Fatal Attraction
by Margaret R. Dean
Desert Elves, Year 10,502
Two elves circled each other slowly, warily. Swords waited in their hands; every so often steel would flash with a ringing clatter and then subside. Apart from that the opponents made no sound save for their heavy breathing and the soft scuff of slippered feet on the stone floor.
A casual glance might have confused the two at first—both male, both ebon-haired and dark-skinned. But one pair of slanted eyes gleamed a wicked azure while the other pair were of deepest black.
The swords rang out again in a more prolonged bout. Suddenly the blue-eyed warrior let out a grunt of surprise and flung up an arm. His opponent's blade rang off the thick golden bracer on his wrist. In the next instant both elves jumped back.
"Hai, Rashek!" exclaimed Lord Dasaad after a moment's pause. "Who else have you been sparring with lately? I hardly expected such a move from you."
His tone was subtly taunting, but the other elf did not seem to notice as he lowered the blunted practice blade. "I hardly expected it myself, my lord. Did I hurt you?"
"No more than I can easily repair." Sheathing his own blade, Dasaad laid light fingers on his bruised wrist and let healing magic flow. As his eyes followed the motion, his smile twisted wryly. "This, however—" He held up his arm. The heavy wristlet was dented, and one of the large cabochon-cut stones set in it was cracked down the middle. "—is beyond my skill. Perhaps yours will serve."
Rashek bowed fractionally. "Of course, my lord."
"You damaged Theisal's Band?" came a faintly indignant exclamation from the sidelines, where Chancellor Vartaj was watching the practice bout along with Lord Dasaad's human guards.
"Come, Taj, Rashek didn't mean to do any such thing," Dasaad returned smoothly. He slipped the symbol of Castle lordship from his wrist and held it out to Rashek. Rashek took it carefully and turned it in his hands, examining it with the experienced eye of a master jeweler, while Dasaad accepted a cloth from a human attendant and began to towel the sweat from his face and body.
"I will need to sort through the stones I have on hand, but I should be able to match the cracked one. I believe I have some black onyx left over from the necklace I made for Lasleen. High Ones be praised it wasn't the Star of Returning!" the jeweler added, referring to the star sapphire larger than the ball of his thumb which was the chief gem of Theisal's Band. "That could never be replaced. But cutting and setting a new onyx, and smoothing out the dent in the gold, will not be difficult. A day or two should suffice." Rashek juggled the wristlet from hand to hand for a moment, as if uncertain what to do with it, then tucked it into the sash of his trousers. Dasaad nodded and the two elves started for the doorway, Vartaj and the guards falling in behind them.
"You have no desire to wear that band yourself, do you, Rashek?" the Castle Lord asked after a moment. The taunting note was plain in his voice this time.
"None, my lord," Rashek answered firmly.
"So I thought. You could have had it easily just now. I left you an opening, you know. Then again, I knew that … so perhaps it would not have been so easy." With a chuckle, Lord Dasaad beckoned to his guards and strode ahead, leaving Rashek with Vartaj.
"He judges all by his own ambition," the Chancellor sniffed once Dasaad was out of ear shot.
"Or his own prowess," Rashek replied. "He has a warrior's instincts. I have not."
"A killer's instincts, you mean. You are a true elf, Rashek, and not only because the High Ones' powers run strong in you," the aged elf said, referring to Rashek's rockshaping magic. He shook his head in disapproval. "Our people of old were not murderers."
"We have changed in many ways since the days of the High Ones, Chancellor," the rockshaper said mildly. "We have done what was necessary to survive as a people. Perhaps some of it was not strictly necessary, but…" He shrugged. "Let him be Lord, if it pleases him. For myself, I have my work and my friends, and I am content. The quiet life for me!"
"May it ever be so," replied Vartaj.
# # # # #
Close … what she sought was very close now. Feziri sank back against the cool stone of the Castle's walls, into a patch of shadow left by flickering lamplight. She half-lidded her eyes and breathed deeply to focus her magic. It was difficult when she was so near the end of her quest, when excitement made her heart race and her breath come short. Soon, soon, Iraz would be avenged … and not only Iraz but Feziri herself and all of her people. But it would not happen if Feziri did not reach her goal, and to do that she must concentrate.
Straining her ears for footsteps that might herald a watcher in the Castle's benighted hallways, Feziri peered down the corridor to where it threw off a side passage to the right, marked by a decorated arch of shaped stone. Should she take that side passage, or continue straight along the corridor? She ran her thumb over the smooth surface of a jewel set in the hilt of her dagger, while she consulted the image that burned like a star in her mind. The Star of Returning they called it, the great sapphire that graced the wristband worn by each successive Lord of the Castle. Feziri had never seen it herself, but she had sending-pictures of it from the older Renegades, and the small star sapphire in her dagger hilt to help focus her Finding magic on the larger stone.
Lord Dasaad wore that stone now, and it was Dasaad she had come to find.
As always, the closer she got to the object of her search the harder it became to pinpoint its direction, but at length Feziri determined that the side passage was indeed the way she wanted to go. She crept down the corridor toward it, her soft-booted feet making no sound. Her mouth moved in a silent curse as she noted a sconce with its lamp set in the wall opposite the opening. There would be no way to conceal her silhouette from anyone standing in the hallway beyond the arch, and she was sure Dasaad would have guards. She'd already had to evade several armed humans since gaining entry to the Castle.
Feziri listened, but could hear nothing—no breath, no footstep, no rustle of clothing or shifting of weight. At last, moving slowly so as not to attract a watcher's eye, she risked a glance down the passage. It was empty. Furthermore, it was evidently the entrance hall to a set of chambers. Three curtained arches, more lavishly decorated than the one she stood at, led to the right, left, and straight ahead.
Could these be Dasaad's chambers? Why were there no guards? For a moment Feziri suspected a trap. But she had enough confidence in her own skill not to entertain that idea for long. She knew beyond doubt that she had not been detected on her way here. Traps are only set when the hunter knows his prey is coming.
Feziri's lip curled into a sneer. Dasaad was an arrogant, overconfident fool, then, as Fasha had always told her. Nothing now stood between her and her goal. The Star of Returning was before her, straight through the center curtain. Where the Star was, Dasaad would also be—and she would have him.
The young warrior glided down the passage as swiftly as stealth would allow. She paused at the curtained doorway, listening, and at last she heard something—the slow, even breathing of a sleeper. Her mouth pulled back in a feral grin as she drew her moon-bladed dagger and slipped through the curtain. She would not even have to risk Dasaad's notorious anti-healing power. One swift stroke and it would be finished. It was a pity he would never know who his slayer was, that she could not make him suffer as he had made so many others suffer. But the important thing was that he die, as Iraz died. Feziri's blood oath would be fulfilled. That would be sweet enough.
Feziri darted a glance around the bedchamber as she entered it. A little moonslight sifted through an open window, enough for her to see by. Almost involuntarily her gaze was drawn to where the Star of Returning glinted amid the lesser gems of Theisal's Band. The bracer lay on a table not far from the wide, cushion-strewn bed. That surprised Feziri. She'd never imagined Dasaad taking the thing off, even to sleep. No matter. It would still make a fine trophy to lay at Fasha's feet, along with Dasaad's head.
Her eyes focused on the elf on the bed. He lay facedown, his long black hair fanning over the pillows. The night was warm; the sleeper wore only light trousers and the thin coverlet was bunched around his feet. Some part of Feziri's mind noted with appreciation the masculine beauty revealed in the lines of his body, even as she knelt on the edge of the bed and raised her dagger for the killing blow.
In that moment the sleeper sighed and rolled over on his back. Feziri froze. It was not Dasaad.
The face of the Castle's cruel lord had been etched into the young Renegade's mind by means of countless sending pictures until she knew it almost as well as she knew Fasha's, or her own. These dark, chiseled features were those of a stranger … though somehow … familiar?
His eyes opened. They caught the glint of moonslight on her dagger, widened in shock and fear, locked with hers…
…his eyes, pools of night into which she was falling…
…falling…
…and like a shooting star, catching fire as she fell.
# # # # #
Shock, fear, and renewed shock momentarily paralyzed Rashek's barely awakened mind. But though he disclaimed a warrior's instincts, his instinct for self-preservation performed flawlessly. His hand shot up to grasp the wrist of the unknown assassin's dagger hand, then tightened and twisted till the dagger clattered to the stone floor. The sound touched off a retaliatory explosion of energy in his opponent, who lunged backward with enough force to drag him halfway off the bed, though not enough to break his iron grip on her wrist. She made a dive for the weapon, but Rashek, fully awake now, slapped his free hand to the stone, which promptly swallowed the dagger.
The assassin froze, staring at the spot where the dagger had been. Then her head turned and her eyes met Rashek's once more, eyes the color of new leaves. Rashek had never seen such eyes before, unless perhaps in dreams. The question that burned in his mind came from her lips instead, in a barely audible whisper. "Who are you?"
He answered her in sending, as if he sensed how preposterous it was to raise the barrier of speech between them. **I think you know that.**
She shook her head in half-frantic denial, but she too surrendered speech. **You are not the one I sought.**
**I am the one you were to find. Do you deny this?** The rockshaper surged to his feet, still holding the slender wrist he had captured. His other hand cupped the maiden's chin as his gaze plumbed hers. As he had known, the flame behind those new-leaf eyes rivaled the growing fire in his loins. **I do not think you can.**
"Let me go," she whispered, turning her head away.
**You know that isn't possible.**
With a feline snarl, she writhed in his grip and this time broke free. Rashek stood immobile as she plunged for the door. Halfway there, her foot sank up to the ankle in the floor, which instantly solidified around it. Only her catlike reflexes saved her from a fall. Even as he came up behind her, Rashek noted with a faint amusement that despite the warrior skills she must have, she had made no attack on him, including the obvious one that should have allowed her to make good her escape. Not that she could truly have escaped, any more than he could.
As he approached she drew herself up as much as her trapped foot would allow and turned her head to glare at him. "Do your will on me then, Castle scum," she hissed. "I have heard often enough of the things you do here. You shall get no screams from me, I swear it. Nor will I beg."
Rashek could hardly suppress the urge to chuckle at her dramatics. Deliberately he walked around her until she no longer had to turn to look him in the face. He took her shoulders in a firm but gentle grip. He could feel her trembling at his touch; he doubted it was from fear. **I know the tales you must have heard,** he sent. **Some of them are even true … but not of me.** He raised a hand to put back the dark hood she wore, releasing flame-red hair to spill about her face. His eyes drank in the beauty that so perfectly complemented his own. **Even if they were, you know as well as I … I cannot hurt you.**
Almost imperceptibly her defiant stance relaxed. Her gaze was now more questioning than angry.
With the barest stirring of his power, Rashek released her foot from the stone, then swept her into his arms. He felt her tense again as he laid her on the bed, but considered it po litic to ignore this as he removed the dark, rough-woven nomad's clothing she wore. His own light trousers were quickly discarded. He spent some time exploring the supple curves of her body; it did not take long for her to respond in kind. The rhythm of their lovemaking quickened as their soulbond revealed to each what would most pleasure the other. When the final union came, it seemed to them that a single body shuddered, a single heart raced, a single voice cried out and a single spirit, whole and fulfilled, exploded into sweet oblivion.
Rashek retained just enough presence of mind to exercise his powers one last time, as he knew he must, before sleep claimed him.
# # # # #
When Feziri woke, she thought at first she must still be in some dream, for the bed on which she lay was softer than any she had ever slept in. Light, cool fabric caressed her limbs rather than the furs or rough wool she was used to, and there was not the faintest trace of goat or zwoot dung in the air. Instead she breathed in the scent of early morning faintly tinged with flowers and spices.
Feziri opened her eyes and found herself looking straight into the onyx-black gaze she remembered from the night before. She knew at once this was no dream.
"Good morning," said the owner of the eyes, with a smile. He was propped up on one elbow, looking at her. The light embroidered spread that covered her lay over his legs and hips. Not that it concealed much. Regarding him, Feziri felt a faint stirring of desire, an echo of the passion that had consumed her last night. She suppressed it firmly. Last night had been a kind of madness. She needed a clear head if she was to leave this place alive.
"What is your name, anyway?" the ebon-haired male continued. "I didn't get a chance to ask." His voice was deep and mellow, pleasant to listen to.
"Feziri," she answered cautiously.
"Feziri," he repeated, forming the syllables with care. "And I am Rashek." His face grew graver as he studied her. "You are a … Renegade, not so? If that is not the proper name, I ask your pardon. I know no other."
Feziri, who had been lying on her stomach, raised herself up on her elbows and tossed back her tangled hair. "Yes, I am a Renegade," she replied proudly. Even if that made them enemies, she would show him she was not ashamed of her heritage.
But Rashek only nodded, as if a deduction had been confirmed. "You were not among those exiled from here, though. You were born in the desert?"
"Yes."
"You are a warrior, that much is plain. And—" He paused. "—an assassin."
"When it is needful," Feziri replied, scowling at him. "Your Lord Dasaad does not scorn the use of such, when they serve his purposes."
"Indeed. So last night you decided to repay him in kind by slaughtering one of his people. Whom were you aiming for? Not me, I trust. You said not, and I believe you. Besides, I am of no great importance to Dasaad."
"Or he to you?" Feziri hazarded, her mind working furiously. Perhaps she had found an ally rather than an opponent. If Rashek would consent to help her, she might be able to fulfill her blood oath after all.
The onyx-black gaze on her sharpened, and Rashek's handsome face grew graver still. "Ahhhh," he said softly. "Dasaad himself, was it? Dear one, the High Ones were shielding you better than you knew. Penetrating my chambers is no great task. Dasaad is much better guarded. Do you think he does not watch for assassins constantly? And those he catches—" He broke off, closing his eyes as if in pain. "I would not wish such a fate on anyone. Least of all you."
"I have heard tales of Dasaad's tortures," she agreed quickly, ignoring as well as she could the implications of his last words. "Help me then, Rashek, and the world will be well rid of him! Help me fulfill my oath, and then—"
"No!" He made a sharp negating motion with his hand. "I will have no part in murder."
"Murder?" she flared. "Justice! Are you a coward?"
"I am not a warrior," he replied evenly. "Chancellor Vartaj says I lack a killer's instincts. That is true. But neither am I so fainthearted or conniving as to guide another's hand to do what I would not do myself."
Feziri looked at him in silence for a short while. It had never occurred to her before that one who was not a warrior—a "pacifist," as Fasha would sneeringly call him—could have his own kind of honor. "Very well," she said finally, "I will not seek your help, except perhaps in retrieving my dagger, and not revealing my presence here. I will—"
She broke off with a gasp of amazement and outrage. While she spoke she had begun to roll over, preparatory to casting off the coverlet and sliding from the bed. She found she could not complete the motion. Her ankle was held in a polished-smooth but quite immovable manacle. She did not have to look to know it was made of shaped stone.
"I knew you would try, you see," Rashek replied calmly, though with a trace of sadness, as he met her furious gaze. "Feziri, don't you understand? Even if I could condone yet another assassination to add to the bloody history of this place, I could not risk you … or the child you carry." He nodded as he saw realization replace some of the anger in her face. "You came here seeking death. Instead you found new life. Surely that means something to you."
Feziri bowed her head, acknowledging the truth in his words. Almost involuntarily her hand stole to her belly, though there was nothing to feel yet other than her hard warrior's muscles. A child… She had never thought about having a child, never dreamed of one. A strange desire awoke in her to hold the little one in her arms. She wondered what Fasha would say when she heard. **Very well,** she sent, so that he would have no doubt of her truthfulness. **I make my vow to you that I shall not attempt to fulfill my blood oath to slay Lord Dasaad while I carry our child within me.** She looked up at Rashek again. "You have my word. Now release me."
This time his glance slid away. "I cannot."
"What?"
"You would leave me."
"I—"
"Feziri, I know you. Try to understand me. You are of the wild desert and you would return to it. Half my soul would be gone. I would never see my child. Bound, I would live in dread of the day of my release—the day when the knowledge came to me that you no longer graced this world with your presence. Do you think I would not know?" His deep voice betrayed an undercurrent of roughness, as of unshed tears.
"Let me go," she pleaded, shaking her head. "You can't keep me here. Fasha—my aunt will—"
"Are you of Fasha's kin, then? I thought you had the look of her."
"She knew of my oath. She will think me captured … dead."
"And no doubt she will attack another caravan and slaughter a few more hapless salt miners to assuage her grief. I know Fasha's rages. Forgive me. She and I were not friends when she dwelt in the Castle. But leaving that aside—surely she realized your venture was not without danger. She knows Dasaad better than you do. Yet for the bare chance that you might succeed in killing her old rival, she was willing to take the risk of losing you—to him. Is that not so?"
"The risk was mine. I took it willingly."
"Yet she did not forbid you to go, did she?"
"It was a matter of honor! Dasaad—one of his filthy assassins killed Iraz, one of my dearest friends. I swore to avenge her. Fasha would never forbid me to fulfill a blood oath."
Rashek sighed. "Perhaps not. Still, she must have known from the first that you might not return. I do not think your disappearance will come as a great surprise to her, or alter her hatred of Dasaad. What is one more handful of sand in the desert?"
In her heart Feziri knew he was right, which only made her angrier. "Let me go!" she screamed. "I hate you!"
He sat up abruptly and caught her gaze with his own. **Send that, Feziri, and I will let you go at once.**
For an instant, furious, she wished she had stabbed him last night before she knew he was not Dasaad. Then she pictured Rashek lying dead, the onyx eyes blank and sightless. A great shudder took her and her hand went over her mouth, pressing hard. Rashek let out a long sigh and sank back down on the bed.
After a short silence he spoke again in a low voice. "All I ask is that you stay with me for a little time, Feziri, safe and protected, until our child is born and has reached an age sufficient to choose a path in life. Give this child a chance to know both its parents instead of growing up half orphaned." Feziri, who had lost both parents at an early age, nodded sharply, tears stinging her eyes. "What are so few years to an elf?" Rashek went on. "Here in the Castle, with no dangers to threaten us, the time will pass before you know it."
"No dangers?" she countered, rallying. "Here? How do you intend to explain my presence to Lord Dasaad? As a statue shaped by you, perhaps, and animated by the mystic powers of the High Ones?"
Rashek chuckled at that, but replied, "Nothing quite so elaborate. But my rockshaping powers are, as you've noticed, considerable. They certainly extend to shaping a set of chambers for you that no one will know of but we two … and perhaps one other."
"Secret chambers? But that would mean … I could never … go outside?" Feziri's eyes went wide as she fought off a rush of panic. "I can't! I'll go mad! Couldn't you—couldn't we escape together?" She caught at his hand frantically. "Come with me back to my people!"
"Where I shall be welcomed by Fasha with open arms, I suppose," said Rashek dryly. "I do not think so, Feziri. I am not even certain if she would welcome the child of our union."
Feziri was silent. She was not certain either. But her heart cried out for the desert, her home, even as it felt drawn to this oddly strong, strangely gentle elf—captor and lover, stranger and soulmate. Finally she shook her head. "I can promise you nothing," she whispered.
Rashek bowed his head. "If it must be so."
# # # # #
The chambers were nearly finished. Rashek paused in his shaping and leaned on the wide sill of an open window, where a stray breeze could soothe his sweating body. He surveyed his handiwork and was not displeased. The rooms were as light and airy as he could make them while angling all openings so they could not be seen from the Castle or its grounds. Lacy stone lattices and rows of pillars replaced walls wherever it was structurally possible. A fountain played in the largest chamber; Rashek had devised the Castle's water system himself and knew to a cupped hand's measure how much could be diverted without attracting notice. The bedchamber was cool and shadowed. What was to be the nursery was bright and sunny.
Over and above the practicalities and comforts, Rashek had poured his heart into the shaping. No arch, no screen, no pillar or wall sconce was denied the loving touch of his artistry. He had taken all he knew of Feziri—her beauty, her grace, her passion, her bravery, even her laughter—and all he dreamed of for their child, and infused it into the living stone. His own qualities had inevitably gone into the work too, so that all three of them were mingled here. He hoped it would serve as a fit setting for the precious jewel that was Feziri, his only love—and that, in time, she might even come to call it home.
For now, though, there was one necessary finishing touch before he could bring Feziri here from her temporary lodgings with his younger sister Lasleen, the only other elf in the Cas tle he trusted with his secret. Lasleen, as he knew she would, thrilled to the romance of the tale and was delirious at the prospect of midwifing a niece or nephew. She was already making Feziri some new clothes. Better yet, she had warmed to the young Renegade and would, Rashek hoped, alleviate some of Feziri's loneliness.
Sighing deeply, Rashek schooled himself to the task he had put off until the very last. He turned and, laying his fingers on the stone sill, concentrated on drawing a lacy, beautiful, and iron-hard fretwork across the open window.
THE END