Chapter: A Twisted Rescue: 10 of ? Chapter: Through the Recesses: 11 of ?

Author: Sam

Series: A Deeper Magic

Last Chapter: DG and Wyatt do not manage to escape. They claim to be married to protect DG. Randu locks them up.

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His grip on her wrist felt like warm steel. Azkadellia tried to keep up, sliding dangerously on the polished marble floors in her slippers, her hair spilling from the loose upsweep to tangle about her hips and arms. After her third near mishap, the princess called out, breathlessly, "Stop . . . for a moment . . ."

The blond guard stopped, tilted his head to listen, then turned to her. "Your Highness?"

She shook her head and kicked her slippers off into the middle of the hall. Gathering the long material of her robe in her free hand, she gave him a nod. "Okay . . . but I need your name."

"Dylan . . ." he sighed softly and continued, "I'm called Dylan." He turned and began guiding her down the long marble and gold hall, only slightly adjusting the vise-like grip he maintained on her wrist.

Unprotesting, Az let him lead her through the familiar corridors. Ignoring the increasing pain radiating up her arm, knowing there would be time to see to it later, the woman suddenly tugged her arm . . . hard. "No, this way." She pulled towards a different set of stairs.

He changed direction without question, youthful face set in grim lines, and the pair ran on.

Long minutes passed and they exited a steep stairway and turned a dark corner into the not-long disused dungeons. Dylan looked around, hesitating, but Az merely tugged again, wincing at the pain through her wrist.

"The sewers," she gasped at his unspoken confusion. "We can get out through there." When he turned surprised grey eyes on her, she clarified, "It's how DG got out the first time, I believe."

"Not like that," Dylan used his free hand to gesture at her bare feet. "What else is down here?"

She frowned and looked around. "The dungeons . . . torture room . . . maintenance?" She turned worried brown eyes to the man.

Finally, he released her wrist and she involuntarily cried out at the rush of blood and pain. Az bent her arm up, close to her mid-abdomen, her other hand shielding the injured limb.

Shock crossed his steel-colored eyes. "Damn! I hurt you, Your Highness!" Regret and worry filled his voice.

She lifted her uninjured hand. "There will be some maintenance uniforms in a closet in the equipment room. I image something will fit me." Az turned, covering her wrist once more and quickly striding over the dirty concrete floor towards the maintenance area at the far end of the dungeon. She didn't look down, refusing to verify just what she walked through. "I don't know if there are any boots, though," she added softly. The princess denied herself the luxury of acknowledging the pain; Az knew that acceptance would cripple her and prevent her from helping in this vital mission.

Seeming to listen a moment longer, Dylan pressed his lips tight and followed her, overtaking her with his longer stride and reaching the equipment room with its uniform closet and secondary storage room. He opened the closet and began rooting through the various old, worn, semi-clean outfits and various scuffed, dirty pairs of boots.

Coming to a stop next to him, Az watched the man in his search. She said "I don't know if the boots will fit me, actually."

"Then we'll wrap your feet and you can wear mine." The athletic blond straightened and turned, offering her a pile of clothing. His grey eyes scanned the room. "Over there," he gestured with one hand to the storage room, "hurry. They won't be above checking the dungeons."

Without a word, she took the clothes and slipped into the dirty, compact space. Pausing a moment, Az took a deep breath and choked on the foul miasma of humanity imprisoned and abused. A month had not been long enough to clear annuals of misery. She let the butter-yellow silk robe slip from her body and pool at her feet. Ignoring the intense throbbing and shooting stabs of fire in her wrist, she dressed clumsily in the coarse cotton shirt, overalls, and jacket of dusky grey.

She turned and frowned at the sight of her companion shoving a foot into a workman's boot, his own sleek leather boots sitting discarded near a stack of dull shirts. "I can wear the work boots," Az said, dignified and quiet, as she stepped up next to him.

He shook his head once. "This is the best here and even they have holes. We'll wrap your feet and you can have mine. They'll be more comfortable and hopefully won't rub your feet raw, Your Highness."

Az sighed. Strengthening her voice, she said, "I don't need to be coddled, Dylan. I . . ."

Looking up, surprise lit his grey eyes, his platinum hair a more dull yellow in the subdued lighting of the dungeon level. "Coddled? During an escape?" He shook his head and picked up a knife from beside him.

Her heart gave a painful beat and her brown eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. Relief flooded her when he turned to grab an old shirt and start shredding it. "Give me your robe, Your Highness, that'll make a strong binding and sling."

"Az," she softly corrected and his head shot up, eyes showing confusion. "I'm called Az," she clarified. Turning, the twenty-seven annual old brunette retrieved her discarded robe, pushing her long clinging hair from her face. When she returned, Az sank onto a grimy bench and pulled the belt from her robe then placed both near the hurriedly working man. She awkwardly started to braid her long mass of dark hair, biting back her whimpers of pain at the twisting action ripping pain through her wrist.

Dylan looked up and shook his head. He put a hand over hers, stilling her attempts, and said, gruffly, "turn." She presented her back to him and he quickly plaited her hair then tied it with a strip of the cloth. As quickly, apparently familiar with working on a lady's hair, he wrapped the plait around itself and tucked it into a thick bun. He used a second cloth strip to secure the bun. "Turn around again," he said and grabbed her right foot, wrapping several thick cloth strips around it then wrapped the left foot.

Her pain overshadowed thoughts of trying to talk to her quiet companion, so Az merely obeyed his terse orders. As he slipped her feet into the knee-high boots, she tried to concentrate on picking out the platinum highlights from the darker light-blond tresses; she could see that the unusual coloring was natural, not designed. In surprise, Az looked down at her feet, distracted by the feel that the leather seemed to mould to her padded legs. "That's good leather," she murmured.

Finally, he straightened and reached for Az's wrist. "Let me," he said firmly, and she obeyed, uncurling the injured limb from it's protective place by her abdomen. Dylan's hands were gentle yet sure as he carefully probed her swelling wrist, and she tried to keep still at the searing pain.

"Sprain . . . I hope," he murmured then wrapped strips of thick, soft cotton around it, the old work-shirts proving a fairly good substitute for a real splint. Looking up from the completed, and still relatively painful, splint, Dylan studied Az's tear-washed brown eyes. "Brave . . ." he murmured then nodded. Turning the knife around, holding the blade carefully, Dylan presented the weapon to Az. "Here, take this."

She didn't hesitate, thankful that she would now have a weapon. Az took the hilt and carefully withdrew the knife from his fingers. "Thank you," she said. Az wrapped a strip of cotton around the blade and tucked it in the over large hip pocket on the left side of her overalls. She hoped she wouldn't need to use it; her dominant right hand had been the one injured.

In exchange for the weapon, Dylan took the robe, balling it up and slipping it into his shirt, buttoning his jacket to hold the silk in place. "I'll see you to a doctor as soon as we're safe." Offering her a hand up, Dylan turned, releasing her hand immediately. He paused, tilting his head towards her behind him, and said "I'm sorry I hurt you . . . Az." Quickly, he led her from the equipment room.

Sounds of marching feet could be heard from the stairwell they'd traversed.

Az grabbed Dylan's wrist this time. "This way," she breathed, gesturing with her chin.

Silently, the pair hurried into the dark, foul-smelling tunnel. A rusty, pitted catwalk precariously hugged one wall, but no railing prevented anyone falling into the waist-high sludge below. They had to slow down in order to carefully pick their way across that rickety catwalk. Below them slowly swirled a mixture of human waste, toxic chemicals, and household garbage. A long, disgusting, and difficult half hour passed while the pair tried not to slip from the narrow maintenance bridge. Decaying rodents, scurrying roaches, and slippery pools of rancid filth littered the way. More than once, Az had to catch her self, using both hands against the clammy, dripping walls, the pain making her bite her lip to prevent crying out. Once or twice, Dylan caught her wrist to stop her fall, murmuring an apology for the added injury.

Neither dared stop when they came out once again into fresh air, despite the longing to take great lungfuls and shed their encrusted garments. Rather, they trudged on over scrub land and into sparse undergrowth up a winding broken cut, to end in an old forest on the cliffside overlooking the tunnels. As the pair approached a small clearing of crude huts and ragged lean-tos Dylan called a halt.

"Here . . . Az," he gasped, winded, a hand to his chest. His skin had paled to near translucent, color high on his cheeks and eyes wide and filled with pain. A sheen of sweat covered him, dampening his uniform and plastering his hair to his head.

Surprised, Az gripped his arm, feeling a tremble course through the man. She tried to push him to a seat in the leaf fodder. "Dylan!" He pulled his hand from her grip, shuddered and released his chest, but still panted. Suspicious, Az asked softly, "are you ill, Dylan?"

He paused then nodded. "Yes," he seemed to be collecting his breath at last. "I have a very rare cancer, Az," he said. Turning steel-colored eyes on her, he added, "and there's no known cure." He looked towards the small grouping of rugged homes. "Don't tell Jeb. I, too, don't need to be coddled."

With that, Dylan raised a shaking hand and called out, "Hello, the town! We bring news."

Two dozen men and five women poured into the central clearing, ending the conversation before it had begun. A cold fire pit sat next to a scarred metal work table. Some horses, hobbled to prevent wandering, grazed on hay that had been provided; no grass graced the forest floor. The group, dressed in the kilts of the eastern resistance fighters, seemed surprised when they spotted Princess Azkadellia in their midst. Even in her dirt and old rags, no one could mistaken the elder daughter of the House of Gale.

Az expected these people to hurl insults or even rocks at her . . . to cower from the Bloody Sorceress . . . to rain anger upon her head. They did none of those things. They merely watched her with emotionless faces, giving nothing away. Finally, one man stepped forward. "What news bring you, Captain?"

All eyes turned expectantly to Dylan, including Az's. He took a slow breath and said "the tower is under attack by Long Coats, but I'm not sure who's directing them. I managed to get the princess out, and others are helping as well. Commander Cain will need the resistance to gather in the north, near the old Shiz Academy."

Immediate clamor arose as the group turned to discuss options and gather equipment, though none asked questions about this new development. They were a well-disciplined group, it seemed. One middle-aged man, however, turned to the filthy pair. "You'll be wanting to clean up then?" He asked, rhetorically. "Right. Over here, Your Highness, and," he gently took her by the good elbow, smiling for the first time, "welcome home."

She blinked, tears coming suddenly to her eyes. Drawing in a sob she couldn't fight, Az asked "Do I know you, Sir?"

He laughed and carefully guided her into the small hut. "Was one of the pastry chefs, Your Highness. Always hoped we'd figure out what magical curse you were under . . . you were too gentle for it to be anything but magic, after all." He bowed and backed out of the one-room cabin, shutting the door before she could respond, calling "there's water and clothes, Captain."

Az whirled around, brown eyes widening when she noted the man next to her unbuttoning his jacket. "Wait . . ." she shook her head and glanced towards the door. "I . . . uh . . . can take care of myself . . ."

Dylan rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to dishonor you, Az. I'm going to play lady's maid . . ." He dropped the filthy jacket to the floor and reached for her. She backed up and he advanced, trapping her against a rough wall in the tiny hut. "You can't do much with that wrist I probably broke." As she rolled wild eyes towards him, fear rising, he added softly, "I'm too sick for ravishment, Az. Trust me . . . please?" He let up his hold and backed away a step.

She pushed back into the rough wooden wall, gulping air, reminding herself she wasn't with a battalion of plotting Long Coats, only the threat of the witch and a single devoted bodyguard for protection. "No . . ." she thought desperately, "now I have no loyal bodyguard." Pushing the horrifying thought away, Az raised a shaking hand and whispered, "only if you prove yourself."

"The knife isn't enough?" He asked, looking mildly surprised.

Equally taken aback, she looked from her waist to his face; she had forgotten he had armed her. Az shook her head slowly. "I need to know how you knew about the Peace Cooperation Treaty . . . and the passcodes." she insisted.

With a sigh and a nod, Dylan stepped back completely. "All right, but it's going to sound worse than it is."

"I don't care how bad it sounds," she countered and watched as he pulled over a hip tub to fill with room-temperature water. "It can hardly beat mine . . . for fifteen annuals, I've been systematically torturing and killing hundreds of people across the O.Z."

Dylan looked up. "No you haven't." His tone was simple, honest.

At her surprised look, he added, "you were forced to help, and you had to watch, but it was the witch in ultimate power. You were just twelve when she took control . . . a child." Dylan finished filling the tub and slid out of his boots, revealing the dirty wet socks he wore, proof the boots had been damaged. He removed the socks and tossed them onto his jacket then washed his hands in a water basin nearby. Dylan made no move to touch his other clothing. Instead, he once more turned to her. "But it's my crimes you want to hear."

Az blinked. "An odd word choice, Dylan," she said softly. Carefully, the princess sank onto a plain wooden chair and let Dylan remove his now disgusting boots from her feet. They were salvageable, but would never shine as they had before their escape, even with a proper cleaning.

"When I was an infant, I became extremely ill. My parents died of this illness within the first year, and my doctor was afraid I'd died too." He slid the second boot to the floor and stood up, helping her to rise. His fingers felt impersonal as he stripped her, ignoring her flushed embarrassment. "Finally, my doctor turned to the only person he knew who had magic enough to probably heal me." Looking Az in the eyes, leaving her in her shift and drawers, he said, "Leona Gale."

"You . . ." Az gasped but clamped her mouth shut at a shake of his head.

"She could do nothing," he stated then helped her into the tub, underclothes and all. "She told my doctor to leave me with her and she'd try to figure it out. So, he left me, and for practically my entire life, I lived with your cousin as she tried spells, rituals, and medicines to no end."

As he spoke, the resistance fighter helped the princess to wash, but never tried to remove her personal clothes. Finally, when nearly finished, he turned his back. "Take off the shift and things. Finish. I'll get towels and clothes." He walked away to a free-standing cabinet of linens.

Blushing furiously by then, Az quickly stripped and completed her bath, shivering as she wrapped her arms around herself, her injured wrist in its tight wet bindings closest to her abdomen. "So, Dylan, are you helping Leona take over?" she asked. When he shot to a stiff posture, back still to her, she called, "I'm not an idiot. I didn't hear everything, but I know my parents went to check on her. I've long suspected the people would turn to her if the witch ever left."

Dylan turned and quickly held up a large towel for her to step into. He wrapped it around her shivering wet body then draped another over her dripping hair, long removed from the braided bun she'd worn. Finally, he reached for a medicine box to pull out some stiffened bandaging and a pair of curved wooden slats for her wrist.

"I haven't seen her in just over a year," he said, ignoring her small whimper of pain as he worked, not giving her a chance to dry off completely before removing the disgusting splint, though he gently washed and dried her swollen, quickly bruising limb.

Az bit back a pained scream, her head suddenly spinning, nausea rising. Her free hand flew to cover her mouth as she fought to remain conscious. Dylan sat her on the chair and reached into the medicine box. He retrieved a tablet and forced it under her tongue, watching her. The medicine dissolved quickly and her pain receded.

Finally, Dylan nodded and began to work on her wrist once more, taking up where he'd left off in his story. "She asked me to find the Emerald of the Eclipse so she could use it to free you. You found it first. But during the siege, I got hurt pretty badly and couldn't be moved. By the time I was healed, I found out about the threats and rumors and took them to Jeb." He met her eyes."Including the one about Leona . . ." he finished her wrist and sighed, stepping back, steel eyes sad looking. "And, yes, Leona was the one who told me the treaty protocol secrets. I'd never mentioned them until this morning's meeting." Dylan turned and rooted through their host's wardrobe for clothing. "I think that's broken after all. I'll make you a sling once you've dressed."

Carefully, thankful for the slight ease that came with the tight new bandaging, Az dried herself clumsily, wrapping the towel more securely around her shapely frame. She began drying her hair, watching the young man as she pondered all he'd told her.

Turning, he brought over a dark grey skirt and shaper with stockings, a red blouse, and plain drawers. He did not provide a chest binder. Looking away from Az, the resistance fighter blushed lightly as he offered the drawers and shaper.

She smiled in genuine amusement. "You don't know women's clothing, do you, Dylan?"

At a shake of his head, she took a steadying breath then rose and clutched her towel. She went to dig out a chest binder from the wardrobe, wet hair clinging to her body and spilling over her shoulders as she bent forward. "How old are you? You look perhaps Jeb's age? Around eighteen?"

He laughed, sounding more nervous than amused, and soon the sounds of hurried bathing followed. "Twenty-six. I look younger because of Leona's cure attempts."

"Oh," Az said, her turn to be surprised. He was only one annual younger than she was. Keeping her back to him, Az carefully put the undergarments on then re-wrapped the towel around herself, holding her aching wrist close. She would need his help for the rest of the outfit; the medicine he'd given her hadn't been strong enough to block all pain. She waited for the sounds of washing to stop, counted twenty-five, then slowly turned.

Dylan, a towel wrapped around narrow hips, stepped past her to the wardrobe.

She gasped and he turned confused eyes on her. "Az?"

Lifting a shaking hand, Az traced one finger down a series of geometric patterns scarred into his back, flanks, and chest. They dipped below the waistline covered by his towel. "My stars! What happened here, Dylan? Don't tell me this was one of Cousin Leona's cures? It's . . . barbaric!" Her fingers trembled over the raised, off-colored flesh.

He looked down as she traced a triangular scar. "Uh . . . no . . ." Dylan trapped her hand in his and shook his head. "No. They're . . ." he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They're clan tattoos, Az. Done when I made my first kill . . . when I came of age . . . and at other significant times."

"Clan tat . . ." Az's voice dropped off as her worried brown eyes widened and shot up to meet serious grey ones. "You're from the Nature Clan!"

Sighing, Dylan nodded, dropping her hand. "Of course I am, Az. Didn't I say my doctor took me to your cousin? Well, she lives in the Thousand Year Grasslands . . . Nature Clan territory." The man slipped a plain tunic on, covering his scarred, muscular torso. "That's not going to be a problem is it?"

Suddenly embarrassed at her behavior, Az flushed and stepped back, putting her hand over her mid-abdomen. "No . . . no, it's not . . . Dylan." She turned and began dressing, ruthlessly ignoring her pain, intent on getting this quest begun so it could end all the sooner . . . and she could get out of the disconcerting presence of this confusing man.

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Continued in Chapter Twelve: Complications

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The Twelve Clans of the Outer Zone with the Ruling House of Each Clan:

Aquam Clan/ House of Rimi . . . (Ice- Mount Runcible)

Cogitatio Clan/ House of Idae . . . (Milltown)

Corde Clan/ House of Animum . . . (Viewers)

Fortitudo Clan/ House of Greyhatt . . . (Guilds- Munchkins)

Lux Clan/ House of Gale . . . (formerly House of Ozma- Gillikin)

Mortem Clan/ House of Shiz . . . (Alma Mata- Gillikin)

Nature Clan/ House of Terrae . . . (Vinkus- Thousand Year Grasslands)

Papay Clan/ House of Somniabunt

Phlogiston Clan/ House of Pyre . . . (Fire- Desert surrounding O.Z.)

Sapientiam Clan/ House of Quinolui . . . (Quadling- Realm of the Unwanted)

Spiritus Clan/ House of Aeris . . . (Air- Lake Country)

Tenebris Clan/ House of Fugae . . . (Witch's Dark Tower- Gillikin)