Myla By Moonlight (25 page)

Marchen circled, his bloody weapon cutting the air with a scream. Taric took the defensive, hoping, praying for an opening, never taking his sight off his opponent. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that Marchen possessed as much skill with a blade as Balic. The honed edge thrust left with a half twist, scoring along Taric’s shoulder.

A sizzle erupted, air and rain stinging the thin line. Placing his full weight on his forward foot, Taric spun and jabbed deep. Marchen curved his back to avoid being skewered. In the brief half second of his unbalance, Taric attacked. He didn’t draw his sword back but drove it up, toward an exposed throat. Metal sang and his arm vibrated from Marchen’s block. A point tip creased his bicep and fire sailed to his grip but he barely noticed. This was not a training session and blood meant nothing.

Taric attacked again. He caught Marchen along the chest, splitting his tunic, dark blood spilling like a waterfall. The thick black bondmark bisected by dripping red stuttered his concentration. Marchen plunged his blade and Taric shifted just in time to feel the zing of cut flesh along his ribs. His hiss sucked in rain and the scent of wet iron.

An evil cackle blended with the lightning and pounded in his ears. Razored metal had scored a dozen jagged lines on each of them, leaving wounds that appeared nearly blood-black in the dimness. Rainwater and sweat stung with sharp bites coursing over the oozing wounds along his bare upper body, but Taric never faltered.

Marchen preferred long swings and powerful thrusts. Taric fitted his stance for shorter, faster, hacking cuts. A quick successions of jabs forced Marchen back to the wall edge.

A mighty growl blasted Taric’s face in hard, hot pants, and the scent of wine and blood intermingled. One blade slid along the other, the metallic screech loud as a catfight. The hilts meshed and both struggled to twist the other into releasing his grasp. Knuckle ground on knuckle and metal scraped skin.

Marchen pulled power from the air but Taric dug deep into his own soul. He didn’t fight for himself or for his father or even in revenge for Lunian. He fought for Eldwyn and its citizens, those who couldn’t defend themselves and looked to him for protection. He drew on the very core of a ruler—his people. The devastation at Istimar and countless other villages, the children left orphaned, the thousands of lives lost through the seasons, they begged for vengeance and Taric delivered it with renewed strength and determination.

Wrenching his grasp high and to the right, he forced Marchen’s sword from his with a loud battle cry. Thrust met thrust, parry met parry and charge after charge clanged in the darkness. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, embers hissing into the rain. Laden with sweat, Taric’s brows trickled salt into his eyes and he shook his head to clear his eyes.

Satisfaction grew. Marchen no longer grinned but gritted his jaw in concentration, his magical grip on his strength weakening. His right shoulder drooped, not in injury, but to protect his bleeding side. Myla’s remembered words whispered through his mind.
Find his weakness and strike hard
.

Digging deep for every ounce of muscle, Taric feinted left and thrust right with a brutal lunge. Marchen’s sword shot out to thwart the blow and Taric rammed his elbow straight into the gaping wound. Marchen shrieked but Taric had no mercy. A fast spin brought his sword directly across Marchen’s knee. He staggered, throwing his weight into Taric’s shoulder, and Taric slipped on the rain-and-blood-slicked stone.

A swipe sailed past Taric’s cheek and a tuft of gold flew from his hair. He swayed to avoid the blade and Myla pushed him, forcing his feet back three steps to keep his balance. Bryton manhandled a yelling Balic back to the wall, splaying his body across the monarch like a shield. Myla stepped in front of Taric. Her wet shift and unbound hair were jarringly innocent compared to the fixated expression on her face and the fighter’s stance of her feet.

Weakened and wavering, one arm wrapped around his abdomen, Marchen held fast to his hate and his sword. He grinned a demonic smile and struck out, twining his fingers in Myla’s hair. Taric reached but his hand gripped nothing but air. Marchen pulled her close, his blade across her throat and Taric froze. Terror sank sharp claws into his heart.

“Now, what have we here?” Thrusting his mangled chin toward Taric’s bare chest, Marchen glared at his bondmark. “The heartmate of the son of the man who stole
my
heartmate. Doesn’t it seem fitting to repay such a debt in kind?”

“Leave her out of this.” His chest heaving, Taric stared at Myla.

Calm and still, she looked deep into his face and winked. She’d allowed herself to become wrapped in the enemy’s arm. Marchen didn’t know what she was or that she was right where she wanted to be. Understanding dawned on Taric and he kept his face blank.

“A life for a life, a blackened mark for another. I don’t want you or Balic dead, although that too would be nice. I want that son of a bitch to ache like I have. I want to see him writhe in torment, knowing he’s the reason his only child, his pride and joy, suffers forever.”

Behind Taric, a soft feminine chant began, barely audible over his racing heartbeat and the storm’s growl. Marchen’s iron-gray eyes, silvered by lunacy, leapt to Katina. “Shut up, little charmist bitch. None of that or I split her open and hand Taric her beating heart.” He pressed the sword blade tighter. A smudge of Taric’s blood stained Myla’s throat, then a trickle of her own slid down her neck.

“Hey, asshole,” Bryton sneered as Katina’s voice died away, “do you really think you’re getting off this fucking roof any way other than dead?”

Marchen chuckled and pressed his cheek tight to Myla’s. “Not really, but at least I’ll take Princess Never-to-be with me. Do you know when your bondmark blackens it burns worse than when it formed? It does. It sears like a knife in your chest. Get ready for the flame, dear Prince.”

“Marchen, let her go. You want me, come get me, you ass-licking bastard!”

Balic’s voice rang over his shoulder but Taric didn’t move his eyes from Myla’s face. His pounding heart tripled its rhythm when a pink tongue darted across her lip in feline fashion, preparing for her moment. Marchen had no idea what he held in his grip but it didn’t lessen the fear in Taric’s gut.

“I love you, Taric.”

Those words, words he treasured more than every jewel in the royal vault, whispered across the wind. Locked with her steady gaze, he pleaded for her to be careful and his lips silently repeated her vow. He’d never feared for his guardian but he loved the woman being held by steel. He trusted her with his life but worried now that it was hers at risk. Every instinct he possessed taxed his patience and his forearms ached from clenching his fists.

“How sweet,” Marchen mocked. “I never got to say goodbye. Tell your sweetling you love her one last time, Taric, and be glad I’m more generous than your father.”

Taric’s tongue froze. Myla’s eyes glowed for a split second then Marchen was holding the scruff of a jaguar’s neck. One black paw shot out and tore half of Marchen’s face away. He released the cat, his scream gurgling into the storm.

Sharp drops of rain beat down, each a stinging hit. The snarling jaguar fought, snapping deadly jaws, her power immense. Her rippling ebony fur, slicked by rain and shining with stormglow, enchanted Taric. Feline or female, Myla was beautiful.

Katina’s rough inhale sounded behind him and he heard the patter of feet running to Balic and Bryton. Wind and water stung his eyes but he refused to blink, to risk one moment of letting Myla out of his sight. She sank her teeth into Marchen’s shoulder. He dropped his sword and clawed at her face. The sword edge cut into Taric’s foot but he kicked the discarded weapon away from Myla. It struck the stone behind him with a scraping ping.

All eyes on the roof were trained on the fight. Marchen raked his fingers across the jaguar’s eyes. Myla gripped his scalp with one clawed foot and wrenched his neck to the side. White pointed teeth glistening with blood smears opened wide and bit. She clamped on Marchen’s skull, crunching with powerful jaws. The splintering of bone cracked over the grumble of weather. Marchen uttered a sound, more whimper than scream, before his hands fell lifeless to his sides.

A boom of thunder shook the castle beneath Taric’s feet, rolling for an eternity. Lightning highlighted the huddled group in pulsing blue-white light. Balic stood half-propped against the wall, blood draining from more places than Taric cared to think about, his right arm limp and motionless. Katina curled her shift-wrapped body into the curve of Bryton’s side, clinging tightly to his neck. His arm circled around her and his eyes closed but he never lowered his sword.

Myla dropped the lifeless body of the Butcher of Eldwyn.

It was over—the war, the fight, the night, all of it. Taric’s shoulders slumped and he hung his head. Sweat and rain ran down his face, dripping off his hair. The droplets took forever to hit the floor. Time slowed, an hourglass with wet sand clumping the passage.

A harpy-like screech brought his head up. Bryton’s eyes were wild. He shoved Katina behind him, stepping in front of Balic with a scream. The Myla-jaguar whipped her head around, red dripping from her fangs.

A tearing agony pierced Taric’s back, the force of the impact spinning him around like a child’s toy. Through a veil of rain, a triumphant Elora seethed at him, crazed revenge etched plainly on her face. Gone was the calm, timid girl he’d met and liked—replaced by a shrieking banshee with wild wet hair and vacant eyes.

His strength left him, his sword clattering to his feet. A burn radiated through his sternum. Taric looked down at the blade of a sword protruding from his chest.

There was no more pain. Rain beaded on the blood-streaked metal, watering down the bright red. Marchen had planted lies in Elora’s mind. She had planted steel in his back. Both were deadly.

He raised his eyes in stunned disbelief. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end. Elora cackled, madness bright in her frenetic ale-colored eyes.

A chilling growl pierced the night and a flash of black leapt over his shoulder. Bryton’s sword sailed through the air like a javelin, imbedding in Elora’s throat. Her twisted mouth went slack. Myla pounced down, her front paws knocking Elora’s body to the wet stone.

Too late. Both too late.

“Taric.” His name was warbled in his father’s voice as if from underwater, distorted and distanced. It was the only thing Taric heard, echoing like the thunder. His knees weakened and the dark, cracked stone rushed toward him. The strange thought crossed his mind that he should land on his shoulder. That slight turn took the last of his strength. A roar in his ears muffled his landing.

His vision grew cloudy, the edges blurring and softening. The tableau on the rooftop took on a muted haze.

Where had Elora been hiding?
Hadn’t he checked the dark corners? No, he’d forgotten.

Everything was too loud. The rain beat with drums, Katina’s scream shrilled like a trumpet, the wind howled in a wolf’s cry and the king sobbed. Taric tasted his own blood when Bryton and Balic rolled him onto his father’s lap. A trembling masculine arm cradled his shoulders and rocked him.

I haven’t laid my head on his leg since I was four summers.
It comforted him. He’d forgotten.

Bryton’s chin quivered and his loose hair trickled water onto Taric’s cheek. His chest heaved and his eyes rounded. Over and over his friend’s lips kept moving with the same silent chant.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
Bryton used to stutter as a child. He’d forgotten.

He wanted to laugh. Myla’s words came back to him, clear in his darkening mind.
Never underestimate a woman with a blade.
She’d warned him. He’d forgotten.

“Myla.” The single word coughed from his lips, thick with blood.

A sound never heard before wrenched the night, tearing the fabric of the storm and restoring time. Half woman’s scream, half jaguar’s growl, it pulled his dimming eyes from his father’s tear-streaked face. Fisted hands to the dark sky, head thrown back, Myla screeched. Her wet shift seemed too clean, too white. Light sprang from within her. She was beautiful. She glowed.

“She swallowed a star.” Breath left his body on the last word, leaking into the night his eyes no longer saw.

Chapter Thirteen

Pain Myla had never dreamt of ripped through her soul. Marchen’s blood coated her screaming tongue with metallic zest, and fiery ice pierced her gut. The excruciating burn surged into each corner of her essence, forcing the cat from her spirit and thrusting the woman into reality. Cold rain plastered her hair and stung her face. She lifted her head to the storm and expelled her consuming agony outward.

The sword in Taric’s back pulverized her heart, and she bled pure misery on a torturous wail. She was his guardian and her failure was too horrible to comprehend.

He could not be dead. But she knew he was, felt his bond with her break like a twig when his last breath escaped into the wind. Frantically, she grasped for his soul but it slipped through her fingers like smoke. Torment pushed her beyond her known power, filled her with an anguished flood of raw ache, erased her mind of all but one cry.

Taric!

a
b

Near delirious with grief, Balic thought he imagined it. For a moment, his mind could process nothing but harrowing loss and the image of a gap-toothed child, elderberry jam on his chin, laughing up at him.

Pulling his enemy’s sword from his son’s body, he tossed it aside with a wail. Bitter wind lashed the tears from his face and he clutched a handful of golden hair, begging for one more moment in time. A parent’s plea he knew was futile but couldn’t prevent from slipping off his tongue.

It was not his crippled mind. The night was growing brighter. At Taric’s feet, Myla screamed at the sky in an eerie, non-human cry. Light streamed from within her and met light from above. Not serrated lightning, but a full beam, thicker than an oak, like a waterfall of magic surrounded her.

It grew brighter and harsher until he had to squint to make out her form in the center. Her shrieking never stopped but her feline eyes began to battle the brilliance, shimmering an unearthly green. Her clenched fists quaked, challenging the light.

“Ancient magic, receive my breath, come now in this hour of death.

Return my love from death’s cold hand, he who is marked by my brand.

Return him sound and free of pain, trade our paths on this plane.

Each drop of life I freely give, be it so my love can live.”

A massive clap of thunder shook the castle. A mushroom cloud of power descended with a rushing wave of heat. Every splatter and puddle vanished, consumed in the burnless blaze, and the rain ceased. Balic’s hair blew back and the breath was sucked from his lungs. The scorch billowed visibly around him. Bryton ducked his head against the mystic wind’s muscle.

In the heart of the blast, Myla’s chant faded away. Her white shift bled a wide red circle on her breast and back.

In Balic’s arms, Taric arched his back, gasped and his eyes snapped open. Disbelief shuddered Balic’s heart. His son’s eyes went from flat, dead brown to sparkling-life bronze. Taric’s chest became clean, the flesh knitting to smoothness. Along his tensed arms and torso, each nick and scratch healed as if they never were. Life began flowing in Taric’s veins. Taut skin warmed beneath Balic’s hand and flushed.

The wind whooshed in a loud howl, dragging Balic’s sight to Myla. She exhaled and Taric drew in more air. She breathed life into him, her life, given in love.

In a blink, the light was gone and Myla crumpled to the stone. Taric exhaled a loud breath and drew another of his own. Bryton’s wide blue eyes caught Balic’s but neither could speak. Wonderment and hope coursed through him and he wiped tears away, daring to believe. He glanced up into the now-clear sky to find a half-moon shining down on his grown child’s rebirth, a million stars as witness.

Taric’s lungs filled and heaved, and Bryton leapt to Myla. Katina crouched beside him and they ran frantic hands over the crumpled body, searching for a trace of hope. The charmist sank to her behind with a shuddering sob and Bryton hung his head low between his shoulders. Raising his face to Balic’s gaze, his expression slowly confirmed it. Her life was forfeited. Balic’s throat choked at the sacrifice she’d given.

Under his hands, Taric stirred, his eyes darting around before settling on his face. “Papa?”

A sniffling inhale in place of words, Balic gripped his son’s hair tight and brought his forehead down to his alive-and-breathing son’s brow.

Taric pushed forward, sitting upright, and palmed his temple. Balic watched his memory return. Taric’s hand and eyes jerked to his chest and found no sword wound. Bewilderment blanked his expression and his chin lifted.

Then he saw Myla.

“No!”

Taric’s cry beat against the rough-hewn walls. He was still dead and in the lowest pit of hell. He had to be. Only there could the torment in his soul be explained. But his heart banged beneath his hand and he knew this was real hell, here on the rooftop. Ripping from Balic’s arms, he surged forward on his knees, knowing he was wrong. He had to be. Bryton and Katina scrambled away.

Kneeling above her, Taric lifted a trembling hand to Myla’s pale face.
Cold.

“Myla? Please, Myla…return to me, my guardian…please, Myla…return to me…”
Where is the pomegranate of her mouth? Why is it so white?
Dark lashes rested against her cheek, sooty arcs that didn’t open.

“Open your eyes, my love…open them… Look at me, Myla…” A tiny blue vein ran down her temple.
I never noticed
.
How did I miss that?

“Wake up, Myla…please…Myla…wake up…”
She sleeps so soundly.
Maybe she’s dreaming of the meadow again and doesn’t want to leave
.

He pressed his hand to her chest to gently nudge her awake. “We’ll go back, Myla…soon as we’re home… Wake up…”
She battled so hard with Marchen and with shifting into…

His palm was wet. He wouldn’t look. If he didn’t look then he wouldn’t see. It was water. It had rained. His hair was still damp. But water wasn’t sticky. Nose burning, he forced his eyes down past her face. Past the hollow he loved to kiss above her collarbone, down to his hand. His skin was dark against the white cotton of her shift, but a darker stain lay beneath his fingers. Red. Like her chiton. Wet. Red. Blood.

“Myla!”

His shout echoed with misery. Horror thrust the shock from his mind.
She isn’t sleeping
. A furious flame hit his chest. Blackened scabs covered his bondmark, the tingle of changing flesh like tiny pricks of glass.
She wasn’t asleep. She was—

“
No
!” Tightened cords in his neck strangled the screech and a sob erupted from his belly. She couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. She wasn’t real.
You can’t kill what isn’t real.
He hadn’t found a way yet. Drops of liquid landed on her chin and he realized they came from his cheeks, tears that coursed to her like bees to yellow blooms in an untamed meadow
.

Everything, every memory assaulted his mind and insanity swooped like a vulture. The crunch of bone, Bryton’s thrown sword, the keen of misery, her fists raging at the sky. She’d swallowed a star and then he’d flown. Somewhere, somehow, he’d felt her touch, her caress sailing by him and then he’d seen his father’s face. She’d brought him back…and took his place.

Myla, always his guardian, forever his love, had given her life for his.

It is freely given. Everything that I am, I give to you.

The answer he’d craved had been before him from the beginning. Only Myla could choose, freely, to become human. She had the right and the power to choose her own path. Only she could choose life. She’d chosen to give him that life. He’d found his answer but it was too late.

Bitter anguish traced his heart before plunging a dagger deep inside, twisting with a vicious curl. Unaware that cries and yells of torment were pouring from him, Taric clutched her to his aching chest.

Her head fell back limply, exposing the cream of her neck marred by a smear of brick and a trickle of crimson. His blood had touched her skin before Marchen had cut her and she’d winked at him with golden-green eyes he’d never see again.

Her hair had no combs. She’d left them in the bedchamber. The rich chestnut spread wide and soft on his arm. Cradling her face to his shoulder, he slid his fingers through the tangled silk. He loved her hair. He’d already commissioned a jeweled ivory brush with her name engraved. He’d been going to buy her combs in silver and tortoise and amber.

Bryton squatted before him, his blue eyes rimmed pink. His throat bobbed and he reached for Myla. “Tar, let me take her.”

“Get away!” Taric shoved him with an infuriated swipe. Like a wounded animal, he scrambled backward, taking her with him until his shoulders hit the stone wall. No one was taking Myla from him. No one. She was his. He was hers.

Taric threaded his hand through her hair over and over. Her arm fell to the floor. He tucked it close to her stomach and rocked her. She was his.

“Come away, Bryton.” His father’s tone was damp and deep, coming from far away.

“He’s not thinking.”

“He won’t. Not for a while…until his mind can accept what his heart already knows. If it can.”

Beneath his feathering kisses, her skin was cool, too cool. He wrapped his arms tighter to give her his body heat. Give her… She’d given everything. There was nothing more. His rocking stopped. He knew why she’d howled in livid agony and cursed the night.

Fury scored his veins like a poison, stinging with venom. This was wrong. Unfair. Cruel. Head thrown back, he seethed at the star-speckled darkness. The muscles along his body quaked to the bone with the force of his wrath. He despised everything that took her from him—Marchen, Elora, magic, death, blood. He hated them all. Pain shot through his clenched jaw and he spat his abhorrence into the air, unaware who he truly railed at.

“God damn you! You swore you’d never leave me alone! You lied! You promised I’d never be alone!”

The hushed wind carried his curse away but he received no reply. There was none to be found. What was freely given in love was permanent. She was gone.

A fissure formed in his soul, a hollow ache once filled by a battle-ready beauty. The crack wept with loss and blessed numbness descended on his muddled thoughts.

Taric searched for a dark spot in the night, for the star she’d swallowed. The half-moon spilled diamonds across the ink of the skies.
There, above that cluster, that tiny hole. That’s where she is. Myla.
His lids drifted closed, the memory kissing his mind. He conjured her smile, the tilt of her head. His heart yawned as empty as the void between the stars, his bondmark the same inky jet.

A star fell, streaking the night with streaming beauty. Then another joined it. Then more. The scent of jasmine wafted heavily in the breeze and a melodic sizzle breathed across his skin. Through tear-swollen eyes half-opened in pain, he saw a drop of lilac light hit the roof. Then another. And another. A rainfall of shimmering lavender bubbles cascaded downward until a glow separated him from the others on the roof.

Katina gaped at the mysterious sight while Bryton and Balic watched with grooved brows. The shimmer became more dense, not solid but close. Taric could still see through it but it was like looking through pale purple cheesecloth. The scent increased, the floral incense pushing the smell of blood away. Wind chimes tinkled somewhere and a face appeared in the glow.

Even if he hadn’t stared at the painting in the library for hours, he’d have known her. Her gown was simple, pale, of a color he couldn’t quite make out, but it fluttered in a nonexistent wind. Hair like sunshine tinged with violet danced about her head and evergreen eyes gazed at him above uptilted pink lips.

“Tarsha.” Balic’s breathless exhale floated to him but Taric didn’t look away from the luminescent figure of his mother.

A halo of magic pushed back the blackness and embraced her. Sadness softened her transparent face.

Taric felt his lips move, form the word, but nothing crept out. Awed by her ethereal shine, he tried again and a cracked whisper eked out. “Mother?”

How her face changed when she smiled at him! Her rounded cheeks rising in joy, she nodded. She didn’t move and yet suddenly she knelt before him, her eyes locked in love with his. He could look through her, but got caught in her gaze and didn’t see her hand lift to his face until she touched him. Along his temple, down his wet cheek to skim his jaw, her thumb tickled his skin like a feather. Full and rose-touched, her lips moved silently and the words seeped into his heart.
“I love you
.
”

“Mama?” The name left him without thought and his chest shuddered. A sorrowful frown lined her mouth and she glanced at the woman cradled in his arms. Hugging Myla’s limp body closer, he pleaded with the spectral image. “You gave her to me. Give her back. I want my guardian back.”

Dark green eyes closed in regret and her head shook slightly. Hope he didn’t know he’d held broke and a sob burst out. Her hand left his jaw, reaching down to caress first his tainted bondmark then Myla’s hair. She motioned for Taric to give Myla to her.

His body shook with the force of his denial. “No, she’s mine. She’s mine.” She couldn’t have her. He at least wanted a grave to visit.