Sorceress of Faith (24 page)

Her
focus changed from herself to
them
, as a unit. The dance.

Their
steps matched. His body angled toward her, tempting, his eyelids were heavy
over gleaming eyes, his mouth relaxed to show the natural softness of his lips…

With
another turn, the scent of him, something male that spoke of storms and
windswept cliffs, flowed through her senses. The Song between them mesmerized,
was a primal mystery meant to be explored.

Without
thought, her body became supple, pressed against his. Her blood heated until
she felt flushed, ready, open.

The
Song could go on forever and she’d enjoy every moment.

Rhythm
and tempo changed, the music became slower, languorous. He led and she
followed, her senses filled with the pulse of desire between them, soft air
caressing her, embracing her as she danced with him.

Daylight
faded from the windows, let in whispering dark, and still they danced, caught
in the moment, never tiring, building a strong connection between them.

It
seemed like a dream.

Dream
.

The
word dropped coldly into her consciousness, opened her memory. She’d had many
lately. Dreams of the Songs and Summoning, of Power, of doom and death. She
stiffened, and with her thoughts, the music spiked harshly.

The
expectation in his eyes changed from misty to wary. He slowed, brought them to
a stop after a quick whirl, then bowed before her, keeping his gaze on her
face. “A lovely dance indeed.”

Though
his voice was still quiet, Marian could almost hear his defensive shields
snapping up.

They
stepped apart.

Marian
cleared her throat. “It’s a very strong Song between us. Stronger than the one
I have with Bossgond, even, and we’re blood-bonded. No doubt because you’re my
teacher and I’ve advanced to Scholar?”

He
smiled, and it was empty. “No doubt.”

Irritation
washed through Marian. He was keeping things from her. She wondered if the same
thing had happened to Alexa, and would have bet her doctorate that it had.
She’d have liked to ask Alexa, though. Marian had discovered her telepathy
didn’t reach the Castle from the islands. Where was a good telecommunications
system when you wanted it?

But
Jaquar had masked his expression and moved to the doorway to the circular
stairs. “I think we should survey the small suite at the bottom of the Tower. I
haven’t been there recently and don’t know how comfortable the rooms are.”

“Of
course.” Marian smiled politely. She wanted to talk to Alexa. Yearned for a
telephone, or the crystal ball they used here. Marian wondered who was the
Circlet specializing in communications and what they’d charge for making a link
with Alexa.

She
was walking briskly when she saw something on the floor near the shelf where
the model of the Singer’s Abbey had been. She didn’t know why it snagged her
attention, or how she saw it so well, except that it, too, had a Song, and the
minute she focused on it, the dark tune came clearly in her mind. As she grew
closer she saw an intricately knotted length of six-stranded embroidery floss
in ox-blood red. She certainly would have missed noticing it except for the low
and slow drumbeats emanating from it.

As
she picked it up, her fingers closed convulsively over the floss and drumming
poured through her, drowning all her other senses.

Danger!

15

O
nly the thread
in her hand had substance, and the drumming of it eradicated all sight, sound,
and even the pressure of the air on her body, the floor under her feet. She
hoped she was standing.

She
wanted to scream but didn’t even know if her mouth opened. A symphony of drums
would drown her out.

Don’t
panic. Panic could only make her situation worse.

Focus!

Feel!

And
she did. She felt the tide of her own body moving in counterpoint to the drums.

More!

She
felt her Power. Pulling it, gathering the magic, started a warmth in her feet
that rose through her, accumulating speed and heat. Her skin felt hot, tight,
flushed with the magic she contained. It spread up her neck, finally reached
her face and head.

Her
ears popped and for a moment she was dizzy enough to think the top of her skull
was exploding with heat and light. The drums subsided into a thrumming whisper
just above the threshold of her hearing.

Then
she heard Jaquar’s voice.

“What
do you have there?” he asked sharply.

Light
painted the insides of her eyelids red and she realized she’d closed her eyes.
She opened them and shook her head.

Jaquar
stood a pace in front of her. “Can I see what you have?”

Marian
blinked up at him. Tension was back in his superb frame, lining his face. “I—”
It came out as a squeak lower than Tuck’s at his quietest. She tried harder. “I
think this fell to the floor when you took the model off the shelf.” Relaxing
every muscle of her hand, her fingers curled open to show the thread.

Jaquar’s
mouth tightened. “The weapon-knot.”

“Weapon?”
Marian asked faintly.

He
nodded. “Interesting that you can handle it. I never could.”

“What
kind of weapon?”

“I
don’t know.
We
, the Circlets of the Tower, don’t know.”

“Please
explain,” Marian asked.

Shrugging,
Jaquar said, “As usual, after a successful Tower raising, I had an open house.”
He grinned. “You get gifts. Entanra brought the model of the Singer’s Abbey,
and I put it on the shelf. When I started cataloguing my gifts the next day,
the knot was here. I didn’t know what it was, but I could feel the energy. My
parents had spent the night, and Mother realized it was a weapon, but not what
sort or how to use it. We sensed its danger. None of us touched it. I never
did. Now, there it is, in your hand.” He nodded to the thread.

Marian
opened her hand flat. She seemed to have mastered the latent energy of the
thread. The drums were muffled. The dark-red strands of the floss gleamed
wetly, like living arteries. If they’d pulsed, Marian would have dropped them
and run screaming from the room. She tried for a casual tone.

“I
suppose you untie the knots to loose the weapon.”

“Probably,
but do you want to try it?”

“No!”

He
laughed shortly. “Neither do I.”

“Should
I put it back?”

Jaquar
turned and strode back to the door. He opened it and started down the steps,
his voice echoing hollowly back to her. “Do what you please. As I said, I never
could handle it. Consider it yours.”

Her
fingers closed back over the floss. Carefully, she returned it to the shelf.

J
aquar stood at
the night-black windows of his Ritual room, the northeastern windows facing the
Dark’s nest. Marian and the mousekin had retired and now was time for
thought—which should have been full of regret, but wasn’t.

He’d
done it. Despite his original plans, despite all that was wise, despite the
vengeance that still raged inside him, he’d made a Song with the new Exotique.

In
the weeks since he’d found the nest, with around-the-clock Scholars and
Circlets watching it from other planes, they’d only discovered that the place
wasn’t true north, but northeast. During that time, the Exotique had gone from
Apprentice to Scholar with lightning speed. Then, just a few moments ago, she’d
strolled to the weapon-knot and picked it up, as easily as if she plucked lint
from her gown.

Obviously
she was the one to send into the nest, to learn of the monsters and the master
and the Dark. To harm it, perhaps destroy it.

A
hive of activity seethed around the maw of the nest, as if it would disgorge
new sangviles soon. Sangviles that had hideously destroyed his parents, killed
exponentially, and threatened the Tower Community.

Yet
he had formed a bond with her. Vengeance warred with desire. Not the desire of
baseless lust, but of affection mixed with caring.

He’d
liked holding her.

He
couldn’t send her. Not without great preparation, spells of protection,
knowledge. Jaquar knew her now—Marian. Not the Exotique, the tool for revenge,
but Marian, the eager Scholar with shadows in her eyes from pain for her
brother. The woman who had a ridiculous but powerful mousie as a companion.

He’d
liked having her hands on him even more than he’d enjoyed holding her. The
dance had been wonderful. Inside the moment, his despair had dropped from him
until there was only the woman and the emotions she made him feel.

The
emotions, the Song that had resonated between them. Affection, desire, even
delight in the discovery of one who shared talents and thought processes.

He
could not send her to her destruction.

His
hands fisted and a great pressure built inside his chest—grief needing to break
free. But he didn’t know how to release it. It filled him until he could hear
it pounding in his ears, stinging his eyes, drying his throat.

Beating
at the shields of his emotions.

Fumbling,
he opened the latch of one of the floor-length windows, stepped out onto the
roof of his study, raised his arms and called the wind.

A
gale whirled around him, sucked him up inside it, and he was the strength and
the power and the raging of it. The funnel spun him away, shrieking out his
rage. Then air whipped his eyes and he laughed until tears ran down his face.

He
rode the wind into a storm.

A
nother awakening
in a new place….The next morning, Marian blinked sleep away, her eyes growing
used to the gloom—and the silence. The undertone of the music of the island, of
Jaquar’s Tower, of inanimate objects still pulsed, but there was no clatter of
Tuck. Or of Bossgond.

Or
Jaquar—though, as she thought of him she heard notes cascading from above like
those from musical strings.

Sighing,
she stretched under the quilt. There was a feel to the room as if the season
was deep winter—the chamber was warm and dark and cozy, with threatening cold
outside. It seemed to have missed rejuvenating spring. Frowning, she tested the
whole Tower and found that the “winter” was Jaquar’s underlying grief and
low-level depression, the “threat” was the sangvile.

She
didn’t want to remember the image of the sangvile.

And
the quiet was too much. So she hurried to the shower cabinet and bathed and
dressed. Then she left her rooms for the corridor that bisected the floor, and
went to the door to the staircase tower and up.

She
learned something immediately. Jaquar’s Tower wasn’t nearly as soundproof as
Bossgond’s.

“No!
I won’t. That’s final.” His tone was sharp even through the door.

He’d
said no to Bossgond. Was the old mage pressuring him again?

“I’ll
see you this evening, and I’ll come alone.”

Marian
hesitated. Should she strum the doorharp or leave?

“Marian,
Marian,” squeaked Tuck. He scrabbled on the other side of the door, tiny paws
showing under the crack.

“Scholar
Marian awaits me. Until later,” Jaquar said tersely.

So
Marian ran her thumbnail over the doorharp and smiled at the pleasing riff of
notes. She wanted to do it again, and recalled how Alexa had enjoyed sounding
Bossgond’s. Easily amused, we Earth women, she thought with a smile, then
looked up as Jaquar opened the door.

He
was scowling.

She
curtsied. Tuck shot forward and patted her foot in greeting. She scooped him up
and put him on her shoulder. “Good morning, Tuck.”

The
hamster cuddled close to her neck, thrummed against her throat. With surprise,
she realized a Song ran between her and her companion now. They’d both
progressed in their own way to make one. And it resonated with memory-tones of
Earth as well as new and exciting experiences in Lladrana.

Jaquar
took a pace back and held the door wide. “Come in. I have reviewed your work in
the planet spheres. They continue to progress extremely well. It is definitely
time to start your practicum. We will work outside this morning.”

Marian
raised her brows. “Good morning to you, too.” She entered the room.

Color
deepened under the golden tone of his cheekbones. He inhaled deeply, closed the
door quietly behind her. Then he inclined his torso in an elegant half bow that
emphasized his body under the fine cream-colored linen shirt and brown suede
trousers he wore. “Forgive me, I was concentrating on work.” He gestured her
in. “Breakfast is in the hotbox.”

Something
about him was different. She studied him closely from under her eyelashes. He
was pale, lines of weariness slightly deeper at the corners of his eyes, but
his muscles seemed…looser. He no longer hummed with stress. With exquisite
care, she sought the tune echoing between them, analyzing it. The edge of his
grief was gone, mellowed into resignation. Perhaps the feeling of melancholy
would soon fade from his Tower, too. He wouldn’t thank her for commenting on
either him or his Tower, though.