Changespell 01 Dunn Lady's Jess (34 page)

He turned around as the breeches slid past her hips and down to the floor. She stepped out of them and deliberately laid them on top of the tunic, her eyes on Arlen's, finding that if she had that compassionate dark gaze to look into, she had the strength to pull the soft linen undershirt over her head, and to wiggle out of her briefs as well. And then she just stood there, looking at him, gratified to discover there was approval there—not in what she was, the sturdy, well-shaped rider's body she had revealed, but in
who
she was, and in who she'd just chosen to be.

Willand relaxed noticeably, in complete control of them again. In swift, graceful gestures, she touched Jaime's wrists, biceps and ankles, and Jaime's already racing pulse edged into panic as invisible manacles closed around her limbs, trapping her upright at the edge of the thick worn rug; she put her weight against the restraints at her wrists and felt no give at all; she would stand whether she chose to or not. This was
happening
, it was real, it was—

Agony
. Willand's light touch, tracing lines of fire from the notch of her throat down between her breasts and all the way past her navel. Jaime wrenched away from her, screaming as much from surprise as the pain. Willand's finger lost contact, the pain faded, and Jaime found she was choking on breakfast, gasping and spitting, trying to clear her mouth so she could breathe. She had only enough time for the far too brief satisfaction of seeing Willand's fouled dress before that neat, ladylike finger touched her again, and the world disappeared into vision greyed by the force of her screaming as lines of fire traced intimate routes across her body.

"Jaime."

She became aware of herself again, of the slightly rough fabric against her hypersensitive skin. Delicate puffs of breath against her eyelids made her start, and the couch stirred with light footfalls of some creature running away. She was, she realized, still unclothed, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter much.

"Jaime." A quiet voice. Tired. Concerned.

Her mouth was dry and tasted vile. "That bitch," she muttered, words that barely made it into actual sound.

Relief and some amusement touched the voice that responded. "So you told her, and more than once."

She was on the couch, that's where, and that meant her clothes were on the floor next to her dangling arm. She groped for them, the arm strangely lifeless, her eyes not quite yet willing to open and face what might be waiting for her. Ah, that felt like her underwear, all right.

"She's gone. I don't think she'll be back for a while. From what I could gather, there are forces moving in around the hold—still some distance out, but obviously readying for some sort of approach."

"And suddenly I'm not that important anymore," Jaime said resentfully, finally opening her eyes as she sat up and slowly, like a creaky old woman, fumbled to get her underwear over her feet. There was no separate ache or pain to plague her, but a general malaise that gripped each and every part of her body, echoes of the torment Willand had visited upon her. Jaime got herself dressed as far as the tunic, and then just sat there, worn and directionless, trying to evade the forever crystalline memories of her torture.

"Would you like a drink?" Arlen asked.

She glanced at him. He was sitting again, resting his chin in his palm, and she searched his expression for any taint of judgement or censure at the way she'd reacted to Willand's games. She didn't think she saw any, unless it was a reflection of her own disappointment in herself. She hadn't thought she'd buckle so easily, that she wouldn't have any resistance at all.

"It's a good thing I
didn't
have any secrets they wanted," she said bitterly, in self-reproach.

"Oh, Jaime, don't start down that road," Arlen said in gentle admonishment. "Why do you think I've locked myself in my own bathroom? It's because I know better than to think I could endure what you've been through and not tell every secret I ever knew. Now, how about that water?"

Water. It suddenly had a blissful sound to it. "You have some I could get to?" she asked hopefully, looking at the faint spell-shimmer around the edges of the bathroom door.

"Rainwater," he said. "It hasn't been strained, but it hasn't killed the cat yet—or me. Check out the window."

That's what had been so delicately sniffing at her face. "A cat," she said. "I probably scared it worse than it scared me."

"If she wasn't a spooky little thing, she'd never have lived through Calandre's invasion," Arlen said. "She'll be back."

Jaime stood on wooden feet, not particularly concerned about her nearly naked lower half. Being watched during torture was a quick road to intimacy, that was for sure. She made it to the window and leaned out. There, on the wide ledge that blended into the rock on the side of the hill, was the cat, a little black and white creature who stared at her with wide eyes, poised to dart away at any sudden move. On the other side of the cat was a small catch basin, with a tile pipe that snaked down from the top of the hill, perched to deliver the rain. Outside the bathroom there was a similar arrangement, except the tile ran right into the room.

"Excuse me, kitty," she said with perfect sincerity, expecting the creature to bolt at her voice. But the cat stood and primly raised its tail, stalking away from the basin as though Jaime had said something rude. Jaime reached for the dipper that hung off the side of the basin and, with only a rudimentary check for dead bugs, drank her fill. It was warm, it had a funny taste of minerals, and it was the most wonderful water in the world. She splashed another dipper on her face and carefully scrubbed her hands over it, removing what she could of dried tears and other residue from the day's activity. Then she turned around and leaned back against the windowsill, groaning, "Oh, I'm so glad that was there."

"So am I," Arlen said as she paced back to the couch and retrieved her breeches. After she had wiggled into them, she took another look at her boots and decided to put them on. If Willand came back, it would take all the longer to undress again. With deliberate movements, she worked the calf-snugging field boots onto each foot, so absorbed in the simple task that when Arlen spoke again, it startled her. "Tell me, Jaime, does your world have people such as Calandre?"

After a moment, she said, "Too many of them. Of course, they don't have magic to play with. They have to make do with guns and bombs and blind political fervor." Jaime returned to the window, this time looking past the ledge. The view was that of the road she'd come in on, with the bright green spots of garden punctuating dusty paddocks and light green pastures, and she stared at it for quite some while as late afternoon slid into early evening. She thought of the comfortable old farmhouse, and of Keg, who was waiting for them to return, and of a barnful of horses that needed to be fed and exercised, and she forced her thoughts in new directions to wonder at how she'd fit so easily into Camolen life. And finally, when she realized her few moments at the window had turned into many more, she turned back to Arlen and asked, "How can so many things be the same, Arlen? How can you have people, and horses, and carrots and tomatoes, along with the Calandres?"

"That," he responded, coming to the limits of his shield so he could look out at her, "is something I'd hoped to be able to look into myself."

Jaime returned to him and found she had to look up to find his eyes. She said, "Tell me it's worth it, Arlen. Tell me that all of Carey's effort, and Jess' heartbreak, and Eric's death, and my—" And she couldn't go on then, had to look down and work out the tremendous lump that filled her throat. Arlen's voice, as strong and intent as if he
hadn't
spent the last months in isolation, brought her gaze back up again.

"I would obliterate the existence of that spell in a moment, if I could," he said. "I would undo the scores of small decisions that led Calandre down her path, and Carey down the one that led to you. But even magic doesn't have that power . . . and the only magic I have left is the spell that will trigger my death."

Jaime shuddered. She wished she could reach through his barrier and hold him, just because they both needed it so badly. And because her friend Jess had taught her to act on such impulses when they hit, and not shove them away under the veneer of propriety. Unable to breach the shield, she merely hugged herself, which was more of a retreat than a comfort.

"Jaime," he said, and there was such an odd note in his voice that she instantly feared his shield was failing, and that he, therefore, was about to die, but his eyes were focused beyond her, and she jerked around to see what he was looking at.

Nothing. A quick glance showed her his attention had not faltered, and she gave it another try. Then, somewhere between one blink and the next, the empty space in the middle of the chairs was full of dun and black movement, pungent horseflesh, and the startled cry and rush of the guard. The needlework and its chair went tumbling backward, driven by the same flashing black leg that collided with the astonished guard and smashed him back against the wall.

Carey—recall—don't just stand here gawking
and Jaime rushed in to take Lady's reins, pulling her out of the melee so Carey could concentrate on the panicked gelding, ending up next to the guard whom she unceremoniously kicked in the stomach with her booted foot, turning his efforts to rise into retching instead. She wrenched his short curved sword away as Lady dragged her backwards, and managed to position herself and the snorting dun in the doorway, where the guard could not get past them to run for help—although he was still panting on the floor, and Jaime was amazed how her surge of hope had given her the strength for that kick, pushing her past the aftereffects of Willand's sadism.

The black's hooves beat a nervous tattoo on the floor when Carey finally coerced him into standing in one spot, and the courier turned his attention on the guard and his efforts to crawl inconspicuously away. He put his foot firmly between the man's shoulder blades and shoved him back to the floor. "Stay put," Carey commanded. "We don't want you and we don't care about you—but if we have to worry about you, that'll change."

"She'll kill me," the man groaned indistinctly, his words distorted by the hard stone against his cheek.

"She probably will," Carey agreed coldly. "You'll have your chance to run in a few minutes. Jaime—" He looked at her for the first time, and stopped short, staring at her face; it took obvious effort to refocus his attention. "Where's Arlen?"

"On the toilet," she said without thinking, and then blurted, "I mean—"

A laugh from the small enspelled room cut her off, and Carey turned with relief to the source. "Arlen—stand
still!
" The last was to the gelding, who'd taken advantage of Carey's inattention to jerk him around; Carey gave the reins a retaliatory yank and said, "C'mon, Arlen, we've got to get started. I thought this gelding would be all right for the stairs but I also think I blew his puny mind with the recall." Then he craned his neck to try to see his friend and added, "Are you all right? Can you manage?"

"I'll manage," Arlen assured him, although Jaime thought the strength in his voice was a ruse. "But there's the small matter of a death spell that's linked to the shielding on this room. It'll take a minute or two to get it untangled so I can get out of here without triggering my own demise."

Carey rolled his eyes. "
Hurry
," he urged, and turned immediately to Jaime. "Here's the plan, Jay," he told her, talking fast. "Lady's been down these stairs before, and I think the gelding will follow, if he can find his brain before Arlen gets out of the bathroom. We're counting on surprise—they may know someone jumped in here, but they won't be expecting two horses on the top floor of the hold. We're going to do our best to just plow through them. Sherra's got forces gathering a mile or so out, and if they're enough of a distraction, we may just be able to keep on plowing, all the way out. Oh, yeah—this may help." He reached into the black's saddlebags, a bobbing target riding on restless haunches, and stretched to hand her a gun while the gelding pulled him the other way.

A gun. For a moment Jaime just stared, remembering the things Carey had said about keeping the knowledge of such things from this world. Then she took it, a little ashamed of the relief she felt when its cool metal filled her hand.

"There are five bullets," Carey said evenly, catching her eye to make sure she was really hearing him. "Don't use them unless they can do some good."

She thrust the gun into the deep pocket of her tunic, and then divested the guard of his sword sheath and belt, which she had to wrap twice around her own waist before she could stow the weapon. When she looked up, Arlen was in the room, leaning against the back of the one chair that was still standing.

"Let's go," he said simply.

Carey had only one hand free; he used it to grip Arlen's upper arm in a tight contact that lasted only a second, his face filled with the expression of a thousand words that wouldn't quite make it to his tongue.

"I know, Carey," Arlen said. "I know."

Carey cleared his throat and said, "Mount up. I'll be behind you in a moment; don't worry about handling the horse."

Jaime gathered Lady's reins and swung up into the saddle, feeling a definite wrongness in being on horseback in this room, at the uppermost level of a stone hold. The stirrups were adjusted for Carey and too long for her; she slung them crossways in front of her to keep them from banging around and looked to Carey. He was just settling himself behind Arlen on the gelding, a much stouter horse than Lady even if he had left his brains somewhere else, as evidenced by his continued capers. Carey reached around Arlen to take the reins, supporting his friend with the cage of his arms.

Then there were voices and footsteps in the stairwell, and Carey nodded to her. "Plow through 'em," he repeated grimly.

Desperately wishing for the feel of the gun but not daring to trust only one hand to the reins, Jaime gave Lady a firm and sudden squeeze that sent the dun into a startled bold trot down the hall. A strong, double half-halt to gather the dun's haunches beneath her, to take her into the turn of the stairs well balanced and paying absolute attention, and they were doing it, they were lurching and slithering down stairs too narrow for hooves to find good purchase, making 180 degree turns in virtual pirouettes while the black followed, sloppily, with much snorted objection and Carey's blistering commentary— "That was my
knee
, burn you!"—a commotion loud enough that it almost overwhelmed the startled oath of the young wizard coming to check on Carey's magical shout of arrival.