Shadowheart

  She wet her lips, taking a deep breath. He lifted his eyes, impassive.

  "Ask your sister how he died," he said. "No doubt the Devil wanted him in Hell." He knelt, snapping his fingers at the white puppy. It rose from where it had been lying in the cleft of some rocks, chewing on the stick, and trotted to him. He sat back on his heels. "If Melanthe sent you to me, it’s fair payment," he said.

  Elayne watched the young dog lick his hand. "I don’t think she sent me to you."

  "That may be. Still, it’s strange that you traveled with such a paltry escort," he said, "and the brave Knights of Saint John gave you up so easily. But however you came here, I’ll take you."

  "Why? It makes no sense to me!" she cried. "What great use am I to you?"

  He looked up at her. "What use?" He shook his head in disbelief. He stood again and swept his hand across the horizon. "Do you still think I’m a trifling pirate in truth?" He took a step toward her and tilted her chin up, holding her face hard between his fingers. "For a decade of years I’ve worked for this, and it matters not if you were sent by Melanthe or fell into my hands by the grace of God or the Devil’s devices. The house of Navona is not finished, though a bastard son be all that remains." He narrowed his eyes. "I’ll have what my father meant to take. Monteverde belongs to me. You cleanse the taint of my left-handed blood. You seal my claim. So abandon your love poems and don’t imagine that you’ll be suffered to dally with any mongrel such as this Raymond who pants after you."

  Elayne put her hand on his wrist and wrenched free. "If you’re not a pirate, then don’t handle me as if I’m a pirate’s trull."

  He spread his fingers. The wind blew his hair back from his face as he stepped away. For an instant he had such a look that she didn’t know if he would reach for his dagger and use it upon her. She held herself rigidly still, like a rabbit beneath a circling hawk.

  Slowly he smiled. "You remind me greatly of Melanthe sometimes. We’ll deal favorably together, I think."

  "Favorably?" She gave an incredulous laugh. "I did not consent to be your wife."

  "You prefer Franco Pietro?"

  "I wished to wed a man I could love."

  "And I wish I were the Pope," he said. "You remind me as well of your witless sister."

  "It may be I’m witless, but I don’t want Monteverde," she said savagely. "I want nothing to do with it. Or poison and murders and—what you are."

  "Of course," he said in a cold voice. He turned away from her and walked to the edge, looking down into the blue depths of the ravine. "I don’t ask you to be what I am."

  Elayne sat down hard on the ground and let the puppy crawl over her. "That seems to be the only thing you don’t demand, pirate."

  He tossed a stone into the chasm and watched it fall. "Call me Allegreto, if you please."

  " ’Allegreto!’ "Elayne gave a scornful sniff. "Hardly a fitting name."

  "Indeed, I’m not the most merry of fellows, am I? I should have been named Destruction instead. But my mother was fond of me when I was an infant, as mothers are wont to be."

  "Oh, did you have a mother?" She rubbed the puppy’s ears vigorously.

  He looked at her aslant, his silver earring dangling down on his cheek. "No, I sprang full-grown from Hell, of course."

  Elayne hugged the pup to her. "I thought so," she replied, deliberately cruel.

  His black hair swept over his shoulder as he turned to face the sunset. In faultless profile, he seemed like a vision suspended between the black storm depths and the lucent sky, too perfect to be real. "The sailors say a tempest brews," he said coolly. "It’s time to return, before dark."

  Elayne buried her face in the young dog’s fur. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Why do you weep? Your future is not yet writ," he said. "At six years you were a hellion, not afraid to scale mountains with me."

  "And now a pawn to anyone’s ambitions," she said bitterly, her voice muffled in warm fur.

  "You’re not a pawn, madam, but a queen upon this board." His voice hardened. "Commit yourself to the game, or you’ll find yourself a hostage to fortune in truth. I can’t indulge sentiment this time, even if I desired to do it. It’s not within my power now. Melanthe owes me this. Cara owes me this. Before God, you owe me this! I carried you to sanctuary once, at infinite cost to myself. I cannot do it again, and will not."

  She remained with her cheek pressed to the warm furry body, refusing to look at him. When she finally raised her face again, he was gone, leaving her with the sea breeze growing colder as the storm clouds rose to swallow the sun.

  * * *

  The gale came on with the lowering night, turning the headland to a roaring mass of gloom, of whipping branches and glistening rocks. The pedestal provided some shelter, but not enough to prevent the wind from blowing cascades of stinging drops against her cheek as she sat hunched in angry grief, struggling to relinquish the final delusion that she had been watched over by an angel of shadows; a fearsome angel, dark but good.

  He claimed that Elayne had a debt to him; a debt for her life. As if the sweet safe years in Savernake—so brief they seemed now, as if all her memory of girlhood crystallized into one endless, merry day in May—had been a bargain made without her knowledge. A bargain with this devil, and now she had to pay.

  A brigand, a bastard, a murderer. And Lady Melanthe...she knew not what to believe of her godmother. Things that had seemed forthright before now appeared sinister. Why had no one told her of her past? That she had been left behind in the hands of her family’s enemies? Somehow, without thinking of it clearly, she had known that any query would make Cara angry, and so she had not questioned.

  The last outlines of her surroundings disappeared with the light, lost in the tempest and black night. As the darkness thickened, rain began falling in sheets. She rose at last, keeping her face down, holding the wriggling puppy close as the downpour soaked them both. Wind caught her thin skirt and tangled it about her legs.

  She had no idea where the path might be, only a sense that the cliff lay to her left and the castle somewhere ahead. She hardly cared. The cold rain pounded her head and bare arms, pouring down her back. It seemed fitting that any step she took would only bring her to ruin.

  But the pup rested its chin on her shoulder, its paws splayed in a heavy, trusting hug about her neck. She took a few steps where she thought the path should be, ran into the thrashing branches of a bush, and edged her way around it. The wind pushed her hard, as if to insist on a direction, then veered capriciously, propelling her another way.

  Another few steps, and she knew it would be impossible to find her way. She turned back into the wind, seeking the scant refuge of the pedestal.

  But it was invisible now in the rain-driven obscurity. She edged carefully, blindly, her head lowered against the wind. With each step she slipped on the uneven stones. She had not moved far from the stone. It seemed she should have reached it in a few paces, but when she searched forward with her toe, she met nothing.

  She froze, buffeted by the wind, afraid to step forward or back. Below the roar of the storm, she could hear the surf, a deep echoing boom that seemed to come from all around her. The puppy began to struggle again. She held it tight, afraid that if she let it go, it would vanish off the edge in one bound.

  She stood petrified, no longer indifferent to her fate. She was certain that the cliff lay one step before her, or perhaps beside her, or left or right or she knew not where. She could see nothing. She dared not take one footstep, but the wind shoved her like a huge hand. Slowly, with her wet skirt battering her legs, she went to her knees. The puppy wriggled madly and began to bark.

  It made a frantic leap, tearing free of her hold. Elayne cried out in terror. She could see it for a moment, a vague white shape as it sprang and disappeared. A faint whimper escaped her throat. She stared through the rain pelting her face, panting, certain it had hurtled from the cliff.

  Then with a vast relief she heard it barking again, high-p
itched notes from the howl of the storm. As she squinted against the rain, she saw a large white form take shape in the gloom. A huge dog—and then a man loomed up over her from the dark.

  Elayne grabbed his hands. He pulled her up roughly, his grip slick with coursing water. She stumbled forward, half-dragged as he turned and followed the pale shape of the dog through the lashing gale.

  * * *

  In a passage lit by one of the strange blue globes, the pirate halted. Rain poured into the rough opening behind them, spilling in a stream down the rugged cavern steps, trickling from the rock walls. He turned, her outlaw-savior, a dark lock of his hair plastered down to one cheekbone. Blue-tinged droplets glistened on his eyelashes and ran down his face.

  Elayne stood in a puddle of her own making, shivering like the puppy that hugged her legs. The huge white dog had led them unerring to the shelter. It shook itself vigorously, sending a hail of water over them all.

  That instant of terror in the dark, feeling no ground before her, made the blood beat in her ears still. "Thank you," she said to the dog, heartfelt. Her teeth chattered as she reached out to stroke the big white head. "God protect you."

  The dog sat down and glanced at her with brief disinterest, ignoring the puppy trying to lick its muzzle. Suddenly the animal leaped up with a roaring bark, hurling itself down into the passage with the pup racing behind, a minor echo of its elder’s throbbing voice.

  The Raven released his brutal grip on her arm. "Listen better to me in the future," he said, "when I tell you it’s time to go."

  "You have my thanks," she said stiffly, though it tested her to show gratitude to him.

  He reached up and took the glowing sphere from a hook, cradling it in his palm. It cast no heat, only the cold light that gave everything an uncanny hue.

  He began to descend the passage after the dogs. She hesitated a moment, and then followed. It was that or be left soaking wet in the dark, with the storm still screaming above. The dogs seemed to have disappeared like foxes would fade into the woods, intent on their own business.

  The sound of the tempest receded as they went down. She ducked a low ceiling, following him up a staircase—each step more smoothly carved than the last—until they reached a massive bronze door.

  "Watch," he said, holding up the lamp.

  Carving marked the door, designs of sheep and a shepherd in one panel, in another a fierce battle between dogs and a bear. The doorway had no handle or hinges. Incised deeply down the center were three words. Gardi li mo, as on the ring she wore. Guard it well.

  He touched the first letter, and then the shepherd’s staff. His hand moved in a pattern, from letters to the carved scene and back again. In the utter silence of the underground, Elayne heard a faint click. Gently he drew his palm down the carving of the battle, and the creatures slid apart to reveal a latch.

  "Can you do it?" he asked.

  She glanced at him. He stood back, closing the panel with a sharp sweep of his fist. The sound of it echoed in the passage.

  Elayne stepped to the door. She tried to copy his pattern, but when she moved her hand down across the carved dogs, nothing happened.

  "Like this," he said. He put his open palm over hers, pressing the heel of her hand down. "Softly."

  With a smooth motion he slid their hands across the carving. She could feel the wood slide away beneath her hand; she could feel his palm on her skin, warm against the chill of the cave and her wet smock. He stood behind her, close enough that he touched her with each breath. For a moment she thought he would take her in his arms; for a moment she had a vision of his bed and bodies entwined there. The air seemed to leave her throat.

  He flipped the latch, and the door swung inward. "Remember it," he said.

  Elayne stepped through. Beyond the door was a small chamber carved in the stone, furnished with a rush cot and some sturdy stools. Chests lined the walls, trunks of all shapes and sizes. The

  atmosphere was warmer than in the tunnels, the stone walls and floor spread with Turkey carpets.

  The door closed silently behind them. "Behold," he said. "My innermost sanctum."

  He said it with a derisive tone. And yet there were things of astonishing value scattered about—golden bowls and pieces of bejeweled armor; baskets nearly overflowing with loose pearls, a miniature device of silver wheels with a face like the king’s clock tower at Windsor. On the floor beside the cot lay a stack of books surmounted by a blackened candle.

  Elayne paused, wishing it were not so small a chamber, or so full of things. She would have liked to strip off her sodden gown, but she saw no hope of being private here.

  He moved past her, brushing close, for there was no room to give way. From one of the crates he drew a multitude of fine linen towels and tossed them on the cot.

  He was as drenched as Elayne. With his back to her, he unclasped the belt at his hip, spreading it carefully across the top of a chest. With a practiced glance, he examined the evil gleam of each dagger in turn, sheathing them with their hilts toward him. His shadow fell across the stacked chests and loomed on the walls.

  He pulled off his dripping shirt and held his hair back, wringing it between his fists. Blue light glinted on the water that slipped down between his shoulder blades.

  He was such a heathen presence in the small space that she felt half-suffocated. She grabbed up a towel and wrapped it around her hair. She pressed another over her smock, trying to soak some of the water out of it.

  "You would do better to disrobe," he said.

  "I have nothing dry to wear."

  He leaned back against a stack of chests. "What do you need, in bed?"

  "Don’t," she said, her breath coming shorter.

  "That’s not a word I favor," he said. "It’s a shrinking maiden’s word."

  She pulled the towel over her shoulders. Her skin that had felt so chill was growing warm, "Don’t berate me as a maiden, when you put an end to my maidenhood yourself."

  "Did I?"

  Elayne flashed a look at him. "So you declared to all the world!"

  "Such deceits are sometimes required. It was necessary to convince Countess Beatrice."

  She gave a hiss. "Are you saying that you did not?"

  "Would it be a great disappointment to you if I haven’t?"

  Elayne gripped the towel between her hands. "Oh!" She flung it down. "You are the Devil’s creature!"

  His dark lashes flickered. "I can be when I so choose," he said. "Be glad you haven’t seen that face of me yet. As to your maidenhead, I thought it courtesy to wait until you were wakeful and prepared. But that omission can be remedied without delay, if you wish. It will be before you leave this chamber, in any event."

  She drew back a step, coming up against a tall pile of chests. Her heart was beating in her ears.

  He shook his head. "Unwilling still? I wonder how you would have fared with Franco Pietro. He’s not known as a man of tender gestures."

  "And you are?"

  He gave a slight shrug. "I’ll try to please you. I haven’t made much study of the skill."

  She turned aside, plucking the damp silk of her chemise away from her skin. She didn’t feel cold at all now, but shivered anyway. "I suppose you required no particular study for ladies to incline to you," she said tartly.

  "Why?" he said. "Do you think I buy their inclinations?"

  She blushed and waved a hand in his direction "I meant—a man of your countenance."

  "Ah. For my face."

  "Indeed," Elayne said.

  "Some have inclined," he acknowledged. "More than some, perhaps. But I’m a manslayer, not a gallant. I doubt if you’ll ever wish to write me love poems."

  She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened them again. "What things you say."

  "Yes. And soon all those eager ladies changed their hearts and fled."

  Elayne frowned at the chests before her, stacked to the height of a table. She was not suffered to flee. He claimed her as if she were a bo
unty, some battle prize fallen into his hands. Raymond had courted her for weeks before he kissed her; the pirate thought it a great courtesy that he didn’t violate her in her drugged sleep. Raymond had called her a diamond, an extraordinary woman. This manslayer merely said he was not a lover.

  But he would try to please her.

  She thought she must be as impure in her nature as Cara had always accused her, for she couldn’t swallow the tight ache in her throat, the sensation in her skin, the awareness that he stood so near, tiny beads of water gathered on his chest and shoulders. To share the small room with him was like being caged with a lazing black leopard, its claws sheathed, but not harmless. Even knowing what he was, she felt herself drawn to his mortal beauty as a salamander was drawn to fire.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked suddenly.

  She faced him. "Does it matter?"

  He turned his head. With a sound of disdain, he shrugged.

  "I will tell you this. I’m afraid of you. But more than that, I’m angry. I’m angry that you force me, by guile and trickery, when I thought you might stand my friend. I’m angry that you aren’t my guardian, or my angel, but just an evil man, with deceit and blood on his hands, and still you come and save me when I’m in need. I’m disgusted that you make my heart feel hot as Raymond did, when you aren’t worth the ground under his feet. I should hate you, and I don’t. It is intolerable!"

  He lowered his lashes. "Perhaps you’ll write those lines in a book, as your love poem to me."

  "My journal!" she exclaimed, realizing suddenly that she’d left it in the storm.

  "I found it at the headland, when I went looking for you," he said.

  She lifted her face in swift hope. "You brought it?"

  "I tossed it off the cliff," he said, crossing his arms. "I didn’t like the text. I’ll give you another, and you can scribe my poem there."

  She glared at him. "I was mistaken. I do hate you!"

  "No, that’s the line I regard with most favor. ’I should hate you, and I don’t.’" He came closer and lifted his hand to caress her throat. He slid his fingers up into her hair as the towel fell free. The last tatters of her net gave way under his hands, and all her rain-soaked hair dropped loose, curling and twisting to her hips.