Through the Veil (36 page)

More, it bothered him to think that all these years, their daughter had been alone. Completely alone, with no blood relative to look after her, no father to protect her and no mother to love and cuddle her. Children needed that, and fate had robbed Char’s Daisha of that. Intolerable. Just intolerable.

“Sire?”

Char glanced up, a bit startled. For a moment, he had forgotten Arnon’s presence. The Sirvani watched him with shuttered eyes, but Arnon had been with Char long enough that the Warlord knew when something was on his mind. He sighed and murmured, “Speak your mind, Arnon. I respect your insight.” Char turned away from the encampment and retreated back into the lodge. The inside was lavishly draped with shisilks to protect them from the heat, sun and wind. It was marginally cooler, and he had a young body slave near the bed, fanning the air back and forth with a fan made of feathers from the flightless buisk bird. The gentle breeze blew his hair back from his face and cooled the sweat forming on his body. The body slave stared at her feet; she was clad in nothing more than thin silver bands at her neck and wrists. As if she felt his gaze, the body slave shivered slightly, and Char smiled as he scented both her hunger and her fear.

He would have liked to know her name, her birth name, not the name she had been given when brought into Anqar. But the stubborn female refused to tell him. She refused to even speak.

“Watch over this one while I am offworld, Arnon. She pleases me,” Char murmured softly. “Make sure she wants for nothing—and no man touches her.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Char dropped down onto the low bed and closed his eyes, relishing the cool breeze as it drifted over his body. In preparation for the raid, he had left his royal robes at the High Lord’s manse and he wore battle gear. It was finely worked and every bit as elegant, in its own way, as his robes. The fine weave of the dumir tunic allowed air to circulate underneath, keeping him moderately comfortable even in the forsaken heat of the desert, yet it was solid and impenetrable to the typical weapon. Absently, he freed the toggle closures. “I am weary now, Arnon. I shall rest.”

The faint light filtering in through the open tent flap struck her eyes with the same painful intensity of a thousand needles. Lee whimpered pitifully and turned her head away from the light. She tried to fling an arm across her eyes, but she couldn’t even move.
What happened . . . ?

The last clear thing she remembered was Kalen, being in the woods with him. He’d pressed her back against a tree—yeah, she could still feel the abraded flesh as she shifted on the bedding. But there was no way
that
had left her feeling like she’d been worked over with a lead pipe.

“Here. Drink this.”

She lifted her lashes. Without turning her head, she could see Dais’s heavily lined face and the mug he held, just out of the corner of her eye. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. The second she did, Lee regretted it. Pain exploded through her head and she moaned. If she could have curled up in a tiny little ball and just faded away, she would have done so.

“I imagine that head hurts. Morne left you the tea—don’t worry, it’s not the piss you had to drink last time. This is just a soother,” Dais murmured. “Come now, Lelia. Drink. The sooner you get that pain under control, the sooner you can rejoin Kalen.”

“What happened?”

Slowly, she pushed up on her elbow, and when her head didn’t explode, she reached for the mug. A quick sniff eased a little of the trepidation. Her head felt like it was about to throb itself right off her neck, and even if that crap tasted as bad as the garbage Morne had made her drink the last time, she didn’t care. So long as it eased the pain in her head.

One sip had the headache easing back even before it hit her belly. By the time she had drunk half of it, she could open her eyes without pain shooting through her head. It didn’t taste too bad either, almost like root beer, but warm and spiced. It also settled the pitching in her gut, and she relaxed back in the bedroll with a relieved sigh as she emptied the mug and let Dais take it.

“Man, that stuff is priceless,” she murmured, unaware how thick and slow her voice had become.

“It does the job,” Dais said. His voice had a peculiar note to it, and she turned her head, peering at him.

He had a peculiar expression on his face as well. Faces. Two faces—no, three. They wove together into one, separated into three, two . . . “Shit,” she mumbled. She tried to touch her forehead and ended up poking herself in the eye.

“Best to be still. That tea was brewed from the kifer weed. It slows down reflexes, affects coordination.” Dais’s face continued to swim in and out of focus, but she heard the satisfaction in his voice. Loud and clear. “Within the next few minutes, you will be unconscious.”

“Unconscious . . . for a headache?” She heard how slurred her words were. Something was wrong. She knew it, but it was like her brain was shutting down on her. “Why?”

Dais laughed. “It’s not for the headache. It’s for convenience. My convenience, naturally. You’re less trouble when you aren’t awake.”

“Less . . . trouble . . ,” Lee repeated.
Wake up . . .
She tried to throw off the sleep clouding her brain, but she just couldn’t.
Wake up . . .

Warning alarms were starting to scream inside her head, and even then she knew something was wrong. Very . . . very . . .

“The men are ready.”

Char glanced at Arnon as his servant slid inside. “Doesn’t it seem that sunset comes very slow before a raid?”

Arnon smiled. “I would have thought that you left that kind of nervous anticipation behind a long time ago, my lord.”

The days before raids tended to be long and fraught with tension, tension that many Warlords and Sirvani burned off through sex or mock battles. Anything that might cloud the head wasn’t allowed—no drugs, no ale or any other intoxicants. They needed that physical outlet, but the higher-ranking Warlords traditionally kept to themselves in the hours right before a raid.

Char’s body slave lay behind him sleeping, all but dead to the world, she was so exhausted. He’d wrapped that long, fiery red hair around his hands and made her scream until she was hoarse with it before he finally brought her to completion. He’d slid his hands up and down her slender back, holding her close, but just before he would have fallen to sleep, just like that, she stiffened and shoved away from him. She’d rolled herself into a tight ball on the far edge of the low-lying bed. When he had tried to cover her with a blanket, she’d shrugged it away.

It had been years since he had taken a woman so resistant to him. In fact, Neve was the only woman that he could recall who had resisted him quite like this. Oh, most of the body slaves were resistant at first, but people usually resigned themselves to their fate after a time. Neve never did. If she had, she wouldn’t have run away from him, taking their child.

This woman wasn’t going to resign herself to it either. Char stared at her, feeling oddly sad. Soon he would be bringing his daughter into this harsh new life, and although she would be no slave, Char couldn’t help but wonder if she would resist her new life as strongly as her mother had. As this woman now did.

“You look troubled, my lord.”

Char looked over his shoulder at Arnon. “Just preoccupied. I’ve spent more than twenty years now moving to this point.”

“Your search for your daughter,” Arnon murmured.

Char sighed. He had enough to think about without Arnon’s all too insightful viewpoints, but the Sirvani had served Char too long. He knew better than to discount Arnon’s thoughts. Weary, he asked, “What is on your mind, Arnon?”

“You are certain your daughter still lives?”

Char lifted his lashes and stared at Arnon. “Yes, Arnon. I am.” He smiled as he recalled the look on the Daisha’s face when he had sensed her across the Veil and sought her out. If the shrouded outworlder hadn’t appeared when he had, then Lenena would be here with him, where she belonged. Char could then have focused his time and energy on consolidating his power and protecting his child.

Yet he had to admire the strength it had taken her to resist him as long as she had. If she hadn’t resisted so long, then the outworlder wouldn’t have arrived in time anyway. A strong-willed woman. It was going to be a hard task, finding a man who would match her strong will, not crush it. A thought occurred to him and he pushed up on his elbow, studying Arnon thoughtfully. “You are of high enough rank, Arnon. I sense the power inside you. Why have you never attempted to claim Warlord status?”

A pale blond brow quirked. “I know where I am of the best service, my lord. It is not as a Warlord.”

The answer pleased him. Char was careful not to let Arnon see just how it pleased him. Arnon was one of the few that he had complete faith in. The Sirvani was invaluable, and for so many reasons. Loyalty like his should be rewarded. He lowered himself back into the silks and pillows at his back and murmured, “You are of an age to claim yourself a woman. Has no female ever held your attention long enough?”

Char knew the man had a body slave brought to his chambers on rare occasions. Very rare, and never the same woman twice. A good sign, in Char’s opinion, because it showed the man didn’t let thoughts of sex and women take over his mind. Men who had a slave in their beds every night were not always the most dependable, and not just because they were wearied from the fucking.

The Sirvani remained silent for a time, as though he had to think about his response. “Like most Sirvani, I had expectations of the time when I’d find a female that caught my eye, that intrigued me, one that I could father a child on, a child who would carry on my bloodline.” Then he shrugged. “But the slaves that have been made available to me have never intrigued me. And I don’t care to spend time with a woman that bores me.”

“A child off you and the right woman would be a child of great worth, Arnon. Your wisdom, coupled with the power I sense within you . . .” Char nodded slowly. Yes. Yes, this could work. He would have to see how his daughter reacted to the Sirvani. And there would be talk. Especially once he took his place as High Lord. Char could handle the talk—he had dealt with it most of his life and it didn’t faze him. But pairing his daughter, a Daisha, with a Sirvani, even a high-ranking, well-respected one like Arnon, would cause upset among the ruling houses.

But if Arnon appealed to his daughter, Char would deal with the upset. The Daisha’s happiness was paramount, almost as important as mating her to a man of power and wisdom. More, Arnon didn’t have that streak of cruelty in him that was becoming so common among the Warlords. Arnon would treat the Daisha well. Perhaps she could even love him. Love could make it so much easier for her to accept her new life.

“When I bring my daughter back, I will present you to her, Arnon,” he murmured.

With his eyes closed, Char was unaware of the look that tightened the Sirvani’s face. Caught up in his own thoughts, pleased with the possibilities playing through his mind, he smiled. “Yes.”
This could work
. He opened his eyes and met Arnon’s steady, unwavering gaze. “It’s time.”

Shoving to his feet, he fastened the toggles on his tunic and donned the leather harness that held his weapons. When he turned, Arnon stood behind him, holding out Char’s weapons. “You needn’t play the squire for me, Arnon.” He headed out of the tent, but just before he reached the thick, heavy fabric draped over the doorway, a whisper of magick slid through the air.

It blew across Char’s skin like a cool wind, and he stopped in his tracks, turning to face the center of the tent. There was nothing there. His lids drooped and the power flowed through him, fluid and natural as water. The Veil shimmered into view, first a smoky, obscuring fog, deep shimmering blue, then it thinned out and the man on the other side shimmered into view.

“Dais.” Char cocked a brow. “Not the best time, my friend. You should clear out. You are not in a safe place.”

Dais grinned. Then he shifted to the side so Char could see behind him. It was Lenena. She lay on her back, her head turned to the side, eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell in a deep, slow rhythm, a little too slow.

“What is wrong with her?” Char demanded, his voice dropping to a rough, warning growl.

Offering a reassuring smile, Dais responded, “Nothing some rest won’t cure. I just gave her some kifer root.” He shifted back so that his body blocked Char’s view of his daughter. “I believe this woman is of importance to you?”

Char’s gaze narrowed. “If she is harmed, at all, I will gut you. Slowly.”

His grin faded and Dais lowered his head respectfully. His gaze remained on the ground as he said, “My lord, I am no fool. Once I knew what she was to you, I knew she had to be protected.” He paused briefly and then added, “Perhaps if I had known that you sought this particular woman, I could have brought her to you much sooner.”

“You dare to question me, Dais?” Char asked, his voice soft and gentle. But the threat was clear.

“No. No, of course not,” Dais responded quickly. “It is just that she has been in a very dangerous situation. I hate to think of your beloved child coming so close to death as often as she has. She has been out on the line, fighting with the resistance as though she were one of them. Any number of things could have happened to her.”

Char snarled. “Do you think I am unaware of that?”

“My lord.” Arnon stepped forward, discreetly calling the Warlord’s attention away from the spy and to himself. “I’m certain your servant is simply voicing his concern over the Daisha.”

Char gave Arnon a lethal look. “I know when I am being questioned, Arnon. Do I look a fool to you?” He dismissed Arnon and focused on the shimmery fabric of the Veil. Drawing on the power in the earth beneath him, he funneled it into the Veil, reshaping it. The gate began to take form, seamless and perfect. “Ready yourself, Dais.”

Dais glanced around, a derisive smirk on his face. “Oh, I’m quite ready. I’m ready for a life that doesn’t involve rising before dawn, barely scraping by . . .” His voice trailed off as he turned around to lift the drugged woman in his arms.