Realm of Light (25 page)

Dawn came too
soon.

Elandra wakened
slowly, stretching beneath the warm fur cloak that had served as their
coverlet. Her bed was made of thick pine boughs, with Caelan’s tattered red
cloak spread across them. They had spent the night in the innermost cavern,
where hundreds of emeralds embedded in the ice walls glittered around them like
stars. A fire that needed no replenishing had burned nearby all night. Food,
steaming hot, had been waiting for them.

She could smell
fresh platter cakes now, making her ravenous. Truly this was a special, magical
place. She was not ready to leave so soon.

But Caelan was
already out of bed. Quietly he was dressing with his back to her. She rolled
onto one elbow and watched him, loving the gleam of firelight on his
sun-bronzed skin, the smooth ripple of muscle and sinew, the knobby ridge of
vertebrae up his spine as he bent over to pull on his leggings. Thinking of the
night and its mysteries, she felt herself blushing, but she didn’t care. She
was wildly, gloriously happy. Caelan had been both ardent and gentle, a combination
that had led her quickly past shyness into passion. In exchange, she had drawn
on the dances of pleasure that had been taught to her during her time with the
Penestricans. She had been both wanton and innocent, and even now as she
dreamed of all that they had shared, she felt her pulse quickening and a
sensual little smile curving her lips.

This was life.
This was truth. A man and woman together were so much more complete than either
could be alone. Whatever lay before them, they would face it as one.

But this morning,
he looked so serious, so remote. She watched his supple hands that had been so
gentle, so masterful last night now fasten buckles and oil the blades of both
sword and dagger. He wore his warrior’s face, purposeful and somber, and she
felt a qualm, wondering if he would become a stranger again.

Caelan picked up
his armor, then hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at her. Seeing her
awake, he smiled.

The smile lit up
his face, and the warrior vanished. In his place stood the man with a heart of
grace and compassion, a man who was kind and loyal and true.

He dropped his
armor and came to kneel beside her, kissing her thoroughly until her body
melted and her arms reached around his neck to pull him down.

But he unclasped
her hands and held them in his large, callused ones. “Temptress,” he said,
still smiling.

“You are too far
away.”

But although
passion quickened in his eyes, he shook his head. “It’s daybreak. We must not
linger here.”

She sighed while
he stood up and started buckling on his armor. “I will always love this cave.”

He paused with his
hands on the buckles and grinned at her. “And I will always love
you.”

Her breath caught
in her throat, and she loved him so much she wanted to cry.

“Get up, your lazy
Majesty,” he said. “It’s a long walk to Gialta.”

That brought her
down to earth. Flinging off the fur cloak, she dressed quickly, amazed to find
her gown mended and clean. Braiding her hair, she leaned over a stone bowl of
water to wash her face. The water was freezing cold, making her gasp and
shiver.

By then, Caelan
was bringing her the platter of food. She nibbled on a cake, finding its nutty
taste unusual but delicious, and looked in vain for her slippers. They were
worn through. They would never take her to the Trau border, much less all the
way to Gialta, but she couldn’t travel barefoot.

“Ready?” Caelan
asked, leaning over her shoulder to bite the cake she held absentmindedly.

She looked around
with a gurgle of laughter and gave him a quick kiss. His lips were covered with
crumbs that she licked off.

“Stop that,” he
said, pulling away from her. “We must go.”

“But I can’t find
my shoes.”

“I saw them.”

“Where?”

But he was already
bending to pull out her slippers from beneath the pine boughs. “Here.”

To her surprise,
the slippers looked like new.

“Who mended them?”
she asked, holding up first one, then the other in amazement.

Caelan shrugged.
“Who gave us fire and food ?”

“Your sister?”

He fastened on his
army cloak and did not reply.

Elandra watched
him and found herself frowning. “Don’t wear that,” she said.

He paused and
raised his brows.

“Don’t wear
imperial crimson,” she said. “Kostimon is dead. The ruby throne is broken.
Don’t wear his colors.”

Comprehension
filled his face. Slowly he removed the bright cloak that had been a symbol of
pride for so many soldiers through the long march of history.

She brought him
the fur cloak and watched as he put it on. Smoothing his hand across his
breastplate, he asked, “Do I now look like a barbarian?”

Elandra laughed.
“Yes, but a most handsome one.”

He made a face. “I
don’t think the army is interested in how handsome I look.”

“Will your sister
come to see us off?” Elandra asked. “Will I get to meet her?”

“I don’t know.”

His mood had
sobered again. Elandra watched him, but said nothing. This homecoming had not
been what he had imagined; she felt his keen disappointment.

Again she changed
the subject. “If the Choven gave you a sword, why didn’t they make you special
armor as well?”

“Are you now going
to suggest I leave my armor behind?”

“No, silly. You
must have it. I only wish it were an officer’s.”

He looked grim as
he brought her gold wool cloak to her and fastened it around her shoulders.
“The trappings aren’t important now. Only fools worry about how they look as
they prance to the battlefield. I worry about whether we can raise the men we
need.”

She gazed up at
him, adoring him, believing in him. “We will raise the men.”

“I wish I had your
faith.”

“We are on the
side of right. Tirhin betrayed his own people. In doing so, he forfeited any claim
he might have had. Kostimon never named him successor.”

“Kostimon,” Caelan
said dryly, “did not believe in sharing what he had.”

She nodded and
glanced around at the small cave one last time. Already she missed it. How
silly to cry over a primitive mound of pine boughs. How silly to be a woman at
all. She lifted her head high and sniffed quickly and lightly, determined not
to let him see her foolishness. Small wonder men did not want women along in
battle when they could turn sentimental so quickly.

But Caelan took
one of her hands and kissed it. “We were blessed here. This sanctuary witnessed
our union. And although no priest has pronounced over us, I do claim you,
Elandra of Gialta, for my own. I say you are my flesh. You are my spirit. You
are my heart. And I will keep myself for you only until the day I die.”

She found herself
trembling with joy at the honor he did her. When she looked up into his eyes,
her own filled with tears, then she blinked them away and said breathlessly,
“And I do claim you, Caelan of Trau, for my own. You are my flesh, my spirit,
and my heart. I will keep myself for you only until the day I die.”

He pulled her
close into his arms, lifting her until her feet dangled while he kissed her,
then set her gently on the ground again.

“Ready?” he asked.

Gripping his hand,
feeling as strong as the earth goddess herself, Elandra nodded. She would
follow this man to the ends of time if need be. Let all their enemies be cursed
unto death if they dared try to part this union.

“Wait,” Elandra
said before they reached the mouth of the cave. She pulled her hand free and
darted back. “There’s something I want to do.”

Impatient, Caelan
frowned at her. “What?”

“Never mind. Go
on. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Shaking his head,
he hoped she did not intend to linger here. No matter how wonderful the night
had been, it was time to go. He felt a strong sense of urgency, the suspicion
that time was rapidly running out.

“Hurry!” he called
after her.

“I will,” her
voice came back, muffled and echoing through the cave.

Stooping low, he
ducked outside, stepped across the stream, and climbed the low bank. It was
gray yet, very cold and still in that moment of hush just before the sun lifts
over the horizon. With his breath streaming about his face, Caelan walked
quickly, swinging his arms to get his blood pumping. He hoped Lea would come
before they left. He did not want to go without saying goodbye. Besides that,
he wanted to ask her for the gift of two ponies and supplies. On foot, their
journey would be hazardous and slow.

He knew he could
travel quite fast on his own, fasting if necessary, but Elandra was not
accustomed to such hardship. She must find the cold brutal. He told himself to
take very good care of her, not let her grow too tired or too chilled.

A bugling sound
came from overhead. Caelan froze, unable to believe his ears; then he looked
up. Overhead sailed a shape that had haunted his dreams for years. He saw the
black leathery wings, narrow head, and thin, flexing neck of a dragon.

Caelan told
himself to move, to run for cover, but he couldn’t. It was impossible that this
was happening again. Were the gods this capricious, this unkind? Was fate
against him? Had the shadow realm tracked him down again?

The dragon wheeled
high above him and bugled again. Its rider shouted something Caelan did not
understand. Hatred boiled in Caelan’s heart, and he forgot both amazement and
prudence as he drew his sword and brandished it aloft.

His field of
vision narrowed until he could see only this one dragon and rider circling
above him. He burned for revenge.

“Come down here
and fight!” he roared.

The dragon lifted
a wing tip and swung around, then plummeted in a sudden dive straight at
Caelan. He heard the coughing roar from the dragon’s throat, and fire belched
from the beast’s nostrils.

The flames scored
two tracks through the snow, and thick gouts of steam rose into the air.

Caelan knew he
should run. He was no match for an airborne dragon, and he knew it. But at that
moment he was too furious to care.

For years he had
dreamed of revenge. Now the chance had come to him. He was no untried boy this
time. And he would be damned if he let this raider ruin his life a second time.

Screaming curses
at the top of his lungs, he ran forward between the twin bursts of flame. The
heat scorched him. He could smell his own hair burning, and one corner of his
cloak caught fire. Without slowing, he leaped high in the air and swung Exoner
overhead.

The tip sliced
through the dragon’s wispy beard into its chin, and blood spurted. Screaming
with pain, the dragon flung up its head and veered aloft even as its rider
leaned dangerously over in an attempt to stab Caelan with a javelin.

Both men swore and
yelled at each other, while drops of dragon blood splattered the snow. The
dragon circled the treetops, squalling and slinging its head.

Only now noticing
that his fur cloak was on fire, Caelan slung it off into the snow. The stink of
singed animal hair filled the air. He bent a moment and scooped up a handful of
snow to rub across the burns on his face.

In that moment of
inattention, the dragon dove again, wings tucked, talons stretching out, head
extended fully with fangs bared. It came right at him.

There was no time
to dodge or duck. If the dragon succeeded in striking him, the impact alone
could kill him. Caelan braced himself, bringing up his sword one-handed, and
heard Elandra scream.

The impact was
like being struck by a battering ram. The jolt was tremendous, knocking the air
from his lungs and lifting him off his feet. He felt himself fly into the air.
There was incredible pain; instinctively he
severed
it. He felt his arms
still swinging; then Exoner bit deep, and the swing continued, slicing off the
head of the dragon.

The dragon’s
attack cry fell silent. Blood spurted in a great, drenching sheet, coating
Caelan’s face and blinding him. The Thyzarene shouted something
incomprehensible, while Caelan hit the ground with a numbing, bone-rattling
jolt. Impetus sent him skidding across the ground before he struck a tree stump.

He lay there,
blind and gasping helplessly, the sword still clutched somehow in his hand. He
couldn’t seem to draw a breath properly, but he knew he had to get on his feet.
If he gained his feet, he could move. If he could move, he could survive. He
had to survive.

Still, he lay
there, unable to see, his own breath wheezing horribly in his ears, writhing in
a feeble effort to flip over and get his knees under him.

He heard the
Thyzarene swear, then a thud, then the swift, crunching sound of running footsteps
across the snow.

Fear propelled
Caelan up. Dragging his forearm across his eyes, he cleared most of the
dragon’s blood away, ungluing his eyelids in time to see the Thyzarene running
straight at him with an upraised javelin. The Thyzarene’s swarthy face was
contorted with fury. He screamed curses as he ran.

Caelan met the
man’s attack on his knees. His sword blade connected with the thrusting javelin
point, and sparks flew from metal. Despite the other’s advantage in standing,
Caelan was strong enough to hold their locked weapons and even push himself to
his feet. This close, he saw that his opponent was only a boy, grown but not
yet filled out, with a scraggly beard fuzzing his lean cheeks. Grief and rage
blazed from his eyes.

It was said that
Thyzarenes who flew the dragons had some kind of special bond with the
creatures. Caelan glanced at the dead dragon tying in the bloody snow, then
back to the Thyzarene straining against him. Rage could strengthen a man, but
blind rage made him vulnerable and foolish.