A Warrior's Heart Read online

  This story copyright 1999 by Donna O'Neal. Published by Hard Shell Word Factory.

  8946 Loberg Rd.

  Amherst Junction, WI 54407

  http://www.hardshell.com

  Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.

  eBook ISBN: 0-7599-1654-3

  Cover art copyright 1999 Dirk A. Wolf

  All electronic rights reserved.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  * * *

  PROLOGUE

  Slia would scold.

  Cheyna sighed and drank deep of the wind, letting the sting of it whip the hood from her head. Her foster mother would not be pleased to learn she again sought the stark, windswept plateau. Slia worried overmuch about her need for solitude, but Cheyna could not put into words the deep ache inside which prodded her to seek the vast, isolated high desert.

  She shivered as she stared out at the night. Once the huge blue disk dropped below the horizon, the heat of the desert world dissipated quickly. Cheyna hugged the iridescent blue and purple burnuese tighter around her, but the moonsilk provided little protection from the cold fingers plucking at the cloak.

  Foolish vanity, she thought, smoothing a tiny wrinkle from the material. Who would see her? The weekets? Or the beautiful but lethal orchaidia, whose vine wrapped the unwary in an embrace of death?

  Behind her, Cheyna heard the tiniest of sounds, sand on sand, and a great head slid over her shoulder to rest against her cheek. A deep purr vibrated on her skin as Slia's thoughts stroked her mind.

  "I thought this is where I might find you."

  "Do not scold, Mother." Cheyna pressed back in greeting, rubbing her face against the mottled fur, ignoring the tusks capable of rending a man as easily as moonsilk parted beneath fingers. They made a startling contrast, the huge cat and the small, fragile woman.

  "It is unsafe at night, Cheyna. You are not a child in need of reminding."

  "No, I am not a child. I know the dangers," she paused, letting the tranquility of the night sink into her soul, "but there is a peace here, Mother. I am careful of the orchaidia and listen for the dalanth. I have no wish to become a meal. But out here," she waved her hand, "I can see my innermost thoughts. I am drawn here when I feel my Talent inadequate."

  Slia sat on her haunches, her tail twining about Cheyna's waist. In the moonlight, her mottled fur took on the hue of aged bronze.

  "You have the Talent, Cheyna. That is the reason I came to find you."

  Perplexed, Cheyna turned. "I do not understand, Mother. You have always known of my Talent."

  "More than have you. The time has come for you to return home." Sadness resonated in the rumbling voice. The tail curled around Cheyna quivered once.

  "Why? Is someone ill?" Something inside her tautened as Cheyna realized her foster mother had spoken aloud.

  "Father. Is Father injured?" Cheyna curled her fingers in the sand and braced herself. Sbraithe, her foster father, worked with the toxins of Rpiere's flora and fauna. Accidents happened in his profession.

  "No."

  More puzzled than ever, Cheyna let the cool sand seep from between her fingers. "Then why the urgency to return home?"

  "It is time for you to take your place."

  A nameless dread clogged her throat until it almost choked her. "I have my place as Clan NaturPath," she managed. Bits of sand embedded themselves in her palm as she convulsively squeezed her hand shut.

  "Your place is on your birth world. On Scimtar." The announcement came out in a low growl. Slia rose and paced, her tail flicking this way and that, a clear indication of her agitation.

  "Why?" Cheyna cried. "Is the Clan casting me out?"

  Slia whirled, her paw up and claws extended.

  Stunned by the unexpected attack, Cheyna waited, unable to move, for the blow to descend.

  Slowly, Slia sheathed her claws and lowered her paw. She looked lost as she sank back down on her haunches.

  Cheyna released a shuddery breath, her heart beating out of control in her chest. Never, not since her first memory, could she recall her mother losing control. Among a race recognized for self-control, Slia's composure was renown. Something was very, very wrong.

  "I conferred with the Clan Ktana before seeking you, Cheyna. Be at peace. You are a Daughter of the Raipier."

  Cheyna placed a hand on Slia's shoulder. "I apologize for my thoughts."

  "Think no more of it," Slia returned in the traditional acceptance of remorse. The tip of her tail twined around Cheyna's wrist, stroking her skin. For a moment, Slia sat lost in an inner region denied to Cheyna.

  "You are aware of the Great Talisman's importance?"

  Cheyna nodded, her mind racing to recall her lessons on the Crystal Sheathe and its mate, the Crystal Krees. The pair formed the ancient symbol of Scimtar's Great Lord's House and represented the balance between the light and dark ends of Prisma. Legend spoke of catastrophic consequences should that balance be permanently disrupted. The lethal power of the Krees, fashioned in the short, serpentine shape of a warrior's blade, was restrained and contained by the Sheathe. Never having seen them herself, Cheyna had to rely on the legends. The Krees disappeared centuries ago, the Sheathe during the Great Battle of Destruction. The same battle that had left her an orphan.

  "In the past twenty-month, the Asegai Council has detected a precarious slide toward the dark end of the Prisma. Their belief that matters were becoming dire was confirmed when the Agora NaturPaths stopped all trade and decreed they would only negotiate the resumption of the trade route with an unapprenticed NaturPath. Since, by tradition, all Scimtarian women who show the Talent are apprenticed, the route remains closed." Slia's ears went flat against her skull. "By their standards you are unapprenticed.I have bond-promised you to Lord Lcrier, of the House of Twin Traces. Once bonded, you will travel to the Plains of Skaen, ostensibly to reopen the trade route between the Agora Guilds and the merchants of Class."

  "Why do I need a mate?" For a moment, panic at the thought of joining with an unknown man overrode all other concerns.

  "Because without a bondmate you will not survive the journey to the Plains providence."

  "What do you mean?" Unwrapping Slia's tail from her wrist, Cheyna held it between both palms and stroked the wiry tip. Wind ruffled the fur of Slia's coat, bringing a haunting hint of the gartana flower to Cheyna. In the distance, the huge wings of a falcin beat the air as the giant bird hunted for weekets.

  "Any trade journey is hard and dangerous, but none more so than the one you must make. Men have searched for the Crystal Sheathe since its disappearance. They will not hesitate to kill you once they learn you seek knowledge of it from the NaturPaths."

  "What do I do with the Crystal Sheathe once I recover it?" she asked, struggling to understand what her foster mother required of her. "Return with it to Rpiere?"

  "Seek out the NaturPaths. Until then, your questions must remain unanswered." Slia brushed a tender paw over Cheyna's head, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wish I could spare you the travail ahead, my cub-daughter, but I cannot. You alone must make the journey. It is your sacred duty."

  Cheyna swallowed hard. Duty. To leave the only home she knew and put her fate into the hands of a stranger. She would, though, for failing her mother and Clan was unthinkable. "I understand."

  She got to her feet and put several paces between them, halting at the edge of the plateau. Standing there, where one more step would plunge her over the side, the wind whipping her burnuese and stinging her cheeks,
she stared out at the desolate land, cast in a greenish glow by the moon. Cheyna pulled the deep cowl of her burnuese over her head.

  "When must I take my leave?"

  "On the morrow."

  Chapter 1

  Hidden in the shadows of the room, Drakthe Fchion watched as the woman stirred on the sleeprug. Her hair captured the heart of the fire in its depths, hot enough to burn from even this distance.

  Good. She was waking. Drakthe brushed away his growing concern. The effect of a stun baton usually wore off after several minutes, an hour at most, and she'd been unconscious for much longer.

  The woman pushed upright. He saw the exact moment she realized she was bound. Her spine went rigid and she stared at her wrists. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Drakthe felt a spurt of distaste. Terrorizing helpless women didn't sit well with him. Maybe he should have tried harder to find another way, he thought, only to let out a silent breath. The bald truth was that not only did he lacked both the time and patience needed to woo her to his side, but he doubted he'd know how to go about wooing a House-daughter in the first place. His skills ran more toward weapons than women.

  Besides, what was done, was done.

  Drakthe stepped out of the shadows. Although he didn't think he'd made a sound, her head whipped around in his direction.

  "So, this is how they treat bond-promised wives in the city."

  Her voice, rich, almost lyrical, reached out and wrapped around him. Caught up in the beauty of her voice, it took a moment for the pithy observation to register. A fleeting smile tugged at his mouth. No dtarni flower, this.

  He moved fully into the light of the fire and crossed to his saddle pack. Drakthe kept a wary eye on her as he leaned down, opened it and began rooting inside. "Seeing we are not bond-promised, I doubt it matters how they treat bond-promised wives in the city."

  When she didn't respond to the taunt, Drakthe straightened. A sleeprug dangling from one fist, he surveyed his unwilling guest.

  Back elegantly straight, bound wrists resting lightly on the richly adorned overdress, the woman's skin was so pale as to be almost translucent. Against her cheeks, her lowered lashes fanned out like scattered droplets of blood. She looked...fragile.

  Against his will, Drakthe again felt a stirring of concern.

  "Are you unwell?"

  She didn't answer. Drakthe crossed to her in the swift, soundless glide he'd perfected. He placed one scarred hand on the delicate bones of her shoulder. Beneath his palm, they felt no more substantial than a flitterbird's.

  Her eyes snapped opened, twin blue suns that spat loathing and defiance.

  "Am I unwell? Why should I, a properly bond-promised House-daughter rendered unconscious by a stun baton, kidnaped, and trussed like a caratek bound for market be unwell?" She lifted her hands, displaying wrists connected by a thin strip of hide. She winced and her hands half-lifted toward her temple before she let them drop back into her lap.

  Drakthe let the sarcasm go by without remark. "I have some 'dynes. They'll reduce the discomfort caused by the baton." He eased his hand under her elaborate lacing of braids, finding and massaging the tense muscles in her neck. He realized what he was doing when she moved fretfully beneath his touch.

  "No, thank you. I would prefer to continue my journey."

  Despite the polite words, her gaze scorched him. His mouth thinned and he hunkered down in front of her, cupping her chin in one palm.

  "You will swallow the 'dynes." He ignored the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers. "Understand?"

  The woman's gaze met and held his. She inclined her head in regal acceptance. Drakthe had to admire her courage.

  "Good." Holding the two tiny pills to her mouth, he waited to be sure she swallowed. He wouldn't put it past her to spit them out the moment he turned his back. He remembered Krthe, his employer, describing her as biddable. Right. A female taiger in heat was more biddable than this woman.

  Cheyna stared at the man crouched before her. He returned her stare, his golden gaze shuttered. His hand remained at her lips, just brushing them, as he waited with infinite patience for her compliance. A shiver feathered the ends of her nerves. The contact didn't seem to affect him, though. For some reason that bothered Cheyna more than she cared to admit.

  She reined in her straying thoughts. Should she trust him? Cheyna eyed him, trying to ignore her throbbing head. If he had intended to kill her, the raid on the travel-train had provided the perfect opportunity, she reasoned. She swallowed. To her surprise, the fizzy painkiller had a pleasant, fruity taste. Always curious about new medicines, she started to ask him what was in it, then remembered he was her captor. Renewed indignation swelled.

  "Are you going to untie me or must I stay trussed like an animal?" The caustic query slipped past Cheyna's guard as he turned away. The deterioration of her manners would appall Slia, but something in his hard-bitten, closed face made her forget the teachings of a lifetime. Made her want to push her captor, crack his icy composure.

  Oh, Saints, had she sunk so low as to want to rob another of their self-control? Had she so easily forgotten the Raipierian way? Her hands, hidden in the folds of her burnuese, clenched as she snagged hold of her serenity with an almost physical effort, wrapping it around her like an old friend.

  He regarded her with an impassive stare. Cheyna held her breath and waited for his answer.

  "If I release you, will you give me your word not to attempt escape?"

  Cheyna studied her captor with care as she weighed her decision. Hair black as volcanic ice was caught back in a plain, utilitarian tie. The hewn planes of his face reflected hard intelligence and an even harsher experience. Deep lines carved beside his eyes gave the appearance of relentless determination. And she shouldn't forget that he possessed weapons while she had none. Not that she would use one if she had it, Cheyna hastily assured herself. She was a NaturPath after all, but it was a factor that needed considering. She firmed her chin.

  "I, Cheyna, Daughter of the House of Flowing Water, give my word I will not attempt escape." She fought not to drop her gaze as she gave the traditional pledge. Even under these circumstances, the deception made her uncomfortable. Not that she was lying. Exactly. Since Slia had arranged for distant relatives of her birth mother to adopt her, technically she was of the House of Flowing Water.

  To her shock, the pledge did not satisfy her captor.

  "I want more than the promise of a House-daughter." The cynical twist to his lips told Cheyna he was fully aware of the enormity of the insult.

  Stung, she drew herself upright. "No promise is more binding. Do you doubt the honor of my House?"

  "Houses have been betrayed for less. I want you to pledge on your personal honor." He waited for her reply, as solid and immovable as Vradin, the huge moon which shadowed Rpiere, even during the day.

  She had never broken a pledge in her life! So furious she stuttered, Cheyna castigated, "What right have you, a--a common criminal, to cast aspirations on my word?" She bit back the blistering tirade that trembled on the tip of her tongue, and took several calming breaths. When she was sure she was once more in control, she informed him, "I would never dishonor my House, but if you require additional assurance . . ." her lip curled with disdain, "then I shall give it to you. On all that I hold honorable, I pledge the Consonance of my soul not to attempt escape." Honesty constrained her to add, "This night."

  Just when she thought he was going to refuse to release her, he nodded and untied her wrists. Then, to Cheyna's surprise, he leaned down and picked up the discarded sleeprug and covered her with the tleera fur. Without saying a word, he stoked the fire before bedding down in front of the only door.

  Cheyna noted his caution, but held her tongue. She would not allow the man to goad her into losing her temper again. A tiny frown pulled at her brow. How was it this man, a stranger, so easily made her forget her serenity? Until she met her captor, she had not thought she possessed a temper. She needed to meditate on the
uncomfortable discovery.

  Once she was free.

  Rubbing her wrists, more out of reflex than to restore circulation, she took stock of her surroundings. They were in a resthouse. The dwelling was rougher than those she had studied on holopic. Still, for all of its crudeness it was well stocked, she grudgingly admitted. Stacked in one corner was a small pile of tangi wood, several bare sleeping pallets and, on rough shelves, a supply of nonperishable food.

  Had she really assumed her kidnaper was her bond-promised? Cheyna's face burned at the recollection and, for the first time, she wondered if the mission was beyond her capabilities. Common sense alone should have told her Lord Lcrier was not behind her kidnaping. Why should he go to the bother when she was on the way to fulfil their betrothal contract?

  Which left the question of what her captor could want with her? Not ransom, that was for sure. The House of Flowing Water, while respected, possessed little wealth with which to ransom a daughter. So, if not ransom, what?

  Many men have searched for the Crystal Sheathe.

  Cheyna's breath caught as her foster mother's words popped into her mind. Had he discovered her mission? Could that be why he singled her out, took her from the travel-train?

  She shook her head slowly. No, that could not be right. Slia had taken every precaution to see that word of her true mission did not seep out. She trusted her foster mother's competence. Another explanation had to exist.

  A dull throb began pounding at her temples and Cheyna gave up trying to find a satisfactory answer. In any case, this would never have happened if not for Scimtar's lack of technology and her need to arrive in Class without suspicion. On Rpiere she could have traversed the long distance by air instead of by taiger-drawn train.

  Cheyna gave her captor high marks for his plan. The bump and grind of wheels over a trail rutted by untold cloven hooves had provided effective cover for any sound he might have made slipping into her cubicle. Instinct alone had warned her she was no longer alone. She'd barely had time to flow into the gentle motions of Sai and Kai before the world about her splintered into all the colors of the Prisma. After that, all she recalled was feeling a sudden dissociation of mind and body that was somehow exquisitely painful.