION & THE QUEENCHAPTER ONE                 Blood dripped from the sword onto the centurion’s sandals, staining his naked toes and mingling with the spattered Breton mud. An unconscious shiver of disgust ran through Marius. He was not prejudiced; after all, he had spent sixteen years on this sodden island and was quite used to these people. But it did not stop the unwelcome flash of sentiment that the blood filtering down through his toes was somehow infected, impure. Marius knew better, but that did not help either. Twenty-five years of rigorous military training and a forty year lifetime of Roman indoctrination was difficult to avoid. He wanted nothing more than to wash his feet.         “Merda!” he swore under his breath.         Marius stood above the body of a Breton warrior sinking into the mud and a kind of pity moved him. Although he knew this was part of a centurion’s duty, an integral part of being a Roman soldier, he hated killing, avoided it as often as he could. This man had given him no choice. The Breton, large even by native standards, had bellowed when the Roman soldiers came out of the woods and ran straight for him with what Marius thought was a sword. It was not, of course. By the time he realized it, it was too late—his trained reflexes had responded on their own. The man was dead before he hit the ground, the old rusted javelin askew in his limp fingers. After twenty-five years and close to three hundred kills, Marius still hated it. Compassion made him a good centurion; compassion had also landed him on this wretched island. The irony was not lost on him.         He looked down at the crumpled, blood-soaked body as he wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic.         Sheathing the sword, Marius shot a glance at the woods lining the open field and caught the fleeting wisp of a woman with golden-red hair standing inside the shadow of a tree. When he blinked, the wisp was gone, but he knew she was watching and had been for quite some time. Marius was certain she was not going anywhere. The woman was probably part of a contingent representing the small king of this area, the one that owed the empire repayment of loans, the one they had come here to investigate, ultimately to obligate. They did not need the tribute. What they needed was the alliance. Conall? The name flashed through his mind along with a hundred other details he cataloged with a single hard glance. He would handle it, as he always did, in due time.         The angry glares of the remaining four Bretons, quickly pushed to their knees by Marius’ men, reminded him sharply of the aggravations he and his soldiers faced on a daily basis. Even though they had contributed countless improvements to these people, made their lives more productive, richer and safer, the legions had never been exactly welcomed in Britannia; but neither had they been aggressively repelled either. The truce was abundantly frail. His thoughts turned, as they often did these days, to the unverified news of impending Breton revolts. Whether real or imagined, the echoing gossip that recently filtered from camp to camp could not be stopped—or ignored. Marius knew the next few weeks would either verify or disprove the rumors. Again, he would handle it in due time. He was a very patient man.         “Aelius,” he called in a quiet, commanding voice.         “Sir?” The young man was dark, short and although Roman-trim and very neat, there was always a look of rumple about him, as if he and those deep blue eyes had just tumbled out of his bedroll. A roguish half smile sometimes charmed his face, as it did now, and it was difficult not to return the expression, even though Marius usually managed it.         Before the centurion could turn to his aide, he felt an overwhelming urge to scan the forest again. He found himself distracted by the startling loveliness that peered at him from the coarse pines, and had to constrain his moment of weakness. Forcing down the unexpected stirring, he straightened his shoulders and took a short breath.         “Tell them they are under arrest for cultivating Roman land and we are taking them to our camp for interrogation.”         Marius had never learned their language. He always meant to, but the strange guttural consonants and awful combined vowels made his throat hurt. The language, like the people who spoke it, was peculiar and alien, and he could not get used to it.         Aelius, on the other hand, spoke three languages fluently and several others with nearly as much skill, always lisping in that strange Greek/Roman accent, making him an excellent aide. Aelius had a Greek mother, a Roman father, and an unacknowledged Breton grandmother who taught him her native tongue.         In perfect Gaelic, Aelius repeated the order to the four Bretons. They merely stared up at him, their knees soaking in the sopping clay. The foreign eyes sparked with a mixture of fear, anger, or outright loathing. They had their hands tied behind their backs as a murky drizzle intensified the misery and displeasure on their weather worn faces. Each man had long dark or reddish hair with his calves wrapped in tightly hitched furred leggings. Around the shoulders of each was a colorful tunic in blues and yellows that was striking even when wet and dirty. The bright fabric seemed strangely out of place in this grey-drenched world. Their clothes were sharp contrast to the highly meticulous Roman soldiers with their polished metal adornments and crisp, segmented silver armor. The red of their wool tunics looked bright and bloody against the half-plowed field.         Marius ordered the Bretons tied together and the dead one wrapped and strapped to one of the spare plow horses. The other animals were unshackled and tied behind the men as Marius mounted his own. The Breton horses seemed small and squat next to the tall Roman breeds. As dusk sifted in through the leaves, the rest of the fifteen soldiers marched into the forest to return to their camp and dinner, slowly pulling the Bretons behind them. Marius’ mind wandered involuntarily to the woman hiding just inside the woods, and was keen to have her follow.         Well behind his scrupulous self-control, held deeply away from the light where no one else could see, was the first ardent thought he had in very, very long time. He would make it a point to see the woman again with her flash of golden-red hair. Marius wistfully [MSOffice2] hoped she would do something wrong, even a minor infraction, so he could find leverage to get her into his bed. It was extremely doubtful, but it did not stop the desire. He could feel his body respond again, which surprised him; it had been a long time since a woman could move him with a glance. He smiled at Aelius who frowned suspiciously, but said nothing. Marius leaned over to whisper to him and his second, Leonius. They nodded obediently, taking up positions on the outside of the men. He whistled to his beast and picked up the pace, making the soldiers lunge to catch up.         Fifteen minutes into the march, Marius silently gestured to the two men. It was such a subtle thing even the other soldiers did not catch it. As softly as a breeze, they peeled away from the outside of the advancing Romans and disappeared like smoke into the woods as Marius and the remaining soldiers continued forward. He knew he would not see them again until they reached camp only a few miles away, with any luck, an additional Breton in tow.                 “A bhides!” Delia cursed. She watched from a dark break in the woods, praying it would conceal her.         The Roman leader, a tall, handsome man with salted-midnight hair, suddenly looked directly at her. For an instant, their eyes locked and Delia felt an unexpected flush of excitement course through her. She gasped and tucked herself behind the tree, surprised by the intensity and suddenness of the feeling. She took a deep breath, motioning the small woman behind her to silence, then stillness. Neither one moved for several heartbeats. When Delia dared to look again, the men were intent on their charges, their leader apparently not interested in the presence of women.         “Your Majesty…what are you doing?” the young woman whispered to her.         Delia jerked a silencing hand to her mouth. “Quiet, Glenys,” she hissed.         Tying her long mane of wayward hair into a knot and securing it with a silver Roman brooch, she raised her tunic out of the mud. Without looking to see if Glenys was following, Delia quickly backed into the woods without taking her eyes off the Romans.         Delia had warned the villagers about going into the field, knowing there were Roman patrols all over the Corieltauvi lands. The men had not listened. She did not blame them. After all, their families were hungry.         Conall cares nothing for his people, even if he is their king.         She scowled at the trees. Delia had taken it upon herself to warn them since her brother would not send out couriers.         Some king!         Four of the families had been working the field, trying to coax stunted tubers out of the rocky, untilled ground when the soldiers appeared. The Romans had thundered down the road, the sound of the hooves echoing across the open field. The farmers wasted no time in throwing the children into their mothers’ arms and ordering them into the trees to hide. Delia and Glenys had rushed from the village to stop them, but it was too late. All Delia could do was order the women and children to return to the village. Reluctantly, the wives and their charges scurried through the woods, shooting frightened glances at the men, with only Delia’s assurances she would do...something. She just wished she knew what that was.         Perhaps if she could talk to the Romans, she could make them understand. The thought sent a bemused smile across her lips. Make a Roman understand about starving wives and children? Not likely, but she was not going to watch as her men were pressed into slavery. They had lost too many over the last seventeen years of occupation. Her brother paid tribute to them—one of the few kings who did—and she prayed that would be worth something.         Delia had waited in the woods to see what the Romans would do, assuming they would give the men a warning and send them on their way. However, the Roman leader had killed one of the farmers when the Breton had stupidly run screaming at them, ruining any chance they had. Delia chided herself for not having more compassion toward the dead. Like so many other Breton men, his heart and his loins had ruled him. How many oafs died on Roman swords thinking it was brave to run blindly into them, screeching their defiance? The only mark the act left on the world was a starving family. The numbers were staggering. Delia had seen it too many times in her twenty-nine winters. If the men had stood quietly and answered the Romans’ questions, more than likely they would have been let go.         She watched from the shadows for a long time, not really having any clear idea what she was going to do. When they finally left the clearing, she impulsively motioned to Glenys and followed. Glenys gaped at her mistress as if she had lost her mind, but nodded with a barely stifled sigh and a nervous curl of her lip.         As she and Glenys ran behind them, they stayed well back, unable to see the advancing Romans. The beat of walking horses suddenly turned to trotting and the soldiers put distance between them. Delia was not concerned about falling behind; she had a notion where they would be camping and their trail was easy to follow.         Horses would have made Delia’s journey faster, of course, and there were several in the village, but she had declined. She detested the creatures, much to the shame of her dead father who had never understood how his daughter, one of the fiercest warriors he ever trained, would not take a horse. It should have been as natural as breathing. Delia could not help it. From the time she could hold a sword, every animal she tried to mount seemed bent on biting her no matter what she did. She hated having to ride behind one of the dusty ancient warriors, so had become a runner, a talent that was rare in a tribe that practically lived on horseback.         It felt good to be running again, something she had not done in a long time. When Delia ran, the world became a flurry of wind and green, caressing her face like a new lover and tantalizing her skin with a rush of bliss. When she ran, she felt invincible and alive. In an increasingly harsh life, it was one of her only pleasures.         But she still hated horses.         The air suffused her skin with blood, and a pleasant warmth spread throughout her body. Delia’s thoughts inadvertently turned to the man who had affected so strangely. For some reason she could not get him out of her head. The Roman officer was dark, deeply muscled, commanding, and so different from the men she was accustomed to. More importantly, with a single glimpse he had torn through her well-established emotional defenses, making the heat rise in her cheeks. Most men would have found that exceedingly difficult. The thought made her uncomfortable, sparking a sensual response she could not suppress.         Delia suddenly stopped and Glenys almost ran into her. “My lady, what is it?”         “Nothing,” she said. “I…we need to rest.”         Glenys looked at her suspiciously, but did not press, and Delia was grateful. She did not want to explain that she suddenly dreaded the thought of speaking with the Romans. Unreasonably, she thought a few more minutes and a dark night would make the task easier. Doubtful, but the truth was she was all at once afraid of meeting a man who could make her [MSOffice3] blush with a glance.         As Delia scanned the trees around them, Glenys took off her heavy belt and set it on a stump, smiling back at her mistress. “Well, since we are stopping…” Without waiting for a reply, she scurried off into the forest to relieve herself.         “Not too far,” Delia called distractedly, but Glenys had disappeared. Delia was irritated at first, but then shook her head. The girl had always been impetuous and reminded Delia so much of herself as a young woman, she had to smile.         Glenys was only eighteen winters, with rich brown wavy hair, deep olive skin, and black Mediterranean eyes that made her appear several years older. Her father had been a Roman soldier and her mother a Breton from a neighboring tribe. When her father died, the village had shunned her poor mother, and Delia had taken them in, much to Conall’s displeasure. Delia shivered at the memory. She never understood how people could be so cruel. Glenys could not help that a Roman had fathered her. However, Delia herself often had to shake off the disgust the thought would bring. Just imagining a Roman soldier touching her sent her skin crawling.         She realized the man in the field had been Roman. With an effort, Delia shook the unwanted image from her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. They would have to hurry if they wanted to make camp before it turned dark—or she completely lost her nerve.         When she spotted Glenys’ knife, she picked it up and frowned. “Glenys?” Delia called, but the only reply was the crickets breek-reeking from the wall of darkening trees. A cold terror shifted through her shoulder blades sending a flash of heat into her cheeks. Something was wrong.

        “Glenys!” The quiet late afternoon breeze shuffled through the branches, but again, it was all she heard.

THE CENTURION & THE QUEENCHAPTER ONE &nbs...

THE CENTURION & THE QUEENCHAPTER ONE                 Blood dripped from the sword onto the centurion’s sandals, staining his naked toes and mingling with the spattered Breton mud. An unconscious shiver of disgust ran through Marius. He was not prejudiced; after all, he had spent sixteen years on this sodden island and was quite used to these people. But it did not stop the unwelcome flash of sentiment that the blood filtering down through his toes was somehow infected, impure. Marius knew better, but that did not help either. Twenty-five years of rigorous military training and a forty year lifetime of Roman indoctrination was difficult to avoid. He wanted nothing more than to wash his feet.         “Merda!” he swore under his breath.         Marius stood above the body of a Breton warrior sinking into the mud and a kind of pity moved him. Although he knew this was part of a centurion’s duty, an integral part of being a Roman soldier, he hated killing, avoided it as often as he could. This man had given him no choice. The Breton, large even by native standards, had bellowed when the Roman soldiers came out of the woods and ran straight for him with what Marius thought was a sword. It was not, of course. By the time he realized it, it was too late—his trained reflexes had responded on their own. The man was dead before he hit the ground, the old rusted javelin askew in his limp fingers. After twenty-five years and close to three hundred kills, Marius still hated it. Compassion made him a good centurion; compassion had also landed him on this wretched island. The irony was not lost on him.         He looked down at the crumpled, blood-soaked body as he wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic.         Sheathing the sword, Marius shot a glance at the woods lining the open field and caught the fleeting wisp of a woman with golden-red hair standing inside the shadow of a tree. When he blinked, the wisp was gone, but he knew she was watching and had been for quite some time. Marius was certain she was not going anywhere. The woman was probably part of a contingent representing the small king of this area, the one that owed the empire repayment of loans, the one they had come here to investigate, ultimately to obligate. They did not need the tribute. What they needed was the alliance. Conall? The name flashed through his mind along with a hundred other details he cataloged with a single hard glance. He would handle it, as he always did, in due time.         The angry glares of the remaining four Bretons, quickly pushed to their knees by Marius’ men, reminded him sharply of the aggravations he and his soldiers faced on a daily basis. Even though they had contributed countless improvements to these people, made their lives more productive, richer and safer, the legions had never been exactly welcomed in Britannia; but neither had they been aggressively repelled either. The truce was abundantly frail. His thoughts turned, as they often did these days, to the unverified news of impending Breton revolts. Whether real or imagined, the echoing gossip that recently filtered from camp to camp could not be stopped—or ignored. Marius knew the next few weeks would either verify or disprove the rumors. Again, he would handle it in due time. He was a very patient man.         “Aelius,” he called in a quiet, commanding voice.         “Sir?” The young man was dark, short and although Roman-trim and very neat, there was always a look of rumple about him, as if he and those deep blue eyes had just tumbled out of his bedroll. A roguish half smile sometimes charmed his face, as it did now, and it was difficult not to return the expression, even though Marius usually managed it.         Before the centurion could turn to his aide, he felt an overwhelming urge to scan the forest again. He found himself distracted by the startling loveliness that peered at him from the coarse pines, and had to constrain his moment of weakness. Forcing down the unexpected stirring, he straightened his shoulders and took a short breath.         “Tell them they are under arrest for cultivating Roman land and we are taking them to our camp for interrogation.”         Marius had never learned their language. He always meant to, but the strange guttural consonants and awful combined vowels made his throat hurt. The language, like the people who spoke it, was peculiar and alien, and he could not get used to it.         Aelius, on the other hand, spoke three languages fluently and several others with nearly as much skill, always lisping in that strange Greek/Roman accent, making him an excellent aide. Aelius had a Greek mother, a Roman father, and an unacknowledged Breton grandmother who taught him her native tongue.         In perfect Gaelic, Aelius repeated the order to the four Bretons. They merely stared up at him, their knees soaking in the sopping clay. The foreign eyes sparked with a mixture of fear, anger, or outright loathing. They had their hands tied behind their backs as a murky drizzle intensified the misery and displeasure on their weather worn faces. Each man had long dark or reddish hair with his calves wrapped in tightly hitched furred leggings. Around the shoulders of each was a colorful tunic in blues and yellows that was striking even when wet and dirty. The bright fabric seemed strangely out of place in this grey-drenched world. Their clothes were sharp contrast to the highly meticulous Roman soldiers with their polished metal adornments and crisp, segmented silver armor. The red of their wool tunics looked bright and bloody against the half-plowed field.         Marius ordered the Bretons tied together and the dead one wrapped and strapped to one of the spare plow horses. The other animals were unshackled and tied behind the men as Marius mounted his own. The Breton horses seemed small and squat next to the tall Roman breeds. As dusk sifted in through the leaves, the rest of the fifteen soldiers marched into the forest to return to their camp and dinner, slowly pulling the Bretons behind them. Marius’ mind wandered involuntarily to the woman hiding just inside the woods, and was keen to have her follow.         Well behind his scrupulous self-control, held deeply away from the light where no one else could see, was the first ardent thought he had in very, very long time. He would make it a point to see the woman again with her flash of golden-red hair. Marius wistfully [MSOffice2] hoped she would do something wrong, even a minor infraction, so he could find leverage to get her into his bed. It was extremely doubtful, but it did not stop the desire. He could feel his body respond again, which surprised him; it had been a long time since a woman could move him with a glance. He smiled at Aelius who frowned suspiciously, but said nothing. Marius leaned over to whisper to him and his second, Leonius. They nodded obediently, taking up positions on the outside of the men. He whistled to his beast and picked up the pace, making the soldiers lunge to catch up.         Fifteen minutes into the march, Marius silently gestured to the two men. It was such a subtle thing even the other soldiers did not catch it. As softly as a breeze, they peeled away from the outside of the advancing Romans and disappeared like smoke into the woods as Marius and the remaining soldiers continued forward. He knew he would not see them again until they reached camp only a few miles away, with any luck, an additional Breton in tow.                 “A bhides!” Delia cursed. She watched from a dark break in the woods, praying it would conceal her.         The Roman leader, a tall, handsome man with salted-midnight hair, suddenly looked directly at her. For an instant, their eyes locked and Delia felt an unexpected flush of excitement course through her. She gasped and tucked herself behind the tree, surprised by the intensity and suddenness of the feeling. She took a deep breath, motioning the small woman behind her to silence, then stillness. Neither one moved for several heartbeats. When Delia dared to look again, the men were intent on their charges, their leader apparently not interested in the presence of women.         “Your Majesty…what are you doing?” the young woman whispered to her.         Delia jerked a silencing hand to her mouth. “Quiet, Glenys,” she hissed.         Tying her long mane of wayward hair into a knot and securing it with a silver Roman brooch, she raised her tunic out of the mud. Without looking to see if Glenys was following, Delia quickly backed into the woods without taking her eyes off the Romans.         Delia had warned the villagers about going into the field, knowing there were Roman patrols all over the Corieltauvi lands. The men had not listened. She did not blame them. After all, their families were hungry.         Conall cares nothing for his people, even if he is their king.         She scowled at the trees. Delia had taken it upon herself to warn them since her brother would not send out couriers.         Some king!         Four of the families had been working the field, trying to coax stunted tubers out of the rocky, untilled ground when the soldiers appeared. The Romans had thundered down the road, the sound of the hooves echoing across the open field. The farmers wasted no time in throwing the children into their mothers’ arms and ordering them into the trees to hide. Delia and Glenys had rushed from the village to stop them, but it was too late. All Delia could do was order the women and children to return to the village. Reluctantly, the wives and their charges scurried through the woods, shooting frightened glances at the men, with only Delia’s assurances she would do...something. She just wished she knew what that was.         Perhaps if she could talk to the Romans, she could make them understand. The thought sent a bemused smile across her lips. Make a Roman understand about starving wives and children? Not likely, but she was not going to watch as her men were pressed into slavery. They had lost too many over the last seventeen years of occupation. Her brother paid tribute to them—one of the few kings who did—and she prayed that would be worth something.         Delia had waited in the woods to see what the Romans would do, assuming they would give the men a warning and send them on their way. However, the Roman leader had killed one of the farmers when the Breton had stupidly run screaming at them, ruining any chance they had. Delia chided herself for not having more compassion toward the dead. Like so many other Breton men, his heart and his loins had ruled him. How many oafs died on Roman swords thinking it was brave to run blindly into them, screeching their defiance? The only mark the act left on the world was a starving family. The numbers were staggering. Delia had seen it too many times in her twenty-nine winters. If the men had stood quietly and answered the Romans’ questions, more than likely they would have been let go.         She watched from the shadows for a long time, not really having any clear idea what she was going to do. When they finally left the clearing, she impulsively motioned to Glenys and followed. Glenys gaped at her mistress as if she had lost her mind, but nodded with a barely stifled sigh and a nervous curl of her lip.         As she and Glenys ran behind them, they stayed well back, unable to see the advancing Romans. The beat of walking horses suddenly turned to trotting and the soldiers put distance between them. Delia was not concerned about falling behind; she had a notion where they would be camping and their trail was easy to follow.         Horses would have made Delia’s journey faster, of course, and there were several in the village, but she had declined. She detested the creatures, much to the shame of her dead father who had never understood how his daughter, one of the fiercest warriors he ever trained, would not take a horse. It should have been as natural as breathing. Delia could not help it. From the time she could hold a sword, every animal she tried to mount seemed bent on biting her no matter what she did. She hated having to ride behind one of the dusty ancient warriors, so had become a runner, a talent that was rare in a tribe that practically lived on horseback.         It felt good to be running again, something she had not done in a long time. When Delia ran, the world became a flurry of wind and green, caressing her face like a new lover and tantalizing her skin with a rush of bliss. When she ran, she felt invincible and alive. In an increasingly harsh life, it was one of her only pleasures.         But she still hated horses.         The air suffused her skin with blood, and a pleasant warmth spread throughout her body. Delia’s thoughts inadvertently turned to the man who had affected so strangely. For some reason she could not get him out of her head. The Roman officer was dark, deeply muscled, commanding, and so different from the men she was accustomed to. More importantly, with a single glimpse he had torn through her well-established emotional defenses, making the heat rise in her cheeks. Most men would have found that exceedingly difficult. The thought made her uncomfortable, sparking a sensual response she could not suppress.         Delia suddenly stopped and Glenys almost ran into her. “My lady, what is it?”         “Nothing,” she said. “I…we need to rest.”         Glenys looked at her suspiciously, but did not press, and Delia was grateful. She did not want to explain that she suddenly dreaded the thought of speaking with the Romans. Unreasonably, she thought a few more minutes and a dark night would make the task easier. Doubtful, but the truth was she was all at once afraid of meeting a man who could make her [MSOffice3] blush with a glance.         As Delia scanned the trees around them, Glenys took off her heavy belt and set it on a stump, smiling back at her mistress. “Well, since we are stopping…” Without waiting for a reply, she scurried off into the forest to relieve herself.         “Not too far,” Delia called distractedly, but Glenys had disappeared. Delia was irritated at first, but then shook her head. The girl had always been impetuous and reminded Delia so much of herself as a young woman, she had to smile.         Glenys was only eighteen winters, with rich brown wavy hair, deep olive skin, and black Mediterranean eyes that made her appear several years older. Her father had been a Roman soldier and her mother a Breton from a neighboring tribe. When her father died, the village had shunned her poor mother, and Delia had taken them in, much to Conall’s displeasure. Delia shivered at the memory. She never understood how people could be so cruel. Glenys could not help that a Roman had fathered her. However, Delia herself often had to shake off the disgust the thought would bring. Just imagining a Roman soldier touching her sent her skin crawling.         She realized the man in the field had been Roman. With an effort, Delia shook the unwanted image from her mind and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. They would have to hurry if they wanted to make camp before it turned dark—or she completely lost her nerve.         When she spotted Glenys’ knife, she picked it up and frowned. “Glenys?” Delia called, but the only reply was the crickets breek-reeking from the wall of darkening trees. A cold terror shifted through her shoulder blades sending a flash of heat into her cheeks. Something was wrong.
        “Glenys!” The quiet late afternoon breeze shuffled through the branches, but again, it was all she heard.

The Gladiator Prince on AmazonTHE GLADIATOR PRINCEPrologu...

The Gladiator Prince on AmazonTHE GLADIATOR PRINCEPrologue                         From the verbal tales of Chane the Bard as transcribed by the Monks of Essex Abbey, dies martis, a.d. X Kal., Feb. MCIII, a.u.c. (Tuesday, 24 January 350 AD)                 …when the prince beheld the blood of his kinsmen gushing onto the field of battle, the warrior Queen’s golden chariot toppled among a mound of Iceni dead and the advancing hordes of barbarian Romans, in his heart he wept. A surge of hate filled him, blackening his soul and deranging his senses. He would rather die upon the Roman gladius fighting with his last breath than surrender as a slave!         However, such is the hubris of the gods; for before Thane could throw his mortality against the victory of the usurpers, a child’s voice, no more than a whisper, deafened his ears to all other sound, a child’s hand quelled the madness in his head, a child’s tears fell dry upon his mad heart and stilled it. He gazed upon the illusions standing small and pure at his feet, passion froze in the searing screams of war, and the fire in his mind burned into sodden ash.         Princess Anwen and her sister Mabyn called out to the warrior, “Father, do not leave us for the Romans to devour!”         It is said, even in the midst of the battle roar around him, Thane threw back his head and laughed with such great power that those who heard it, whether friend or foe, halted in their places, stunned by its glee.         In one swift plunge, the Prince buried his sword to the hilt in the blood soaked Britannia mud, hoisted his two small daughters upon his mighty shoulders and took them away, leaving the din behind him, swearing retribution for all his enemies’ crimes against his people. The Romans had won the day.         …the wolf, they called him, for no hunter’s skill could track him, nor mongrel catch scent of his passing, yet the Roman general did not weary of the chase. Days followed hours and weeks followed days. The relentless hunt traversed forest and bog, river and rocky hill and gorse filled trenches. The gods guided the prince and his brood turning them ever east toward their own land.         On the night of the moon’s mid-cycle, at the apex of the dying season, word reached Prince Thane’s enervated ears, decrying the horrors that awaited his return to the shores of his home. For its distant hill forts had been razed to the ground, its forests burnt, its earth drained and salted so that no living thing could grow there, so great was the Roman general’s wrath against the Trinovantes. Thane’s family had been slaughtered, every babe, every child, every man and woman. There were neither kith nor kin to greet the warrior should he return home.         Upon hearing these tidings, he became inconsolable and sank into a deep despair. It is said that so great was his sorrow he tore out his hair, crying, “Damnation to the seeds of Rome, destroyers of the innocent. May the gods spit thee into the mouth of Belatucadros where ye will burn in his immortal fire!” His lament rose upon a strange wind of magic, echoing through all the remaining lands of the Brettaniai Albion. The young daughters, fearing his madness, piled mounds of duff and rain-soaked moss from the forest floor upon their father’s head to keep his cries from betraying them to the devils that passed in the night.         When he returned to his senses, he took his young children to the land of the Corieltauvi where the Guardian Queen ruled with her Roman King. It was said they harbored what few of the Iceni and Trinovantes remained and hid them with enchantment and old magic from the blood thirsty general and his soldier dogs.         When Thane crossed the border of that land, the Romans surrounded and descended upon them out of reach of their rescuers.         In that hour, the gods, even Belatucadros himself, visited themselves upon Thane, filling his arms with the strength of the sun and his mind with the madness of Taranis; lightning spewed forth in great strikes from his hands. In the turmoil of the fight, Queen Delia and her husband secreted the girls into Corieltauvi and there hid them for many long seasons.         Alas, when the maids were safe, the gods of the forests forsook Thane in his greatest hour as test of his conviction. Unarmed and surrounded, he fell to the might of the Romans though it took a full complement to bring him to his knees. They bound his arms with hammered iron, for no rope would hold him, and placed upon his head a band of bronze to cool his madness. By midnight, the silver red dogs had wrapped him in chains so that he could kill no more. Many of their number lay bleeding into the dirt at his feet.         By the next day he was thrown upon a boat… by the next month he was forced to bend a knee to the heathen Emperor Nero and there condemned to the arena to fight until he died.         Against his will, Prince Thane brawled for Rome to entertain her whores and arrogant thieves, killing many brave and true men in the name of Caesar, and training even more, biding his time for the day of his revenge.         …and when his time came he visited such wrath upon the Roman oppressors that it would change the history of that nation for all times, armed only with his guile, his wits… and the magic of his barbarian bride.         Loathed would forever be the name of Thane, the Gladiator Prince…                                 Chapter One                         Phaedra fought the chill of titillation skimming down her back as she watched the golden-skinned gladiator thrust his gladius towards her younger brother Bahar. A shudder of disgust followed. Throwing a guilty glance from side to side, she pushed her long dark hair behind one ear to cover the motion. To think she could be so moved by the flex of muscles of a nearly naked slave. Worse, a gladiator. She knew better.         Her father would skin her alive had he caught her at the ludus, especially when the familia gladiatorium were out in force. She studied the forty-two men with skins in shades from pale birch to darkest black, fighting to the rhythm of each deadly blow of wooden gladii against beaten scutum, each exquisitely muscled and slick with sweat.         It is the only place where I could find a moment’s peace, she told herself. In anticipation of her betrothal, the insistent chatter of slaves and relatives alike had driven her from the house.         Betrothal.         She had not met her future husband, but her father assured her of his wealth and status as an Egyptian merchant. His father was a Greek procurator from Alexandria and his mother a royal princess, no less. Phaedra’s father, Abella, said the man would make her forget her former husband’s death. He had painted pictures of exotic hot sands, endless gold and pampering that warmed Phaedra’s chilled shoulders in this sodden weather. Giving the air a haughty sniff, she wrinkled her nose and lifted her shoulders against the cold.         She hated Britannia. Living in Rome for the past two years had made her detest it even more.         The grand city was opulent, noisy and rich with sounds, smells, hot baths, spicy food, warm wine and cold clean water, crowded in high brightly painted buildings and even more colorful people. Everything this cursed city of Verulamium was not. Rome had been her paradise, just as Britannia was her hell. Why Abella had ordered she and Bahar back to the island was beyond her. Abella had been insistent, and she did not dare go against her father’s wish. This sudden recent betrothal had been the only high point. She looked forward to leaving this island for good. When the Egyptian’s letter had come two weeks before, it had created an uproar of glee among the slaves and free men of the house, her father not least of all.         Turning her back and leaning against the fence, Phaedra folded her arms and let hot tears fall down her cheeks unchecked. Why hold them? Was it not her right to grieve for her lost husband making her a widow at twenty?         Despite her efforts, reality set in, freezing a sob in her throat. The secrets she held made her tremble now that she was back in her father’s house. She swallowed them in a quick panic.         Wiping away the tears with the back of a long fingered hand, Phaedra turned to concentrate on the rest of her young brother’s training, as she had promised him she would.         Bahar’s curly black hair blew like reeds in the cool wind. His brown eyes shone in the late afternoon shadows of the ludus, his delicate face fierce now in concentration and slick with sweat. He reminded her so much of their mother. A pang of sadness flushed under Phaedra’s skin when she thought of the day her mother died, but she pushed it down. She would let nothing mar the excitement of her betrothal.         Bahar was fighting well today, amazingly well considering his fifteen summers and the fact that he was a… but she did not dwell on that.         Instead, she found her eyes drifting once again to the massive brute moving in tight perfectly graceful circles around the youth, his deeply muscled arms and legs slick with the rain now pouring onto the sand. His unusual dark red hair tied behind his neck whipped with each cat like move. He wore it long, unlike the other gladiators who usually preferred their heads shaven close.         When he suddenly glanced in her direction, she tucked herself back into the shadows. Those azure blue eyes struck her strangely, and she pulled in a breath. They seemed to burrow into her soul when she let them linger. Phaedra snorted, took a purposeful step forward and twisted her lip in disgust. A slave, she reminded herself again, a gladiator. Not even human.         Thane.         He was famous, of course, and she had to admit curiosity had been a strong motivation earlier when Bahar had invited her to watch the training. There was nothing she considered more disgusting than men sweating like pigs as they swung wooden weapons at each other, acting like savage children.         Prince Thane. The title made the fine hairs on the back of her arms dance in the wet air.         Was he really a prince? She doubted it; maybe some bastard child born to one of the thousand chieftains that claim lineage on this forsaken island. Of course, everyone in the empire called him The Gladiator Prince. Some said he was more than half god. From what she could see, though he was very handsome, in a vulgar, animal kind of way, he was still only a man… like other men.         That same chill sent a shudder through her again, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and put up her hood to stay the rain now crimpling her dark hair.         Rome had been abuzz with his unparalleled showing at the Circus Maximus… then devastated when her father had left with him to tour Greece, Egypt, Gaul then the slave’s native Britannia. Roman citizens from every province paid thousands of denarii and tolerated seasickness just to follow him abroad, including, Phaedra thought with contempt, many highly pursed women. She had heard a parade of rich mistresses vied for the pleasure of his company… and his bed.         The thought forced a small smile to her lips, imagining what it would be like to find herself in those massive arms, his breath on her neck, his manhood...         She blew out a breath when another chill trickled up her arms and she rubbed them, moving a little closer to the slatted gate to get a better look.         A clang off to her right caught her attention, and she noticed two well-built Thracian gladiators had donned their full regalia for what she assumed was preparation for tomorrow’s match.         Moving to the other side of the gate she watched as the two men crouched in the sand and others gathered around them. They did no more than circle, playing at fighting, and Phaedra soon became bored.         She knew it was scandalous for a Lanista’s daughter to detest the fights, but she could not help it. They sickened her. How much blood could one endure? It was vulgar and barbaric, and she knew if she stated her opinions to her father, he would have her whipped. Phaedra always kept her thoughts to herself.         Thinking it was time she returned, she lifted her tunic away from the wet sand and whirled around to rush back to the house and out of the rain before her father missed her.         In a flash, she found herself entwined in two massive arms belonging to a monster in a gladiatorial loincloth and nothing else.         Where the man had come from, she had no idea. He stank of sweat, stale fish oil and rancid food, towering a good two heads above her. She had to twist her neck back all the way just to see his face. The sweat and dirt from his arms left black streaks on her white tunic and cloak.         “Excuse me,” she squeaked, hoping it would be a polite way of extricating herself.         Fear gripped her when instead of loosening his arms the man opened a dark smile and pulled her closer to his naked chest. Bending his face down to leer into her eyes, he squeezed the breath from her so she could not scream.         Panic rang in her ears when the man scanned her face, his eyes beaming as if she were a hunk of lamb. The more she struggled the tighter his embrace became until blackness tinged the periphery of her vision. She could not take in any air.         He murmured to her in some strange language, running his tongue against his rotten upper teeth. The world began to spin.         She managed to get her face turned away from him and only then noticed the gate where she had been standing was wide open and the other gladiators were congregating around them, peals of laughter rising like a storm as they approached.         A blur rushed through the crowd knocking many aside that finally landed on the giant’s neck. The vision of Bahar materialized as he pulled his arm tight around the man’s throat. He seemed no larger than a child next to the massive Iberian.         When the gladiator let Phaedra go, she fell backwards and landed square on her rear in a messy puddle of runny sand to the men’s hoots. In a blinding fast move, the Iberian pulled Bahar from his neck and clutched the boy’s shoulders in both hands in front of him. He began to squeeze.         Phaedra leapt to her feet and smashed her tiny fists against the massive arm muscles of the monster. Two gladiators pulled her out of harm’s way. She tried to kick them, but they held her tight. All she could do was watch in horror.         Bahar managed to get a sandal buried in the giant’s gonads. The man dropped the boy and fell to his knees with a high-pitched squeal. What Bahar lacked in size, he made up in agility for he sidestepped a grab by the gladiator, whirled around with this right foot and smashed it solidly against the man’s left eye. A ferocious growl made the ground shake as the man went down onto one arm.         The other gladiators howled in delight, one slapping Bahar’s shoulder hard enough to send him flying sideways where he landed in an immense pair of hands.         “Intentio!” Thane snarled.         To Phaedra’s surprise, every man froze at attention. The only sound was the mewing of the gladiator who Bahar had bested and Phaedra’s complaint as she pulled her shoulders out of the grip of the two gladiators.         Shaking with anger and fear, Phaedra brushed the dirt from her tunic with both hands and fought the tears trying to escape.         “How dare you!” she sputtered to no one in particular. “You will all be whipped, I swear to you…” When she threw her chin up, Thane’s eyes caught hers, and the words trembled in her mouth and died.         His angry blue gaze cut her to the spine, turning her knees to water and squeezing the breath from her chest. “I…I did not mean…” He stood no more than a foot from her, his teeth clinched. Bahar appeared at Phaedra’s side, grabbing her elbow.         “You have no right to be here,” Thane said to Phaedra. His thick accent trickled down her vertebrae like ice water. “Take your sister home,” he hissed to Bahar. “Your father need not hear of this. Then you will…”         Without warning, the giant gladiator on the ground hauled himself up with a rumbling foreign curse and jumped at Thane.         It happened so quickly. Phaedra could have sworn the Brit had not even moved. He caught the broader man by both wrists, twisted hard, pulling one in front of the other, then spun him around until the man faced away from him, his arms crossed. In an audible crunch, the Iberian spasmed once then went completely still. His eyes closed, and his head fell onto his chest. Without taking his eyes off her, Thane released his grip on the gladiator, and the giant slumped into the sand.         The others quickly gathered their companion and pulled him into the shadow of the outlining building, obviously knowing not to question the Brit.         “Abano is new,” he said quietly. “He did not know better, mistress, but he will be flogged for his mistake. It is a pity the high born are not likely punished for theirs.” A spark of humor flashed in his eyes, and for an instant, Phaedra thought he was laughing at her. “Take her home, Bahar. When she is where she should be, return and we will finish your lesson.”         “Yes, Doctores.”         Thane turned and crossed the sand to where two wooden swords lay and picked them up in one hand. Without turning back, he strode into the shadows of another building.         “You are an idiot, big sister,” Bahar whispered as he pulled Phaedra from the arena.         Her face was ablaze in a raging storm of emotions: humiliation, fear, anger and one or two others she could not fathom. Trembling erupted in her breasts, her thighs, her ears, leaving her shocked and confused.         There was no denying what that man had done to her in those few words; he had loosened her hold on the wild beast that lay just underneath the haughty cool exterior she had spent a lifetime establishing. Phaedra felt soiled to the center of her core… and it thrilled her. Pins of pleasure triggered a surprising need. The reaction horrified her.         Biting down her body’s betrayal by sinking teeth into her bottom lip, she glared after him. She had never hated anyone more than the arrogant Briton slave and swore he would pay for his insolence.        

THE GLADIATOR PRINCEPrologue &nbs...

THE GLADIATOR PRINCEPrologue                         From the verbal tales of Chane the Bard as transcribed by the Monks of Essex Abbey, dies martis, a.d. X Kal., Feb. MCIII, a.u.c. (Tuesday, 24 January 350 AD)                 …when the prince beheld the blood of his kinsmen gushing onto the field of battle, the warrior Queen’s golden chariot toppled among a mound of Iceni dead and the advancing hordes of barbarian Romans, in his heart he wept. A surge of hate filled him, blackening his soul and deranging his senses. He would rather die upon the Roman gladius fighting with his last breath than surrender as a slave!         However, such is the hubris of the gods; for before Thane could throw his mortality against the victory of the usurpers, a child’s voice, no more than a whisper, deafened his ears to all other sound, a child’s hand quelled the madness in his head, a child’s tears fell dry upon his mad heart and stilled it. He gazed upon the illusions standing small and pure at his feet, passion froze in the searing screams of war, and the fire in his mind burned into sodden ash.         Princess Anwen and her sister Mabyn called out to the warrior, “Father, do not leave us for the Romans to devour!”         It is said, even in the midst of the battle roar around him, Thane threw back his head and laughed with such great power that those who heard it, whether friend or foe, halted in their places, stunned by its glee.         In one swift plunge, the Prince buried his sword to the hilt in the blood soaked Britannia mud, hoisted his two small daughters upon his mighty shoulders and took them away, leaving the din behind him, swearing retribution for all his enemies’ crimes against his people. The Romans had won the day.         …the wolf, they called him, for no hunter’s skill could track him, nor mongrel catch scent of his passing, yet the Roman general did not weary of the chase. Days followed hours and weeks followed days. The relentless hunt traversed forest and bog, river and rocky hill and gorse filled trenches. The gods guided the prince and his brood turning them ever east toward their own land.         On the night of the moon’s mid-cycle, at the apex of the dying season, word reached Prince Thane’s enervated ears, decrying the horrors that awaited his return to the shores of his home. For its distant hill forts had been razed to the ground, its forests burnt, its earth drained and salted so that no living thing could grow there, so great was the Roman general’s wrath against the Trinovantes. Thane’s family had been slaughtered, every babe, every child, every man and woman. There were neither kith nor kin to greet the warrior should he return home.         Upon hearing these tidings, he became inconsolable and sank into a deep despair. It is said that so great was his sorrow he tore out his hair, crying, “Damnation to the seeds of Rome, destroyers of the innocent. May the gods spit thee into the mouth of Belatucadros where ye will burn in his immortal fire!” His lament rose upon a strange wind of magic, echoing through all the remaining lands of the Brettaniai Albion. The young daughters, fearing his madness, piled mounds of duff and rain-soaked moss from the forest floor upon their father’s head to keep his cries from betraying them to the devils that passed in the night.         When he returned to his senses, he took his young children to the land of the Corieltauvi where the Guardian Queen ruled with her Roman King. It was said they harbored what few of the Iceni and Trinovantes remained and hid them with enchantment and old magic from the blood thirsty general and his soldier dogs.         When Thane crossed the border of that land, the Romans surrounded and descended upon them out of reach of their rescuers.         In that hour, the gods, even Belatucadros himself, visited themselves upon Thane, filling his arms with the strength of the sun and his mind with the madness of Taranis; lightning spewed forth in great strikes from his hands. In the turmoil of the fight, Queen Delia and her husband secreted the girls into Corieltauvi and there hid them for many long seasons.         Alas, when the maids were safe, the gods of the forests forsook Thane in his greatest hour as test of his conviction. Unarmed and surrounded, he fell to the might of the Romans though it took a full complement to bring him to his knees. They bound his arms with hammered iron, for no rope would hold him, and placed upon his head a band of bronze to cool his madness. By midnight, the silver red dogs had wrapped him in chains so that he could kill no more. Many of their number lay bleeding into the dirt at his feet.         By the next day he was thrown upon a boat… by the next month he was forced to bend a knee to the heathen Emperor Nero and there condemned to the arena to fight until he died.         Against his will, Prince Thane brawled for Rome to entertain her whores and arrogant thieves, killing many brave and true men in the name of Caesar, and training even more, biding his time for the day of his revenge.         …and when his time came he visited such wrath upon the Roman oppressors that it would change the history of that nation for all times, armed only with his guile, his wits… and the magic of his barbarian bride.         Loathed would forever be the name of Thane, the Gladiator Prince…                                 Chapter One                         Phaedra fought the chill of titillation skimming down her back as she watched the golden-skinned gladiator thrust his gladius towards her younger brother Bahar. A shudder of disgust followed. Throwing a guilty glance from side to side, she pushed her long dark hair behind one ear to cover the motion. To think she could be so moved by the flex of muscles of a nearly naked slave. Worse, a gladiator. She knew better.         Her father would skin her alive had he caught her at the ludus, especially when the familia gladiatorium were out in force. She studied the forty-two men with skins in shades from pale birch to darkest black, fighting to the rhythm of each deadly blow of wooden gladii against beaten scutum, each exquisitely muscled and slick with sweat.         It is the only place where I could find a moment’s peace, she told herself. In anticipation of her betrothal, the insistent chatter of slaves and relatives alike had driven her from the house.         Betrothal.         She had not met her future husband, but her father assured her of his wealth and status as an Egyptian merchant. His father was a Greek procurator from Alexandria and his mother a royal princess, no less. Phaedra’s father, Abella, said the man would make her forget her former husband’s death. He had painted pictures of exotic hot sands, endless gold and pampering that warmed Phaedra’s chilled shoulders in this sodden weather. Giving the air a haughty sniff, she wrinkled her nose and lifted her shoulders against the cold.         She hated Britannia. Living in Rome for the past two years had made her detest it even more.         The grand city was opulent, noisy and rich with sounds, smells, hot baths, spicy food, warm wine and cold clean water, crowded in high brightly painted buildings and even more colorful people. Everything this cursed city of Verulamium was not. Rome had been her paradise, just as Britannia was her hell. Why Abella had ordered she and Bahar back to the island was beyond her. Abella had been insistent, and she did not dare go against her father’s wish. This sudden recent betrothal had been the only high point. She looked forward to leaving this island for good. When the Egyptian’s letter had come two weeks before, it had created an uproar of glee among the slaves and free men of the house, her father not least of all.         Turning her back and leaning against the fence, Phaedra folded her arms and let hot tears fall down her cheeks unchecked. Why hold them? Was it not her right to grieve for her lost husband making her a widow at twenty?         Despite her efforts, reality set in, freezing a sob in her throat. The secrets she held made her tremble now that she was back in her father’s house. She swallowed them in a quick panic.         Wiping away the tears with the back of a long fingered hand, Phaedra turned to concentrate on the rest of her young brother’s training, as she had promised him she would.         Bahar’s curly black hair blew like reeds in the cool wind. His brown eyes shone in the late afternoon shadows of the ludus, his delicate face fierce now in concentration and slick with sweat. He reminded her so much of their mother. A pang of sadness flushed under Phaedra’s skin when she thought of the day her mother died, but she pushed it down. She would let nothing mar the excitement of her betrothal.         Bahar was fighting well today, amazingly well considering his fifteen summers and the fact that he was a… but she did not dwell on that.         Instead, she found her eyes drifting once again to the massive brute moving in tight perfectly graceful circles around the youth, his deeply muscled arms and legs slick with the rain now pouring onto the sand. His unusual dark red hair tied behind his neck whipped with each cat like move. He wore it long, unlike the other gladiators who usually preferred their heads shaven close.         When he suddenly glanced in her direction, she tucked herself back into the shadows. Those azure blue eyes struck her strangely, and she pulled in a breath. They seemed to burrow into her soul when she let them linger. Phaedra snorted, took a purposeful step forward and twisted her lip in disgust. A slave, she reminded herself again, a gladiator. Not even human.         Thane.         He was famous, of course, and she had to admit curiosity had been a strong motivation earlier when Bahar had invited her to watch the training. There was nothing she considered more disgusting than men sweating like pigs as they swung wooden weapons at each other, acting like savage children.         Prince Thane. The title made the fine hairs on the back of her arms dance in the wet air.         Was he really a prince? She doubted it; maybe some bastard child born to one of the thousand chieftains that claim lineage on this forsaken island. Of course, everyone in the empire called him The Gladiator Prince. Some said he was more than half god. From what she could see, though he was very handsome, in a vulgar, animal kind of way, he was still only a man… like other men.         That same chill sent a shudder through her again, and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and put up her hood to stay the rain now crimpling her dark hair.         Rome had been abuzz with his unparalleled showing at the Circus Maximus… then devastated when her father had left with him to tour Greece, Egypt, Gaul then the slave’s native Britannia. Roman citizens from every province paid thousands of denarii and tolerated seasickness just to follow him abroad, including, Phaedra thought with contempt, many highly pursed women. She had heard a parade of rich mistresses vied for the pleasure of his company… and his bed.         The thought forced a small smile to her lips, imagining what it would be like to find herself in those massive arms, his breath on her neck, his manhood...         She blew out a breath when another chill trickled up her arms and she rubbed them, moving a little closer to the slatted gate to get a better look.         A clang off to her right caught her attention, and she noticed two well-built Thracian gladiators had donned their full regalia for what she assumed was preparation for tomorrow’s match.         Moving to the other side of the gate she watched as the two men crouched in the sand and others gathered around them. They did no more than circle, playing at fighting, and Phaedra soon became bored.         She knew it was scandalous for a Lanista’s daughter to detest the fights, but she could not help it. They sickened her. How much blood could one endure? It was vulgar and barbaric, and she knew if she stated her opinions to her father, he would have her whipped. Phaedra always kept her thoughts to herself.         Thinking it was time she returned, she lifted her tunic away from the wet sand and whirled around to rush back to the house and out of the rain before her father missed her.         In a flash, she found herself entwined in two massive arms belonging to a monster in a gladiatorial loincloth and nothing else.         Where the man had come from, she had no idea. He stank of sweat, stale fish oil and rancid food, towering a good two heads above her. She had to twist her neck back all the way just to see his face. The sweat and dirt from his arms left black streaks on her white tunic and cloak.         “Excuse me,” she squeaked, hoping it would be a polite way of extricating herself.         Fear gripped her when instead of loosening his arms the man opened a dark smile and pulled her closer to his naked chest. Bending his face down to leer into her eyes, he squeezed the breath from her so she could not scream.         Panic rang in her ears when the man scanned her face, his eyes beaming as if she were a hunk of lamb. The more she struggled the tighter his embrace became until blackness tinged the periphery of her vision. She could not take in any air.         He murmured to her in some strange language, running his tongue against his rotten upper teeth. The world began to spin.         She managed to get her face turned away from him and only then noticed the gate where she had been standing was wide open and the other gladiators were congregating around them, peals of laughter rising like a storm as they approached.         A blur rushed through the crowd knocking many aside that finally landed on the giant’s neck. The vision of Bahar materialized as he pulled his arm tight around the man’s throat. He seemed no larger than a child next to the massive Iberian.         When the gladiator let Phaedra go, she fell backwards and landed square on her rear in a messy puddle of runny sand to the men’s hoots. In a blinding fast move, the Iberian pulled Bahar from his neck and clutched the boy’s shoulders in both hands in front of him. He began to squeeze.         Phaedra leapt to her feet and smashed her tiny fists against the massive arm muscles of the monster. Two gladiators pulled her out of harm’s way. She tried to kick them, but they held her tight. All she could do was watch in horror.         Bahar managed to get a sandal buried in the giant’s gonads. The man dropped the boy and fell to his knees with a high-pitched squeal. What Bahar lacked in size, he made up in agility for he sidestepped a grab by the gladiator, whirled around with this right foot and smashed it solidly against the man’s left eye. A ferocious growl made the ground shake as the man went down onto one arm.         The other gladiators howled in delight, one slapping Bahar’s shoulder hard enough to send him flying sideways where he landed in an immense pair of hands.         “Intentio!” Thane snarled.         To Phaedra’s surprise, every man froze at attention. The only sound was the mewing of the gladiator who Bahar had bested and Phaedra’s complaint as she pulled her shoulders out of the grip of the two gladiators.         Shaking with anger and fear, Phaedra brushed the dirt from her tunic with both hands and fought the tears trying to escape.         “How dare you!” she sputtered to no one in particular. “You will all be whipped, I swear to you…” When she threw her chin up, Thane’s eyes caught hers, and the words trembled in her mouth and died.         His angry blue gaze cut her to the spine, turning her knees to water and squeezing the breath from her chest. “I…I did not mean…” He stood no more than a foot from her, his teeth clinched. Bahar appeared at Phaedra’s side, grabbing her elbow.         “You have no right to be here,” Thane said to Phaedra. His thick accent trickled down her vertebrae like ice water. “Take your sister home,” he hissed to Bahar. “Your father need not hear of this. Then you will…”         Without warning, the giant gladiator on the ground hauled himself up with a rumbling foreign curse and jumped at Thane.         It happened so quickly. Phaedra could have sworn the Brit had not even moved. He caught the broader man by both wrists, twisted hard, pulling one in front of the other, then spun him around until the man faced away from him, his arms crossed. In an audible crunch, the Iberian spasmed once then went completely still. His eyes closed, and his head fell onto his chest. Without taking his eyes off her, Thane released his grip on the gladiator, and the giant slumped into the sand.         The others quickly gathered their companion and pulled him into the shadow of the outlining building, obviously knowing not to question the Brit.         “Abano is new,” he said quietly. “He did not know better, mistress, but he will be flogged for his mistake. It is a pity the high born are not likely punished for theirs.” A spark of humor flashed in his eyes, and for an instant, Phaedra thought he was laughing at her. “Take her home, Bahar. When she is where she should be, return and we will finish your lesson.”         “Yes, Doctores.”         Thane turned and crossed the sand to where two wooden swords lay and picked them up in one hand. Without turning back, he strode into the shadows of another building.         “You are an idiot, big sister,” Bahar whispered as he pulled Phaedra from the arena.         Her face was ablaze in a raging storm of emotions: humiliation, fear, anger and one or two others she could not fathom. Trembling erupted in her breasts, her thighs, her ears, leaving her shocked and confused.         There was no denying what that man had done to her in those few words; he had loosened her hold on the wild beast that lay just underneath the haughty cool exterior she had spent a lifetime establishing. Phaedra felt soiled to the center of her core… and it thrilled her. Pins of pleasure triggered a surprising need. The reaction horrified her.         Biting down her body’s betrayal by sinking teeth into her bottom lip, she glared after him. She had never hated anyone more than the arrogant Briton slave and swore he would pay for his insolence.        

A GHOST OF A CHANCEChapter One Living with Strangers &nbs...

A GHOST OF A CHANCE
Chapter One Living with Strangers                 Keenan was used to living with hundreds of people. He no longer felt crowded, talked to himself, or went to therapists. Not that he liked it, mind you; given half a chance, he would have buried them all.         So stepping into a full elevator was a relief. They didn’t follow him, as a rule. Ironically, they detested crowds.         Keenan nestled into the throng like a warm winter coat, fiddling with the change in his pocket while he watched the glowing “1” above his head. The group smelled of new coffee, sweet perfume, and peppery deodorant. The only sound was the door swooshing closed. The metal box lifted with a jolt and rushed him to the twenty-third floor. The crush of humanity was somehow comforting.         When he stepped out, Keenan paused at the immense reception desk to check for messages. The huge plate glass windows behind the desk framed a glimpse of the Portland skyline and Mt. Hood looming gray and white against a cloudy blue autumn sky. The tilt of the earth must have been just right; the mountain filled the sky to the east, making the city look small and insignificant… like him.         The site didn’t make him feel any better. They would be waiting for him in his cubicle.         To postpone the confrontation, he decided to take his time getting there.         Standing at the coffee machine, he yawned and muttered a stifled morning to two half-awake fellow graphic designers stumbling past him. He tapped in a heaping teaspoon of creamer to make the coffee a nice tan, gave it a brisk stir, blew the steam away, and took his first sip.         Oh, yeah. Perfect.         When he turned around, an electric blast traveled down his back, paralyzing his legs.         There she was.         Isabella.         The name flowed through his neurons like fine brandy.         It took Keenan a microsecond to drink in the full extent of her dazzling loveliness. Since she was busy talking with one of the secretaries, he took his time appreciating every inch.         Flowing chestnut hair, fawn-like eyes, and lips that begged for a long hot hiss. He loved the way the black dress accentuated the enticing inward curve of Isabella’s back and the soft mounds of her ass. It took everything he had to keep from crossing the twenty feet between them and running his hands over those gorgeous contours. Keenan liked the way the dress isolated and displayed each of her delicious breasts. The dark line of cleavage peeking out at the top blended well with Isabella’s dusky Mediterranean skin.         Heat rose in Keenan’s cheeks. It had been a long time since a woman could arouse him with a glance. He liked that about her. Despite his pleading, his cock stiffened painfully on its own and crept up the inside of his pants. He had to shake his leg to get it to behave. It had been doing that a lot lately.         He remembered their first meeting two weeks ago. Isabella had appeared as if by magic at his cubicle, peeking around the gray fabric wall and voicing a hardy, Hi, I’m Isabella, the new head of HR. I brought you your insurance package and…         Keenan didn’t hear what she said after that, finding himself distracted enough to go deaf. He would have made his move then, if his posse hadn’t intervened…again.         Isabella looked up at him now and smiled, the delicate lines around her eyes crinkling and perfect white teeth bright against her dark skin. The slightest gleam of playfulness danced around that mouth. It caused his heart to drum an African rhythm against the inside of his ribs, and his mouth smiled back insipidly. His brain ceased to function. Only last night Keenan imagined those lips kissing him, trailing down his chest, wrapping around the head of his…         He had to shake his leg a second time.         Since we’ve gone this far in my imagination, I guess I should ask her out. Yeah…it was the least he could do.         All right let’s go, buddy. Get your blood up. Move that leg. Just walk…right…over…to her and…         …and it was no good. That niggling little problem that shadowed most of his motivation went into full gear. His nerves crumbled into piles of broken resolve.         Isabella went back to her conversation, and Keenan went back to his coffee, filling the void with another scenario…         “Good morning, Isabella. How’s your day going?”         “Oh,” she said in a breathless whisper, pressing her hot body into his and opening the first button on his shirt. “It would be much better if you’d rip my clothes off and take me right here, stud.”         “Oh…ok.” He ripped the front of her shirt open, exposing lovely bundles of…         “Sinner!”         The female shriek made him spill scalding coffee all over his hand.         “Fuck!”         Keenan’s fantasy went up in smoke and his cock shriveled. He set the cup down so he could grab a few napkins.         “Shut up, Agnes,” he sneered under his breath.         “Sinner! You will burn in hell for all your carnal thoughts, Keenan Swanson. Sinner. Spawn of the devil.” The disembodied voice behind him shifted to his right, but he didn’t bother to look. He knew there wouldn’t be anyone there.         “Constance…” His lips barely moved when two office execs flittered by him laughing on their way to a meeting. When they were gone, he jerked his thumb toward where he figured Agnes would be. “Please come get Agnes, will you?”         “Sorry, Kee.” Constance’s deep southern voice shifted in from the ether and reverberated from one ear to the other. “Come along, dear. Don’t bother the poor man. He’s trying to work. We promised, remember?”         A shimmering outline appeared at Keenan’s elbow, and he had to jerk his arm away fast to avoid the blood freezing touch of those skeletal hands. When Agnes materialized, a shiver vibrated against his skull and arms. Only the top half of her appeared, but the lucent face staring up at him solidified, crowded by stacks of wrinkles and a cold, milky gaze. Why do they always look so creepy?         “Sinner!” Agnes shrieked again.         Another pair of hands appeared, wrapped around her shoulders, and pulled her back into nothingness. Agnes’s body faded, then her face, and finally those white accusing eyes.         Keenan whirled around and searched the cubicle walls receding like lines of staunch gray soldiers, but Isabella had disappeared. His heart dropped, and he tried to relieve it with a misted sigh. No dice.         He knew he would see her later, so he played another scenario in his head to keep him company (she felt so nice in his arms). Grabbing what was left of his coffee in one hand and shoving the other into his pocket, he headed to his cubicle.         As he rounded the opening, Grumpy sat in Keenan’s chair, trying without success to touch the computer.         Grumpy was a new addition to the family, a tall black man without legs, and a creased bald head. Keenan figured the ghost used to work for the railroad because of the greasy overalls and engineer’s hat, but since he only swore, Keenan had no way of telling. The specter’s hands kept slipping through the keyboard, and Keenan snorted a laugh.         “Sorry, old man, not today. Out of my chair.”         The apparition turned his face and got his mouth working. His hands flailed in the air above the keyboard, making the papers on Keenan’s desk whirl into a miniature tornado. A stream of muttered profanities filled the air around Keenan’s head. He covered his ears until Grumpy dissolved in pieces leaving only his mouth for a couple of seconds to finish the tirade.         When he vanished, Keenan blew out a breath and watched the cold billow of white drift through his cubicle. It dissipated once it warmed. He shook his head.         That cold spot never ceased to amaze him. Of all the hundreds of ghosts and ghoulies surrounding him every day, only a few generated that kind of cold, and he was still trying to figure out why. Even Constance didn’t know, though she thought it might have to do with strong emotion: anger, hate, fear, or sadness. It seemed to fit.         Keenan took his seat and turned his computer on to start the day’s work. He pulled a pile of clear envelopes towards him and thumbed through them. There had to be at least fifteen graphic design and rendering requests. Christ!         Keenan peeked into the first envelop looking for the DVD that should have been tucked inside with the layout. It wasn’t there, which meant he had to download the graphics from the server and fix the artwork before he could even start.         Why the hell don’t people follow instructions?         He slapped it down on his desk and yanked up the second. No DVD. This one he tossed across the desk, knocking over his pencil cup.         What do you know? An independent ‘disaster’ that doesn’t involve the dearly departed. He probably shouldn’t take it out on his work, but who gave a crap?         Gathering his pencils, he shoved them back into the cup and decided he had seen enough. The thought of spending his precious weekend redesigning bad graphics and inane copy to sell pharmaceuticals to a gullible public made his hackles stand on end. He slammed his fist against his desk. Looks like another all nighter.         “Fuck!”         “Language, mon frère.”         Reggie materialized at his elbow, one hand on his hip and , smoking a brown English cigarette with the other. Keenan rubbed his face to take the edge off his irritation.         He liked Reggie, in fact, he considered him his best friend. They had met in college where Reggie had terrorized the co-eds by stealing their clothes (while they were still in them), and he had taken an instant shine to Keenan. Reggie told Keenan that he reminded him of younger days long ago.         He was a good-looking man, as ghosts go: tall, thin, muscular, dark. His proper English gentleman façade masked the true scoundrel lurking beneath. A guy Keenan knew the ladies adored when he was alive. Hell, they probably still adored him dead. Who knew? He was always the consummate gentleman and scholar. He had been an anthropologist at the turn of the century and died in Persia during a dig, at least as far as Keenan could gather; if even half of what Reggie told him was true, the ghost’s experiences could fill a library of adventure books.         Reggie was what Keenan called a “solid” since he could see all of him and not just bits and pieces. It took him a long time to figure out that the longer a ghost had been dead, the more translucent it became. The solids were preferable to the really old ones, the ones he called “transes” since they were largely transparent. Those guys could make you piss your pants if you weren’t ready for them. That caused some embarrassing moments in Keenan’s past and earned him the nickname “Pissy” in high school.         God, he hated ghosts.         “Hey, Reg. How’d you do with the twins?”         Reggie floated into a side prone position a few inches above the desk. “Try as I might, I could not get them to feel me. But I had loads of fun attempting it.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, those perfectly symmetrical tits.” He took another long draw on the cigarette and Keenan laughed. “You staying home tonight?” Reggie asked.         Keenan drew his brows together and folded his arm. “Yeah, like I’d have a date. Why?”         “No reason. I’m attempting the girls again.” Reggie tossed the butt into the ether where it disappeared. “Thought maybe you’d like to join me.”         “What? Spy on the twins?” Keenan snorted. “Putting aside the fact that I would probably be arrested for voyeurism, I’ve got all this work to do. Rain check?”         “As you wish.” Reggie got himself upright and adjusted his sleeves. “I’ll come over after. Might have something of interest to report. I’m feeling lucky.”         Keenan laughed at his friend’s persistence. A rustle from the next cubicle told Keenan his neighbor had just come in. Reggie tossed him a sloppy salute and disappeared. Keenan busied himself with the stack of requests.         A living head materialized above the gray divider. “What’s so funny?”         Keenan cleared his throat. “Just this email.”         “Send it over. I freakin’ love a good joke.”         “Sure thing, Mike.”         Keenan bit his lower lip and gave himself a mental smack to the head for not being more careful. People thought he had just stepped out of a loony bin as it was without adding disembodied conversations to the list. Not that he cared much what Mike thought, he had to remind himself. But the truth was Keenan was lucky anyone talked to him. Now he had to come up with something to email Mike.         “Hey, did you hear about Susan in accounting?” Mike asked. “Randy said he went out with her and…”         And so it began: the endless office gossip, the exchange of bad jokes, the politics, the lies. Everything Keenan hated about his job. Whenever he focused on the computer clock, it seemed to be moving backwards.         When lunch finally slogged in, Keenan decided he wasn’t going to work through like he normally did. His stomach and his nerves were both growling at him.         Four spirits, two solids and two trances, floated in and out of the cubical entrance playing some kind of tag. The group included a Chinese woman named Sadie who liked to turn herself inside out when she was upset, a clown they called The Bounce whose makeup had run together a long time ago, a little old lady without hands or feet, and Constance, the closest thing Keenan had to a sister…or a mother, if it came to it. His own mother had tucked herself inside a vodka bottle and he hadn’t seen her in years.         Constance broke off from the group and touched his hand. It went instantly cold and he yanked it away, wincing at the sting shooting up his arm. When it numbed Keenan gave it a quick shake to get the feeling back.         “Oh, sorry, Kee,” Constance said. “I always forget.”         He wondered if she really did forget. It was hard to tell with Constance. Her mothering instinct usually got the better of her and she hated not being able to comfort him with a touch. Those cow-like eyes studied him, and her teeth shone like a lighthouse beacon from the elegant dark chocolate face. Since she only came up to his chin, he had to bend his neck to show her a loving smile.         “It’s all right, Cee. What’s up?”         The solid upper half of her sported, as it always did, a worn blue housecoat. Faded flowers speckled the fabric in pinks and greens, and a long half butcher’s apron completed the ensemble. Her salt and pepper hair (heavy on the salt) lined up in curlers that surrounded a plump kind face, making her look like an English barrister. She tilted her chin toward feet that had vanished into the other side a long time ago, and her hands rested firmly over the apron. Unlike the others, Constance had the slightest white aura around her.         “Sorry about Agnes this morning. She can be a handful that one.” Constance lifted those lined old eyes and winked at him. “She didn’t spoil your chance with that girl, did she?”         Keenan let out a snort. “Cee, how is it you always know.”         Her dark eyes solidified when she folded her arms together and drummed her fingers against a substantial black bicep. “Oh, child, how long we been together? Nineteen years this summer. Remember? I think I know ya better than anyone, Kee.”         Constance wrinkled her brow and Keenan braced himself. Every time she did that, he could hear a lecture coming. He settled back to absorb it.         “This one’s special,” she said. “She’s not just for your bed. You gotta be careful, baby… there’s something else coming. Something important.”         That jovial round face puckered, and her eyes rolled back into her head. When an eerie light spilled from her hands, she lifted them towards him and her voice came from miles away. A sharp scent of something burning twitched at Keenan’s nose, the hairs on his arms stood at full alert, and a chill rushed from ass to neck, making his skin crawl.         “Ya got some strange times ahead, boy.” The words sounded like they were coming from behind him. “Your life’s in danger…ya could fall into darkness, yet light stands at the threshold. Always follow your heart, boy, even when your head tells ya no. Be mindful of strangers… and friends. Watch the night.” With a shudder that made her fade out and then back in, the old ghost gave her head a vigorous shake. The curlers clicked like a flock of birds. She squinted one eye up at Keenan, and a broad smile traveled from ear to ear.         “Ooo, that was a good one. It’d make my Creole papa proud, conjurin’ like that.”         This was the only thing that drove Keenan nuts about Constance. Her father had been some kind of famous Creole voodoo priest from New Orleans. Because of that, Constance thought she was psychic. Problem was she really wasn’t. Not a single prediction had come true in the nineteen years he had known her. He would never tell her that, of course. He loved her very much.         “Sure, Cee. I’ll be careful.”         The other three apparitions slid in and out of the walls of the cubicles, exposing themselves to each other, hysterical with laughter. Keenan reached for his coat and tucked his arms into the sleeves.         “Listen. I’m going to lunch. Can you please keep the posse at bay for a bit? I need some space.”         “Sure.” She floated over to the group and whispered to them. They gave Keenan a dirty look, mooned him together, and flicked out of view.         Constance smiled and swirled into the fluorescent light above his desk.         Whistling an off-key tune, Keenan headed to the elevator.         When he got there, it was empty. He slipped inside, looking forward to being alone, if only for a few seconds. As the doors closed, a hollered “hold please” made him slam his palm against the rubber door jam.         A whiff of Isabella’s spicy scent entered before she did. He was certain it was just testosterone muddling his poor male brain, but she seemed to sashay into the elevator just for him. Keenan liked that about her.         “Going down?” he asked with what he hoped was his most charming smile, ignoring the innuendo.         “Yes.” The sweet hum of her voice made the muscles at his center jump, adding a log or two to the fire growing inside his pants.         A bright red blush traveled up Isabella’s cheeks making her eyes sparkle (with what he convinced himself must be desire). When she reached past him to hit the already lighted “1” button, a flash of cleavage sent his pulse pounding against his ears. Man, she was amazing. The thought of pressing her hot body against the cold elevator walls was almost too much.         “Isabella, isn’t it?” Keenan hadn’t seen a ring on her finger, around her neck, or a Love John Forever tattoo any place noticeable, so he assumed she was available.         “Right. You’re Keenan. We met the other day.”         “Right.”         Usually he didn’t have problems talking to girls, but now it was harder than it had ever been. A hundred witty comebacks crowded his brain for attention, but not one of them could make it past the lump in his throat. His growing cock wasn’t going to be much help either; all it wanted him to do was blurt out, “Ya wanna?”         Bracing himself against possible rejection, and telling his cock to shut the fuck up, Keenan gathered his courage and charged into the fray. “Say listen, if you’re not…”         The elevator jarred to a halt and the doors burst open in front of them. At least fifteen people piled into the box, disregarding the “maximum occupancy” sign.         Keenan hit his back hard against the railing and suddenly found his arms full of warm, healthy girl.         The sounds around him came to a crashing halt when he fixated on those gorgeous almond eyes and full red lips. The urge to devour that mouth was irresistible. He felt like he was home. Her balmy scent marinated his brain, clouding out everything else. The velvet skin of her naked arms made his palms tingle.         A sudden terror seized him when he realized his rod stood at full attention, shouting, “Yippee!” Since the crowd had crushed Isabella against him, she must have felt it jumping like an excited dog against her stomach. To Keenan’s amazement, she didn’t say a word and smiled sweetly up at him. Her expression was almost pleased. It boggled his mind.         “Sorry,” he managed after a few precious seconds.         He let go and fully expected her to scrunch as far away from him as possible, a murmured “pervert” escaping her lips. Instead, she slid up next to him and stayed attached to his shoulder, turning her lovely breasts to the doors.         Keenan had a hard time keeping his eyes off them, noting with interest that both nipples were little rocks against the black fabric. He forced himself to focus on the bald spot on the head of the guy in front of him. He hoped to God the man wasn’t pushed back; in Keenan’s current state, it might be difficult to explain what rested against the man’s ass.         “It’s all right,” Isabella whispered. “You were saying?”         “Oh. Yeah.” An irritating rush of fear crept into Keenan’s back and he had to fight to keep it out of his voice. “I wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”         “Tonight?” Isabella’s lyrical words were an elixir for his fear. “I’m busy tonight.” Was it Keenan’s imagination, or did she sound disappointed? “I’m free Sunday… would you like to have breakfast instead?”         “Yeah, that would be great. I could pick you up at…”         “Actually, do you know The Hotcake House on Ninth?”         “Sure.”         “How ‘bout I meet you there at ten on Sunday. All right?”         “Sure.” The schoolboy monosyllable stammering irritated the hell out of him, but Keenan couldn’t help it.         The elevator bounced to a stop and people poured out, pulling Isabella along with them. Keenan wanted to ask her to lunch next, but they drew her away from him in the rush.
        When he finally disentangled himself from the retreating throng and an influx of new riders who almost trapped him, he scanned the lobby, but the girl was gone. Growling at the innocent air, he slammed a fist into his thigh and immediately wished he hadn’t. He grabbed a hotdog at the corner vendor and sulked the rest of the day.