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Chapter Nine - Kin- continued
Landros lay asleep, tossing and turning. He was dreaming and he knew it, but had no desire to wake from it. Lark was in his arms, soft and beautiful, passionate and eager. This was not the first of these dreams, nor would it be the last by any means.
Lark opened the door as quietly as she could, slipping into the room soundlessly. She paused at the sofa to remove her scimitar and anything else that might make noise. Nightingale, spying from the cold fireplace, told her that he was sleeping restlessly, but soundly. She smiled, stepped through the half open bedroom door and crept in. She unlaced her vest and tossed it and her skirts into the chair and crept over to the bed in just her blouse.
She watched him a moment, smiling sadly, then bent and kissed him, lightly at first. She perched on the edge of the bed, slid gracefully beneath the covers and kissed him more deeply. Strangely, though he did not seem to wake up, he returned the kiss, brought his hands up her back, under her blouse and wrapped his arms around her with surprising speed and held on fiercely, as if afraid she was going to melt away if he did not.
Landros’s dream had taken an odd turn. He felt more warmth and more passion than the moment before, as if the dream were becoming more real. He wrapped his arms around her, desperate to hold onto this dream however torturous it was. The longer he could hold onto this vision, the longer it would be before he had to deal with the disillusionment and disappointment that would follow. He buried his face in her hair, ran his cheek along the side of her long dark neck, breathing deeply of her warm, spiciness. He nipped, ran his tongue along the indention behind her ear, kissed, nipped again. He could feel her breasts pressed against his bare chest, the gathered silk and the knotted cord all there was between flesh.
He opened his eyes with a start. Lark had never worn clothes in these dreams before. He flipped the woman beneath him suddenly, pinning her to the pillow with his weight, half afraid that the succubus had come up to try again, having chosen a more successful form. Lark’s laughing eyes stared up at him from a cloud of black hair that had fallen partly across her face like a veil. She purred, “Good morning, my Kestrel. Sleep well?”
“Princess Illyana?” he asked, testing.
She brushed her hair from her face, looked up at him curiously. “Now those are two words have never used together before. What is wrong, my heart?” she asked.
Convinced, he pressed against her, buried his head against her shoulder, breathing deeply of her. Tentatively, not knowing what was wrong, she reached up and held him, cradling his head as she would a child’s, waiting. He lifted his head, “I thought perhaps you were that damned succubus,” he said and kissed her fiercely.
They made love together, slow and deliberate, holding their passion in check to heighten it, not willing to give in to the desperation they both felt. As the tide finally overwhelmed them somewhere around mid-morning, Lark found herself weeping in spite of her ecstasy.
Landros tried to stop, fearing that he was hurting her, or doing something wrong, but Lark clung to him desperately, unwilling to let him stop, made him continue. Lying, exhausted for the moment, beside her, he reached out and wiped away the tears, held her closely to him when they would not stop.
“Please, princess. What is wrong? Is it something I did, or said, something my brother....”
“No,” she said quickly, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. “Is nothing wrong. Only everything right. Is why I weep, for joy. I… I missed you.”
He gave an uncertain smile, uncertain because he was not convinced nothing was wrong and that she was not just trying to keep him from pursuing the subject. “You are back early. You said three days.”
She chuckled. “Had enough of papa. Showing me off at every opportunity, especially to unwedded men. And, would have asked too many questions today. Besides, is not all right to miss you?”
He pulled her close to him, unwilling to let go. They lay that way for nearly an hour, until, the sun streaming through a crack in the shuttered made him sit up suddenly, swearing. Lark sat up, startled as he jumped out of bed and began to dress. “What, what is?” she asked, watching him.
“I was supposed to meet with Lord Colwyn this morning! Here it is almost noon and I was supposed to meet him for breakfast!”
Lark rolled over laughing. “Sorry,” she chuckled.
He paused long enough to slip his hand beneath her neck and pull her up into a fierce kiss. “No, you’re not,” he said.
She smiled. “Tell him was my fault. And give my apologies. Had known would have sent Nightingale with note.”
Landros gave her one last kiss and, grabbing his sword, headed for the door. He popped back in a moment later, “Would you meet me back here tonight after work?”
“Certainly,” she smiled.
“Later!” he called, and left without explaining. Her arrival after work would provide him with time to find and speak with his brother before she came.
One of Lord Colwyn’s maid’s was just about to bring up the knight’s lunch when Landros came in the kitchen door. Seizing the opportunity, he took the tray from her and offered to bring it up himself. Lord Colwyn did not look up from his desk when Landros came in, gestured off-handedly for him to set the tray ‘over there somewhere’. Landros set it on the desk anyway, knowing it would cause the knight to look up at him. Colwyn’s expression went from annoyance to surprise then back to annoyance again. He scowled at his squire. “Sleep late?” he asked sternly.
Landros fidgeted sheepishly. “No, sire, I didn’t.”
“What then?” he asked, taking a large bite from a meat pasty on the tray. He was giving his squire no quarter.
“I had a surprise visitor this morning.”
One eyebrow went up. “Trouble?” he asked.
“No, not trouble….” Colwyn waited. “Lark… Lark snuck in on me this morning….”
Colwyn sat forward; “Say no more,” he grinned. “I dare say you have had no breakfast?” he gestured for Landros to take the other pasty on the tray and rang for a servant to bring more.
Apparently this order had been anticipated by Landros’s arrival, as it was only a moment later when more food arrived.
Landros sat across from the desk, eating his share. “Have any luck with that map I brought you?”
“Yes, actually,” Colwyn answered. “Seems the marks all correlate to the ‘random’ monster attacks we’ve been having, which have ceased altogether now, we hope. Either it was the site to which they were teleported or released, or it was marked later as where they showed up, we cannot be certain which. Although,” he continued, “there are a couple of places marked that have no correlation to anything.”
“Perhaps these were places that were supposed to be hit?” Landros suggested as he ate.
Colwyn nodded. “More than likely. I have noticed that they are all places which were not well or heavily patrolled by soldier types. Mostly civilian or light watchmen.”
“Easier targets,” Landros muttered.
“Speaking of targets,” Colwyn said, “how’s your shoulder?”
Landros shrugged. “Fine, a little sore, but not bad.”
“Think you can fight?”
“Yes, sir. Why?” he asked, suddenly suspicious of the grin on his lord’s face.
Lark walked back to her caravan with mixed emotions. There was the joy she felt at her reunion and the pleasure of his company, but her joy was well weighted with the knowledge of what she might very well lose trying to keep that. Her father would most certainly not be supportive of her choice.
She sighed, packed a bag with what she would need that afternoon and evening at Lily’s. She noted that the grass was starting to object to the lack of light under the wagon. It would be time to move it soon. Tomorrow, she thought as she nibbled on a small hunk of cheese she took from a cabinet. It was not much, but enough to hold her until she got to Lily’s. The horses had come down to the river to drink, some of them to play. Lark grabbed her reins and went to catch Dolal. Since he was here, and she didn’t have to go hunting him, she thought it would be nice to ride for a change. He was easy enough to catch with the promise of a piece of cheese and Lark slapped the reins to his halter and led him back to the wagon. Draping her things over his neck, she swung up and began to trot off towards the gate.
Before she reached the bridge to the stableyard, Lark heard the sounds of combat. Quietly, she guided the big pinto towards the sounds, coming from somewhere behind the house and gardens. Rounding a large oak, Lark saw the two fighters, each in chainmail whaling away at each other, grunting with their efforts. One of the fighters was Colwyn, and the other was Landros. Lark, suddenly furious, kicked Dolal into a gallop towards the pair.
Colwyn looked up from the fight, ignored the blow his squire landed in his distraction and shoved Landros back and out of the way of the incoming animal. Landros, startled, looked up to see Lark charging in on the big paint, her skirts riding up to her thighs and fury on her beautiful, dark face. She used the animal to separate the two of them, began yelling at Colwyn from the horse’s back.
“What is going on here?!” she screamed. “Whatever is problem, he is your SQUIRE!” she pointed. “There are ways other than violence to solve!” Before Colwyn could protest, she whirled on Landros. “And YOU! Fighting with your Lord? Is proper this?”
She was thoroughly confused when both of them started laughing. Dolal started to dance skittishly until Colwyn grabbed his bridle to still him, lest he unwittingly step on the elf on the ground who could no longer stand. “Am glad you think is funny!”
Lord Colwyn tried his best to make a straight face. “We were not fighting, good lady. These swords are not even real,” he said, holding up the rattan weapon. “We were sparring.” He took in her blank look and fished for another word. “I am training him. Teaching him to protect himself better.”
As realization dawned on Lark, a flush began growing. She gave a quick apology and left the pair, trying to cover her embarrassment. No wonder they had laughed. Before too long, Lark herself was laughing.
Colwyn helped Landros to his feet and stood to watch the gypsy girl ride off. “What a wildcat! I’d hang on to that one, if I were you, boy. Not very many women like her!”
“Thank the goddess for that!” Landros exclaimed.
Colwyn laughed and the two of them went back to their work. “By the way,” Colwyn added after landing yet another sound blow across his squire’s left shoulder. “You are excused for being late.”
Blushing, Landros attacked, landing a few blows before having to retreat rubbing his shoulder yet again.
Dane’s lessons went well enough. It all seemed to boil down to what Lark had already decided. The boy only needed practice. There was really nothing more she could teach him but new songs.
Not expecting Lark to return until the next evening, Lily had already made arrangements for a musician to come in, so Lark did not need to stay and work. She sat with Dane in the corner for a while, listened to the minstrel strumming his lute and singing his songs and flirting with the ladies. He even made a few passing attempts at Lark which she only smiled at, thoroughly amused by his attempts at suavity. It rankled her a bit that the man would not permit Dane to play at all with him. Any time the boy came near enough he would snatch up his drink or his instrument cases out of the way, as if the child was an idiot as well as blind.
“Ah, my lovely,” he cooed in her direction, idly strumming the strings of a lute in a simple melody. “Can I perhaps convince you to dance for me?” he offered. “I have heard you are a marvelous dancer, and a fair singer as well.”
Lark smiled enigmatically. “Do not know your songs to sing, nor, I doubt, do you know mine.”
“Dance then,” he coaxed. “Why waste such loveliness on the corner?”
“Have yet to play dancing music,” she said, sipping at her wine.
Dane, weaving his way in and out of the tables with drinks, grinned at Lark, obviously enjoying the baiting game between these two.
The minstrel began to play a country reel, which Lark summarily ignored. A couple of people got up and began dancing, but not Lark. He tried another, and another, each time attempting to coax Lark from the shadows by the fireplace. She just kept smiling. At last he gave up, begged the dancers for a break. As he went to get himself some refreshments, he paused by Lark’s table and bowed. “Ah, as beautiful as a dark damask rose you are, but cold as a snowdrop, and as dispassionate. It, I fear, would take a far better man than I to move your cold heart. Alas for you, my exotic rose, better men are rarer than snowflakes on desert blooms.”
Lark refrained from giggling in his face, managed to continue smiling enigmatically until he had moved away.
Hearing the music stop, Dane went into the kitchen to find his mother. “Mother, the musician is taking a break! Can I play for a little while? You know Lark says I need practice!”
Lily sighed, served the musician a plate of food. “Would it offend you if my son plays while you eat?” she asked.
The man shrugged. “I see no harm in it.”
Dane came up to Lark, bowed. “May I borrow your fiddle?” As she placed it in his hands, he whispered to her, “He said I could to naught but make him look good. Does that mean he thinks I will play badly?”
“Afraid so,” she mused, hid her anger behind a smile as she nodded to the man in question who raised his glass to toast her.
Dane started by making certain that the instrument was in tune for what he wanted to do, striking a few tentative chords. Lark sat drumming her fingers on the table top, wishing she could think of something to punish the minstrel for his arrogance. Dane turned back to her, bowed formally and said in a voice loud enough to carry to the bar, “Oh most beauteous Queen of Gypsies, would you honor me by dancing to my most humble tune?”
Lark stared at him for a moment, ready to laugh out loud, but having the presence of mind not to. She stood, giving the boy a slight, queenly nod of her head. “Sesha,” she said.
Dane took that to mean yes and, bowing again, perched upon the stool and waited a moment for Lark to place herself in front of the fire. Lark stood in front of him, her back to her audience and whispered, “What will you play?” Behind her she noticed that the audience had quieted in expectation of her performance, something they had not done for the minstrel.
Dane just grinned. “The Faery Queen, what else?”
Lark stood stock still as the first chord was struck, waited until the moment was right, and then began with slow, sinuous movements which she directed at the blind fiddler, dancing for him first of all. She moved to the side, dancing for others to see, but still obviously for the boy. When the music spoke up, began to grow faster in tempo and cadence and passion, she moved out to the patrons of the tavern, dancing on the edge of the cleared space like a dandelion puff caught up by a wind devil. The song was one of passion and longing, and those were emotions she was very intimate with right now. It was an easy and welcome outpouring of her soul. When she finally leapt from the table, returning to the fireside, the crowd was as worked up as she was, quite ready for the return of the Queen to her prince’s side. She danced slowly again, pleading, seductive, begging to be allowed to return, then, as the music let her in, she turned, sank slowly until she sat once more at the feet of her love, the story told, the crowd and her own needs appeased. When the last chord faded away, the crowd roared with appreciation. Coins filled the air, merely pennies, to be sure, but more than enough considering.
Lark stood, pressed a kiss to Dane’s forehead in thanks. “A right gypsy fiddler have made of you,” she crowed proudly.
Dane shrugged. “The foolish Gegenta deserved it,” he winked.
Lark was pleasantly surprised. The boy had apparently been paying attention to more than just her lessons. She tousled his hair and went back to her corner to collect her things. The dance had provided her with a needed outpour, but it had stirred up needs as well. It was time for a serious talk with Landros. She shouldered her belongings and started out the door. As she passed by the Minstrel, sitting by the bar, she overheard the man sitting next to him say, “THAT is why a ‘filthy gypsy girl’ is the regular here. Any other stupid questions?”
Lark smiled, deeply satisfied. She was almost to the door when she heard Dane call to her from across the room. “Lark! You forgot your fiddle!”
“Have earned it!” she called back, and left without another word.
Landros was in the middle of a heated argument with his brother. He had no clue how things had gotten so hot so fast. His brother had arrived as he had been requested, they exchanged a few pleasantries, Portholus asked why Landros wanted to see him and the next thing he knew they were yelling at each other. Still Portholus refused to tell him what had happened between himself and the gypsy girl.
When Nightingale flew in through the window, alerting Landros that Lark was on the way up, the two put the argument on hold. When Landros opened the door for her, she immediately reached for a kiss. He pulled out of her reach, took her by the wrist and lead her into the room, not bothering to ask why she was earlier than he had expected.
The flush of Lark's success at the Cinnamon Tree was drained away immediately when she sensed the tension in her lover. No, it was not tension, she corrected herself, it was anger. She stopped cold when she saw Portholus standing in the living room. They just exchanged stares.
Landros pulled Lark further into the room, standing her about five feet from his brother. He stood between them, speaking to both, and ready for any sudden moves Lark might make towards Portholus. "Now," he said. "I do not have the time or the patience to deal with this. I have a girlfriend who is not telling me everything and is obviously angry about something. I have a brother that has, after some 'coaxing'," he growled, "admitted that less than pleasant words were traded between the two of you and refuses to tell me the nature of the quarrel. Now," he added, pointing to Portholus, "you've told me I will have to ask the lady. I have asked the lady." He turned to Lark. "The lady said that things would be sorted out between her and the 'gentleman' in question. I am hereby giving you that opportunity. The two of you are the most important people in my life and it is time to correct this problem. I will not have the two of you feuding! I am also not going to choose between you. You both mean entirely too much to me. So, I am going out. I expect that the two of you will have worked this out by the time I return."
Landros managed to keep from slamming the door behind him as he stormed out, fervently praying the two of them would use their heads and not try to kill each other instead.
Neither of them moved until well after Landros had left, their eyes locked. Portholus watched her, obviously waiting for her to retaliate in some way. Finally, she took the three short steps to close the distance, kept his eyes locked to hers to keep him distracted. Then, summing up all of her strength, let her fist fly, connecting soundly with his jaw.
Portholus reeled off-balance half by surprise at the blow and half by surprise at the strength behind it. He managed to save some face by simply sitting down on the couch behind him. Still somewhat stunned, he noticed there was blood on his lip. Lark stood over him, fists on her hips, dark eyes blazing, her anger, finally vented, beginning to subside. "It is your turn, pup, to listen to me," she snapped. She noticed him beginning to swell up at the 'pup' remark, but held himself in check, as if he realized he might have deserved it. "If learn nothing else in your handful of centuries, learn this," she growled, leaning closer. "NEVER accuse someone, or openly question motives until have sufficient reason and know who are dealing with. Next time could be death of you, and how think your brother feel then, sesket? Now," she said, standing straighter as she moved away from him, "with that out of way, all is forgotten." She moved towards the fire, seeking some kind of warmth for her soul. All the heat and strength and fire seemed to have bled out of her in that rush of words, replaced by the cold knowledge that she now had to rely upon the help and understanding of a gegenta whose motives she know all too well. "We have to talk. You, too, have stake in this, and seems you know well enough how to keep mouth shut." She felt her voice tightening.
"What am going to tell you cannot leave this room. If is to reach your brother's ears, must be me who tells him. Will not yet, and cannot or would have done so already. Promise me your silence."
It took Portholus a few minutes of studying her face before he nodded, giving her that promise.
Lark sighed, relieved. If he had refused she did not know what she would have done. "First, let me say that I do love your brother, very much but... fear loving him may not be enough. May still break his heart.
"Gypsies have bad reputation among gegenta, those not gypsy. We are not understood and so we are suspect. Because we are not trusted, we do not trust. We most certainly do not 'mingle' our blood with that of outsiders. Gypsies who for whatever reason wish to marry gegenta become genti, or those who are not gypsy but are not quite gegenta. These are only people who are respected by gypsies, but are still not privy to all of gypsy life. Were this all at stake would be no trouble or choice."
When she hesitated to continue, Portholus spoke up. "So what is the additional stake? What haven't you told me?"
Lark looked up at him. "Gypsy clans are matrilineal. Each clan is ruled by one woman, head of bloodline and solidified by inherited magic. This is ranie, or, in your terms, gypsy queen, though we hold no court. Each caravan of each clan also has ranie, though not always as powerful. Problem is my mother was clan ranie, as her mother before her was and is now, as was not ready when mother died. As princess, as your brother is so fond of calling me, have responsibility to clan. Most certainly cannot marry gegenta."
"I see the problem," he mused.
"No, you don't," she said, stepping closer. "Hhave made my choice, that night in sewer when walked shadow-lands, before you and I first met face to face. My father will not respect that choice. Father will fume and fury and forbid this. That his daughter would sacrifice her clan for a mere gegenta he will not have, and so will have to choose again. Is Landros and Outcast or Rushavska and a hollow, bitter heart which will sing no more. To be an outcast is to die to my family. Will be less than nothing, less than gegenta. Could just stay with Landros as we have been, and simply never marry. No one will think ill of me for not marrying, with our way of life marriage partners are hard met. But fear is no longer enough for him, or will be soon, and is certainly no longer enough for me. Want to give him family that he has lost and longs so much for and cannot!"
She gave a strangled cry, pounded her fist on the mantle in frustrated rage. The vibration caused the swords above her head to jump, threatening to fall, but they held in their brackets. She glared up at them, "Oh, wish you WOULD fall on me!! Wish HAD been killed in that warehouse with Ebastian and Lula! Or never wakened from lightning strike in sewer! At least then my soul would be free and dancing with my mother again, and would not be here standing to choose between my heart and my soul! A gypsy was never meant to be caged!!"
There were tears streaming down her face as she buried it in the crook of her arms. She sobbed openly, unable to keep her misery inside any longer.
Portholus laid his hands gently on her shoulders, tried to draw her away from the blades. She looked up at him, her eyes wild. "See now why cannot tell him any of this? Why have kept this, my only secret from him, though it kills me to see him suffer from not knowing what cannot tell him for fear of his suffering? He would not permit me to chose between him and my family. He would leave me before permitting that sacrifice!"
The look on his face told her she was right. Finally, unable to bear the heat of the fire any more, she allowed him to draw her away, to set her upon the sofa. "Please," she said, getting herself under control. "Tell him we have made our peace, but no more. Not yet. Maybe... if can solve this...."
Portholus silenced her, gave her a handkerchief from his pocket to dry her eyes, before he began pacing the small area before the fireplace. "It has amazed me, your perception. Landros said he had not yet told you what happened to our family, yet somehow you know."
She sighed, "Am ranie. Know things. They come in visions. Do not know what happened, only that giants left you orphaned and he feels this loss very deeply."
Portholus seemed rather impressed. He had apparently far underestimated her. "Our parents were adventurous people, and wandered a great deal before they settled down as protectors of a small human town. A small band of giants came down out of the hills and committed a massacre. Both our sisters and our parents were killed that night. Landros took it very hard, and I, well, I was very young at the time. So, yes, you are right that he will not allow you to give up your family for him. It means too much to you, is too much a part of you. He would never permit that loss, no matter what it might cost him. He and I both know all to well the pain of that kind of loss. I can only imagine how much worse it could be to lose that knowing they are still alive." He sat beside her on the sofa, held her small dusky hands in his and stared deep into his eyes. "You have created a puzzle that may take some time to solve and I do not know if we have that kind of time. Part of me wishes you would walk away, convinced that both hearts would heal given enough time, but I know better now. If you walk away from him now, he will be without a heart in this time of war and, feeling he has nothing left to live for, might take some foolish action that might guarantee his death.
"Try and think of anything that might help, some way we could convince your father that this is for the best. It is up to him, is it not, to banish you?"
She nodded. "Ranie leads the clan, but each caravan has its own head. And am not clan ranie. Gruma is."
"Perhaps she would know of some way...."
"Is possible. Will talk to my mother...."
"I thought you said...."
She smiled gently. "She is, but she watches nonetheless. Gruma speaks to her as if she had never passed on, but then, Gruma's ghosts are more real to her sometimes than living folk."
"Find out, if you would, what it takes to be considered a gypsy. If all it means is a homeless wanderer, then my brother and I have qualified for a long time. Somehow we will find a way to keep your family honor intact as well as my brother's heart."
As he stood, looking down at her, she noticed more kindness in his dark golden eyes than she had believed he could feel. "Before leave, I need your word of honor that what you have told me is true, and that your love for my brother is true. If there is one thing I have learned in my scant eighty-odd years, it is that Love is the strongest of emotions and as such can overcome anything and anyone."
She stood, smiled wryly, brushed the tip of her finger along his nose. "Still doubting? Still seeking irrevocable answers to all questions?"
He sighed, took her hand, pressed a polite, gentlemanly kiss there. "Forgive me, I..."
She interrupted him softly. "Gypsies have been known to lie, steal and cheat gegenta. But a gypsy never lies about love, never speaks of such a thing with one not involved. Love, like death, is very private thing."
Satisfied, Portholus whisked on his cloak and headed for the door. He paused in the doorway to issue a warning to her. "Oh, I would advise you to be very careful going out at night from now on. It is getting dangerous out there, even for the likes of me," he grinned and closed the door behind him.
Lark settled back on the sofa in front of the fire and curled up watching it, brooding. Scraps wandered in from goddess only knows where and crawled up into her lap for a long bout of loving, scratching and rubbing. Nightingale, perched on the mantle, decided to take a nap.
Landros sat brooding downstairs in the taproom, every noise or silence from upstairs grating on his nerves. He had deliberately left the poison proofing pin upstairs, wanting the alcohol to calm him. He had been in there for only a half a bottle when he saw a large gypsy man enter the room. The man was easily six feet tall, burly, a deep olive tan complexion and thick, curly black hair and a matching mustache. He wore a simple red vest with gold embroidery and braiding without a shirt, exposing his hairy and muscular arms, and dark, hairy chest. The dark purple sash around his waist was silk, almost clashing with the green pants he wore tucked into his black riding boots. There was no apparent weapon on him, but Landros was certain he was armed to the teeth. Some of the barmaids and female patrons were eyeing him admiringly. He walked directly to the bartender and engaged him in a short conversation.
Landros did not know why the appearance of this man had set off instinctual alarms, but apparently they were correct. Shortly after going to the bar, he turned, looked out across the sea of patrons and thanked the bartender. He stopped in front of Landros's table, staring down at him with a discerning eye and less than approving sneer. His accent was heavier than Lark's, but nearly identical. "Are you the elf known as Landrus?" he asked.
Landros got the distinct feeling the man had mispronounced the name deliberately, as well as the impression that the man had looked him over and found him wanting in some way. He merely nodded assent to the question, not sure yet what level of threat this large man represented. He carefully maintained a casual, unthreatened air.
The man leaned forward over the table, bracing himself with rough, callused hands flat on the surface, on either side of his drink. He stared deep into Landros's eyes with pitch black eyes. "Understand have been consorting with a gypsy dancing girl by name of Lark."
Landros took a long, deliberate drink from his cup, set the now empty glass back on the table, leaned back with apparent carelessness in the chair. "The name is LandrOS, and if you are that concerned with my affairs, I suggest you take them up with me first. As to with whom I choose to spend my time and affections on, that is my concern. But to answer your question, yes, I have. If you have a problem with that, then I suggest you get over it very quickly."
The man took in Landros's posture and tone of voice then ground, "Problem is have is your dalliance with my sister!" he said firmly. "She can be somewhat blind to certain matters and is very much an innocent. Do not know how have coaxed into your bed, or tricked her, or beguiled her, or whatever spell you may have cast, but be certain of this, little man, should she fall to heartache, or get herself hurt trying to impress you, or be no more than an occasional night's pleasure to you... you will have me and my brothers to deal with!" He sat down across from Landros, in a suddenly more genial mood and waved for a drink to be brought to him. "Now, with that unpleasantness out of way, is wish to hear what have to say about this. My sister has told nothing, but have seen way she broods. Is no longer our bright and chipper little Lark. Has been in such a mood."
He drained the half tankard the moment it arrived and waited with almost deceptive friendliness.
Landros let his rage come to a head before reacting. In the back of his mind, he realized this is probably the precise conversation that had set Lark off in the first place. But none of that was reaching the rest of his brain at the moment. With his usual diplomatic grace, he flipped the table into the gypsy's lap. As the man started to stand, Landros pushed him back down into the chair. Patrons around them were moving to other tables quickly. "Now see here, Human," he snarled. "My limited patience is at an end. I have no clue why Lark is in such a MOOD as you put it, and will not know until she deigns to tell me. My intentions are between Lark and myself, and if she thought you needed to be aware of them, you would already know them. If you feel that your sister has been slighted in some way, then challenge me now and we will settle this outside. If you are insinuating that your sister has somehow been soiled by this elf, then I will take that as an insult to her honor, and brother or no, I will reach down your throat and rip out your heart right now!"
With that Landros stood back, about to breathe again after having vented some steam. He set the table back on its legs and waited impatiently for the gypsy man who seemed to be taking his time. Finally, the man nodded solemnly. "Outside then."
Landros felt a sense of dread well up inside him as he followed the large man out of the taproom. If this indeed was Lark's brother, and all the little signs he had seen so far did not deny this possibility, then he could very well be about to destroy all hopes of any future with her.
The man stepped out of the inn and out into the courtyard, stopping at the mouth of the alley between the stable and the main building. Landros was aware of another man standing in the depths of the shadows back there. "Will that be your second?" he asked snidely, "or is this not to be a fair fight?"
"This is my brother, Raven," he said. The person in question stepped closer to the mouth of the alley, turned out to be a fourteen year old boy dressed similarly to the first man, although he wore an open shirt. "If will excuse but a moment," he said generously, then proceeded to have a low conversation with the boy in a rapid, foreign tongue. It was not an unheard tongue to Landros. He had heard it before, especially when Lark was in a royal rage. Speaking of royalty, he thought, if Lark is a princess, did that make this man a prince? He did not quite think so, vaguely remembering Lark saying something about a strictly matrilineal line of inheritance, but he may have simply inferred that. Watching the two men arguing, he began to get the impression that the little one was vehemently against him, not to mention winning the argument.
Finally the larger man sighed, waved his hand in Landros's direction and stepped aside. Landros raised an eyebrow in surprise. Did they think so little of him that they would send a child to duel with him? The boy swaggered and smirked.
"You have been called out for dishonor done to my sister, Mariya Petrovich Rushava, also know as the dancer Lark," he sneered.
Landros laughed ironically, "I do not know this woman you speak of as I have never heard that name before."
The boy swelled with rage, "You deny that you have lain with the gypsy Lark?"
Landros remained cool. "The Lark I know has another name, and Mariya is not it. What that name is remains none of your business. If you choose to continue this conflict, we can, though you will not like the outcome. If so, meet me here tomorrow night at this time, and do not be late, for I will not wait long. Though I would get my facts straight, if I were you. It seems that you are soiling the names of two young ladies, both your Mariya and my Lark, and, as a gentleelf, I cannot permit that to go unpunished."
The large gypsy said something to Raven, practically dismissing him and faced Landros on more equal footing. "Tomorrow then," he said, and offered Landros his hand.
Landros took it uncertainly, to seal the agreement, then left.
Landros's heart felt heavy as he went back inside. This meeting did not bode very well at all. On entering the taproom, one of the barmaids came over to him.
"Yes?" he asked, feeling very tired all of a sudden.
"Your brother has left," she said.
"Lark?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I did not see her come down."
He nodded, thanked her with a coin on her tray and headed upstairs. He found Lark curled up asleep on the sofa in front of a dying fire. He decided to wait to question her, not wishing to disturb her sleep. He picked her up carefully, after removing the raccoon from her lap, and carried her to bed. She only stirred a little as he carefully undressed her. Afraid to wake her, he left her blouse on and set the rest of her clothes aside and crawled into the bed next to her.
Both of them were quiet and moody the next morning, and they lay close in each other's arms long into the morning, though neither of them was really asleep. They spent most of the day not really doing anything, but both reluctant to leave sight of the other. Landros had lunch brought up and the two of them ate in near silence. Lark felt somewhat better, knowing that her burden had been shared, but it had yet to be shared with the one person who mattered to her most.
Landros, on the other hand, had about a dozen questions he wanted to ask about his encounter with the gypsies, but dared not ask them of her for fear of her reaction. He did not know what to expect, but greatly feared what the outcome might mean. He took several long hours to make love to her that afternoon. The process was slow and savored, each fearing it might be the last, but neither for the same reason.
Lark left for work just around sunset, though not really in the mood. She danced very little, played less, content to let Dane do most of the work while she told fortunes in her corner. It did not help that there were ill portents everywhere. Few of the fortunes she told were very good, the best of them was a simple standstill. Occasionally she caught real glimpses of the future in the actual faces of the people she foretold for. For some, she had real advice. One young man in struck her in particular, aroused her pity. "Go to offices at hall of justice; tell them you wish to join irregulars."
"Will that win me Maggie's heart?" he asked.
She looked up at him, into his hopeful young eyes. "Yes, will win you Maggie's heart, and win you glory. Make you hero."
He went away happy, though she had no heart to keep his silver. She tossed it to Dane when she had the chance. What she had not told him was that he was going to die; one way or another Magruma was calling him. By doing as she had told him he would indeed win his true love's heart, on his deathbed. He was going to die a hero. She had almost given him different advice, but she had foreseen that path as well, and that one too, ended in death, though with far less valor and sense.
As she was about to fold up her cloth, someone else sat down. She did not even look up as she told them, "No more fortunes tonight. Eyes are tired."
"Not even for a fellow musician?"
She looked up to see the minstrel from the other night. The look on her face told her he was not going to relent. She sighed, held out her hand. He gave her a gold coin. She pushed it back to him. "Silver, if please."
He stared into her eyes defiantly. "Why not gold? I want a good fortune."
"Will get no true fortune without silver. Coin does not have to be whole, but must be silver."
He did not take his eyes off her, but placed a silver coin in her hand anyway. She sighed again, rearranged the stones. "Ask your question and choose a stone."
"Why did you show me up last night?"
"Is not question for runes," she answered.
He grabbed her hand. "I had done nothing to you, why did you show me up? You deliberately played me for a fool."
She tried to pull her hand away, but he held too tightly. "Played self for fool. Belittle not only popular regular, but owner's son, who, am not afraid to say, is better musician. Try to show gypsy up, showed up self. Now reap your harvest and let go of hand."
"Listen, you gypsy whore...."
A knife thudded into the table, pinning the minstrel's sleeve tightly to the table. "The next one will pin your hand. Now, I believe the lady asked you to let her go," Portholus threatened.
"Who the devil are you?!" he demanded, still holding Lark.
Lark reached under the table with her bare foot and, grabbing a hold of his calf between her toes, pinched him hard. He jumped, but did not let go.
"One of the lady's many protectors. Now release her."
He snorted. "One of her many gig...."
Before he could finish his sentence, a second blade had flashed into existence at his throat and pressed dangerously close to his adam's apple. "Don't say it. Now, let her hand go." Reluctantly the minstrel released her, and Lark swept her stones into her bag. She practically threw the silver coin back at him. "Now," Portholus continued as soon as she was out of the way. "Apologize to the lady."
The man rattled off a halfhearted apology which prompted Portholus to apply more pressure to the blade. "You have a sweeter tongue than that. Use it. Or I'll cut it out from here," he added in a hissed whisper.
"I very humbly beg your gracious forgiveness, most beautiful and talented lady," he rasped.
Portholus let him go, stood in front of Lark until the man had left the tavern completely. He turned around. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Am fine. Hand is sore, but will not keep me from playing. My thanks."
"Are you going home now?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Am going to see your brother."
He held out his arm to her. "May I escort you there?"
"Let me get my things," she said. She disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes to say goodnight.
It was a clear night as they walked along the narrow boulevard. There had been no sign of enemy activity, which worried her. If it could not be seen it was far more dangerous. The night was too quiet. The only sounds were what drifted out of the taverns. By the time they were within a few blocks of the Cygnet, even that had stopped and there were nightwatch everywhere. Portholus must have noticed her nervousness, because he spoke up.
"Curfew," he said."
"Curfew?" she asked. "What is curfew?"
"Eleven o'clock," he said.
She stopped, grabbed his arm. "No. What is curfew? Do not know this word."
"Curfew is when everyone is required to be off the streets, at home and all businesses closed. You were not aware of this?"
"No. Have been away. What has happened and why is curfew?"
"The curfew is for the further protection of the people. Anyone caught out and about will be detained and considered potential enemies unless they can provide special papers that permit them to be out and about. It is supposed to keep the people safer."
"If Mayor had not done this before, why do this now?"
He just stared at her for a long moment. "You don't know?" he asked flatly
"If knew would I ask?"
"The Lord Mayor was arrested three nights ago. Landros and some others found proof that he was working against the city. He was arrested and now sits in the city gaol."
"Is makes no sense," she muttered, sinking back against a building in shock.
"I agree, it does not."
"Who is... who is ruling, who make this 'curfew'?"
"The Magistrate is now acting mayor and in control."
Lark felt her heart sink all the way to her feet.
Portholus put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. "It gets worse. He has instigated something he calls the civilian watch. He had deputized willing citizens to fill in the gaps of the watch so that those men might be freed for the actual fighting. These people have surprising power. If not careful we could find ourselves in the midst of a witch hunt, which is why I warned you to walk more carefully nights."
"Why is mayor still alive? Why is he not executed?" she asked numbly. It was all so hard to believe. The Mayor had not struck her as that kind of man. She found that she could not believe in his guilt, no matter what the weight of evidence.
Portholus made her start walking again, supporting her gently. "The council would not permit it. There were far too many people who still believe in him in spite of the evidence, the city would be broken if they executed him. It was decided that he will sit in the gaol until the king arrives or we are overrun. Unable to decide themselves, they decided to leave it to the king."
Lark numbly allowed him to take her to the inn. She assured him at the door that she would be fine, that he did not need to follow her up unless he too planned to stay the night. It was very close to curfew, after all. She went upstairs without looking back, was not aware of him curling up by the great fireplace in the common room below.
Lark entered the room without knocking, a gypsy habit when dealing with other gypsies. She had unconsciously carried it over to her lover. The room was lit by the fireplace and numerous candles were scattered about. The air was filled with the aroma of a very aromatic wood. Landros came out of the bedroom, looked up in surprise to see her so early. He crossed the room to her, taking her bag and setting it behind the door, and pulled her into his arms.
"What is all this...?" she began.
He hushed her with a kiss. "For tonight we forget everything outside that door; the war, families, and all the troubles that plague us. Tonight it is just the two of us, and nothing else exists," he said, kissing her again.
As she began to melt in the embrace, she became suddenly aware of her skirt falling to the floor. Without breaking the kiss or the embrace, he unfastened her vest and, together with her blouse, it joined the skirt on the floor.
Landros let her fall asleep, lay in the bed beside her, head propped up in his hand as he softly stroked her arm and shoulders. He still could not understand why she had chosen him at all, was still uncertain if she would stay, or be able to after tonight, but… he simply could not allow this dishonor to go unpunished, even by her own kin. It just was not in him. He would prefer not to fight to the death, but he would if they insisted.
The hour approached all too soon and he found it hard to leave her side. He kissed her, gently so not to wake her, and laid a rose that he had secreted away for this purpose on the pillow beside her. He drew on his clothes and his baldric and went quietly into the other room.
Portholus was waiting for him as he had been asked to. He looked up as Landros came into the room. “You forgot your armor, brother,” he said quietly.
“No, I did not,” he answered, going to the hearth and taking down one of the two elven swords. He put it into his scabbard, placing his other blade on the mantle.
“You really insist on doing this?”
“It is a battle of honor. One I do not wish to partake in for various reasons, but I have no choice and which you obviously cannot understand.”
“I understand this much, brother,” he said, leaning forward. “You cannot win this battle. If you lose: you die, you lose everything. If you win, and kill him, you still lose. Do you really think that Lark will marry you after you have killed her brother?”
Landros looked at him, startled. He had not mentioned marrying Lark to his brother, though the thought had been drifting in the back of his mind.
Portholus read his brother’s look like a proverbial book. “Oh, I thought as much. It’s relatively obvious even to the girl. The fact that she is still here should tell you something. But you haven’t answered the question. Do you really think that Lark will marry you after you have killed her brother?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped, irritated that he was so easily read.
“Would you be able to love her if she killed me? Even if in a duel?”
Landros was silent, unable to honestly answer that question. “I have to go,” he said. He crossed to the desk, took out a folded letter and gave it to Portholus. “See that she gets this when she wakes up.” With that he pulled on his cloak and left.
When Landros entered the courtyard, he saw the large gypsy waiting for him by the stable. He had shed his vest and stood in only his trousers, barefoot, leaning back against the stable with his massive arms folded across his chest. He uncrossed them when he saw Landros emerge from the building. “Greetings, Landrosallenthyoia,” he intoned. “If be so kind, is not place for what must be done tonight,” he gestured to the stableyard. “Come with me to my camp. Is open and air is clean and is private enough. Promise no harm will come to you on way.”
Landros nearly balked when the man said his full name, nearly flawlessly, but with a heavy accent. Not even Lark knew that. This set him on edge, but there was something about the man, a sense of peace that calmed him. Determined to see this through no matter what happened, he agreed to follow the man.
To Landros’s surprise, the man walked into the alley to a shed door in the very back. He looked back, grinned at Landros. “Is not going to bite, shed tools,” he said and opened the door.
Landros caught the scent of wildflowers and a sea of grass in the dark portal. The gypsy stepped inside readily enough, held the door open. Landros hesitated, not being able to see anything inside and convinced the area could not be big enough for two men.
“Come on, elf,” he laughed. “If door closes behind me, when you open will be but horse shed. Gave you my word. Even to a Gegenta, if given, must be honored.”
Landros, goaded, step through the door. To his surprise, he found himself in the very field he had smelled. Not far off, away from the stand of trees where they stood, was a gypsy camp. There were only four wagons and one huge bonfire under the large, newly waning moon. The roofs of the wagons were red, proving to Landros that these were indeed Lark’s people. The man brought him down to the camp. The few children here scattered out of the way, back to their mother’s skirts, watching with wide eyes. Landros felt self-conscious under the scrutiny, but strangely at peace. It was not something he could explain.
They stopped in front of the fire, at a strange figure huddled in front of it, throwing strong herbs into the flames. The figure turned, unfolded itself into a tall, thin, ancient human woman in voluminous robes of dark purples and blues and blacks and gold. She wore a great deal of jewelry, and a veritable fortune in gold coins was strung around her neck and on the black and copper scarf that covered her long grey-white hair. “Welcome, Pathfinder,” she said, her voice gravely with age, but still strong and commanding. “Come. Let Old Ruby see if you are indeed the one my daughter has spoken of.”
Landros wondered how in the world this old crone could possibly be Lark’s mother before he remembered her saying something about her mother having passed on. This, then, must be Lark’s Gruma, the clan Ranie. She was nearly a head taller than he, and frightfully thin. Her eyes were white and sightless, but nonetheless seized his own and would not let him look away. She set a bony hand on his shoulder that held more strength than it seemed that it should have. Her other hand, heavily jeweled, touched his face, as if trying to see it through her fingers as he had known some blind to do. Her fingers tweaked the tips of his ears, but he held his peace, sensing that it would be dangerous and unwise to anger this woman unnecessarily.
“Elven,” she mused curiously. “About her height. Yes, with plenty of fire. A sword this one. Already begun, she has, to temper him. Ah, Danine, are so sure this is the one for our Illyana? The one she will die for?” she seemed to ask of the air. “The one.… Ah, but wasting time. The moon is almost high enough to begin. Then, boy, and only then, will I tell you what is known. When you are permitted such secrets. But by then you will have most of your own answers to present questions,” she cackled. “Yes, yes, my daughter. And a whole slew of new ones.”
Without being given a chance to ask her any questions, the large gypsy who had brought him here led him over to a marked off area just off from the fire. A pretty little girl about eight or nine years old asked Landros for his shirt and his weapons. Seeing that the brother was already stripped to the waist and obviously weaponless, he reluctantly obliged. A wrestling match, he thought, and badly unbalanced. The man before him could probably wrestle a horse and win. But at least that meant there would be no bloodshed, for that he was relieved.
The old woman came to stand before them, a black bladed dagger, possibly obsidian, in her hand. The large gypsy held out his left hand, flat, palm upwards to Landros. “Give me your hand, Pathfinder.”
There being no menace in the large man’s voice, Landros did as he was asked. The man held the hand out and open upon his own, stared deep into Landros’s amber eyes with dark eyes so much like Lark’s but nowhere near as beautiful. “Am trusting you, gegenta,” he said, “to do my sister no harm.” This came as a complete surprise to Landros, who now had no idea what was about to happen. “Am placing her upon palm of our hands. When our mother died, she made me swear I would protect her. Am no longer her protector. Am giving you great honor based on what little fire was seen last eve displayed, upon your determined defense of her honor, and upon your willingness to trust her family without reason for her sake alone. Am risking my own honor on that of my sister. If you fail us both, if you prove less than worthy of this singular honor, SHE will be genti, the outcast. And I, worse, for I brought you into family and because I will hunt you down and kill you and steal your soul for dark ones. Be warned that I will not do that lightly, for after tonight, killing you is killing my own brother.”
Landros spoke up, finally beginning to realize what was going on here. “I do not know this genti you speak of, but if she is outcast for my crimes, you will see fire as you have never seen before. As to hunting me down, if I have forsaken Illyana, you will not get the chance at my soul, for it will already be gone. I would give my life for your sister, and if you have any doubt as to that or my honor, we can settle that here and now.”
The old woman nodded, pleased, and laid the blade upon his palm. “We do this,” she intoned, “because a gypsy who settles with gegenta, married or otherwise, is genti. To keep her, to be with her and keep her happy, you cannot be gegenta. You must become Maharen, the gegenta who is called brother.”
The gypsy, still holding his hand open, spoke. “I am Ivan Petrovich Rushavska. For the sake of my sister, Illyana Petrovna, I will call you brother.”
He felt the blade slice deeply into his hand then, across his palm. The ranie cut Ivan’s palm as well. Ivan seized Landros’s bloody hand in his, thumbs locked, and the woman handed the knife to the little girl and bound their hands in a red silk sash shot with gold.
There was a burning between their palms, as the blood began to slowly drip down their elbows. Landros could smell the herbs in the cloth, could feel them working their odd little magic already. He felt lightheaded, planted his feet so that he could hold his balance better in spite of his dizziness. Music began, a melancholy, but spirited fiddle that began slowly. He became aware of several young women dancing in a circle around them with long, filmy scarves trailing from their wrists and hips, creating a hypnotic effect in his peripheral vision. He found he could not take his eyes from Ivan’s. Suddenly the moon came out from behind a passing cloud and stabbed the pair of them like a falling sword.
Landros found himself in a barren meadow. The now wild and abandoned music reverberated throughout, reeling across the field though the musicians and the dancing girls could not be seen. Only one was left, a lone woman just a few yards away in filmy, pale-colored garments dancing in complete abandon with the music. Her long black hair was a sharp contrast to the paleness of her clothes and her dusky belly flashed in and out among the numerous scarves. It was a sight suddenly more beautiful to him that a thousand elven cotillions, and the music more passionate than anything he had every heard. There was something very Lark-like about her, and he guessed that this was perhaps a vision of her as she would be in a decade or so, perhaps a little more. She was stunning, both in movement and in feature, and her dark blue eyes never seemed to leave his no matter how she twisted and turned. Her body was incredible, under her complete, sensuous control. Surprisingly, his response was not a sexual one, but one of the heart, as if the unseen violinist had stolen his heart to use for strings and taken his soul for the bow.
As she neared him, she began to fade, and he saw Lark beyond her. All thoughts of the dancing woman vanished as he tried to walk towards Lark. She was still young, not even twenty by human years. He stopped when he saw the young gypsy man with her. He was dark and handsome and full of passion and delight for her. Lark began to lead him off towards a small copse of woods. In his impatience, he snatched her up and threw her over his shoulder. Hanging upside down and protesting playfully, she suddenly caught sight of Landros. She waved teasingly, laughed as they began to disappear into the woods.
He tried to go after her, but found he was rooted to the spot. He felt hot tears running down his face and heard the shriek and pop of a string breaking on the violin. His heart continued to beat, though erratically in his chest, missing a beat in every four, as if part of his heart had caved in, or vanished altogether.
There was a scream from nearby. He had heard that voice too often not to know its source, though he had never heard it raised so, as if it had been torn from her by force. Not caring that he had just seen her betray him with one of her own kind, he turned, tried to at least see her, but found his wrists held in giant fingers. He fought like a demon to no avail as the giant began trying to put his hands together behind his back. The pain meant nothing, though it was excruciating. What hurt worse was a second giant holding Lark in his fist, plucking at her like a boy does a bug he has caught in cruel fascination. He heard his name ripped from her throat one last time before she fell silent.
There was a great tearing sound and he fell to the ground, suddenly free of the giant’s grasp, as surprised as the giant to see that his chest had split in two and his heart was lying on the ground in front of him, in two pieces.
As he staggered to his feet, to run to where the disenchanted giant had flung the doll-like figure, he found himself falling to his knees beside her body in his rooms at the Cygnet. She was alive, merely sleeping in front of the fire. She opened her eyes as he took her in his arms, deathly afraid for her. She looked up at him in puzzlement, smiled weakly. “Have you come to take me home with you, my love? Have you come to take me to my mother and yours? Always knew that in my last breath you would come for me.”
He tried to speak, to voice his confusion, but nothing came out, no voice, no breath. She moved her hand in explanation and he saw a silver hilted dagger fall away to reveal a very self inflicted wound just under her heart. “I told you to bring this back to me. You should have done what was asked. Now, I disappoint no one, and my honor and my heart are still mine, to take or give. I will be with you soon. Carry me…” she rasped, “carry me one last time to bed. …In your arms,” she added with a smile. “Do not think could bear your shoulder this night.”
He rose, lifted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. She reached up and touched the tears on his face. “For me?” she whispered. “Oh no, not for me. I go not first into unknown night. You have come back to guide me… to carry me…. Oh…”
As he turned to place her upon the bed, she dissolved into nothingness and drifted away. He turned to see the dagger gleaming evilly on the hearth, and it seemed to tarnish even as he watched, change to the black dagger that had sliced open his hand an eternity ago. He fell as he reached for it, skittering it into the fire. He did not hesitate to go after it, did not feel the heat or the pain as he seized the hot blade and prepared to use it as she had. As he contemplated the blade for but a few seconds, accusing it with all the hatred he possessed and himself for apparently having left her alone for too long, a slim dark hand covered his. He looked up, into the face of the woman he had seen dancing in the meadow, so brilliant and vibrant she could have just danced her way from the moon on a silver beam. He found himself sitting on the grass in the meadow again, and all was silent but for the songs of nightingales far away.
“No, Landrosallenthoyia,” she said, her voice like silver, her pronunciation of his name perfect in spite of her rich, gypsy accent. “This is not time for that.” The dagger squirmed in his hand. He looked down, saw that he was holding a small bird and opened his hand, watched it fly away into the night. The woman knelt beside him. “Do not fear. None of what has been seen is prophesy. Your greatest fears you have now faced. You have been tested and found worthy. Had you not, you would not awaken from this rite. You must forgive Ivan his methods and concern. He means well and has taken great risk tonight, bringing you here to me. Long ago I foresaw great tragedy in my daughter’s life. Saw her die for love denied. I swore Ivan on my deathbed to keep that from happening at all costs. My daughter had better be very old woman when next she comes here, young man, or your soul will be brought to task. You are her protector now. Her family is your family and she is no longer Ivan’s responsibility. She is yours, and you are his. For you are her life, and Ivan was sworn to protect that.”
She took his hand and opened his palm, showed him a long purple scar there. “This marks you as Maharen, gypsy brother. If you are ever in need, show any gypsy this and you will afforded what kindness they can, or at least, not treated as gegenta. Whole world is your home now, Pathfinder, and you shall find brethren where ever you walk. When you see my daughter, do not fear for her. She believes herself in a bind, having to choose between you and her father. Do not let this rush you. Take things as you planned, and all will sort out. And, should her father make any objections, show him this, and tell him that Danine has called in her debt.”
Slowly she faded, like the ghost she had to have been, and Landros found his hand clasped not in the grasp of the ghost of Lark’s mother, but the grip of the man he must now call brother. Ivan smiled weakly at him, just seconds before collapsing, dragging Landros with him to the ground. Neither man was able to get up on his own, and had to be helped up by the other gypsies. Their hands were unbound and their wounds tended by the women.
Still weak, but getting stronger with the help of a tea they were given, Landros was carried into one of the caravans and seated comfortably on pillows in front of a low table. The old woman was there, staring blindly at a spread of cards on the table in front of her, and a small crystal ball hung suspended in the air, seven inches from the table. She smiled kindly.
“I do not know what just happened here, nor do I completely understand what I have seen, but I feel that much has been sacrificed here this eve. I promise you that sacrifice will not be in vain.”
“Noble words, squire,” she said. “Living up to them will not be easy.”
“How….!” he began.
She shrugged. “Have many friends in shadowlands. They tell me much. My daughter watches over ‘Yani still, and what ‘Yani knows, Ruby knows, and more. Relax, I keep my own council. By now some of your strength has returned. Go home. ‘Yani is waiting for you. Rest, sleep. You will need both soon.”
Unsteadily, Landros stood, paused at the door. “Know that you have gained two allies this night,” he said. “My brother, Portholus, will be as loyal as I. Should I be unreachable, know that he can be approached for aid as easily as I.”
As he staggered out of the caravan, the little girl handed him his shirt, which he pulled on. She passed him his baldric and sword with a smile filled with child-like wonder, and darted off into the night. He slung the belt over his shoulder and sauntered over to where Raven stood waiting for him by the trees, holding open the door with an unhappy look.
Lark rolled over in her sleep, vainly trying to snuggle back up against Landros for warmth. She felt something odd touch her face and woke suddenly, brushing it away with a start. She looked over the edge of the bed, saw a rose lying on the floor where she had slapped it and sat up. Landros was not in the room. Lark got up, trying to shake an uncomfortable feeling that had suddenly overcome her. She pulled on a blouse and a skirt hastily, picked up the rose and peeked into the living room. She saw Portholus sitting there staring into the fire.
He looked up as she entered the room. “Where is Landros?” she asked.
He did not answer, but handed her the letter. She opened it:
My sweetest Illyana,
This evening went far better than I could have hoped and it is my dearest wish that the feelings and emotions that flowed throughout were as strong in you as they were in me. I have gone to meet with a man who calls himself your brother and who has made accusations both to your honor and mine. This is not something that I can tolerate and will correct. Last evening we met and he claimed that his sister’s name is Maria and that we are together. I know no Maria and hope to straighten that out this evening. I find no honor in this confrontation, but I can see no honorable path out of this.
I have expected this for some time, however, as I have wondered how the gypsies would react to an outsider, a gegenta as you call it, seeing one of their own. That you are human and I elven is also a concern. I do not know how this man will react and there may be violence. If such occurs, I will have to defend myself and someone will most surely die. If it is he that dies, I will no doubt be branded by the gypsies as an enemy. This will no doubt place any future with you in jeopardy.
We spend so little time in each others arms that we seem to fail to talk. There are still things I need to know and secrets that you do not seem to wish to tell. I have shared my greatest secret with you, and it is my hope that someday you will open up to me as completely. It must be great since I had to practically threaten my brother’s life over the conversation the two of you had to find out no more than that you had shared hard words. It is my hope that the two of you will someday make your peace with each other, as you are both the most important people in my life and it pains me greatly to have you hate each other.
No matter what happens tonight, I will love you forever and will do whatever possible to keep us together. If you chose to leave or if I die, you will be in my heart always. Never doubt that, and never forget me.
Landrosallenthyoia
“He really loves you, you know,” Portholus said. Lark just stared at him, the letter forgotten in her hand. “Right now he is defending your honor, and his, to the death if necessary. He would not even wear his armor. I gave him my word I would not interfere.” He rose, “They are below, in the courtyard alley, or at least that is where they were to meet. If you truly love him, I hope you will do what is right. Farewell, princess,” he said, opening the door. He hesitated. “Oh, the money was an impressive gesture, by the way. I did not expect anything from you. I most certainly did not expect so much. You may be worthy of him after all, provided he survives the night.” With that he closed the door and left.
Lark’s mind raged. It had to be her brother. There was no other explanation. She did not really expect to find them below in the courtyard, but she would know where to look from there. She dropped the letter and the rose and snatched up her scimitar. Leaving the scabbard behind, she fled from the room, pushing Portholus out of the way as she charged down the hall and the stairs, taking them three at a time. “I’ll KILL him!” she snarled.
Landros drifted in the door. He looked and felt as if he had just been to the ninth plane of hell and back again, fighting all the way. He looked up to see Lark barreling down the stairs, hair unbound and flowing wildly behind her, her bare feet thudding on the wooden steps, her blouse loosely tied and falling enchantingly off one shoulder. Portholus was hot on her heels. She managed to stop before she hit him. He reached out, dropping his baldric and sword, and took her by the waist. He pulled her close to him, touched her face gently with his bandaged hand. He was overcome by the similarities between her face and the ghost. “You look so much like her,” he whispered, kissed her.
There was passion in the kiss, but no strength. He fell back into a nearby chair, nearly pulling Lark down with him. He winced as Lark grabbed his wounded hand, laughed at the look of horrified concern on her face. “Do not worry, princess. Everything is all right now.”
A large crash was heard from the kitchen. Landros leaped from the chair, reaching for his sword. “Giants!” he cried, pushing Lark behind him. “They will not take you from me again!”
Between Portholus and Lark, they managed to disarm him and get him upstairs to the room. Landros remained fairly delusional as the pair of them prepared him for bed. Lark looked at his bandaged hand, smelled the linen and wrinkled her nose. She knew those herbs, looked accusingly at Landros. “I cut myself sharpening my blades earlier,” he said. “I forgot to have it healed.
“I must rest now,” he breathed wearily. “Portholus, my brother, we must speak in the morning.” Portholus nodded, and, after receiving a nod from Lark, left the two of them alone. “Promise me that you will return tomorrow eve,” he said, stroking her hair with his bandaged hand. “I would like to talk with you a while. Please?”
“Am not leaving,” she huffed, tucking him in.
He did not take long to drift into a deep sleep. Lark climbed onto the bed beside him, still dressed, and sat braced against the pillows. Landros half rolled in his sleep, rested his head against her shoulder. She sat up for hours, watching him sleep like a child, peacefully for the first time since she had known him.
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Mandi L. Creguer
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