Windsinger

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Windsinger Copyright © 2003 Lark Westerly ISBN: 1-55410-042-9 Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2003 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.extasybooks.com

Windsinger

Chapter One The Bidding.

A

rtemis was watching the moons rise over the Sisterhood Village in the valley when the bidding came. “Oh, malediction!” she muttered. “Why me?” But she knew it was her own fault. If she had removed her diadem at the end of her shift, she would not have heard the bidding. If she had gone straight to the commonhall, she would have been out of range behind the shield. But the diadem had been glitzing, so she hadn't wanted to put it in her pouch. And she would have gone straight to the commonhall, if she hadn't happened to see the moons. And she wouldn't have seen the moons if she had not been harvesting leechmoss for Dia Maeve. Artemis sighed resignedly. Life, even the regimented life of an Amazon Mercy, was full of imponderables and crossed stat-lines. Gathering leechmoss was tiresome, but it had to be done by hand. All of Maeve's attempts to cultivate it and mechanize its production had failed. Other Mercies avoided the task, but Artemis owed Dia 1

Lark Westerly Maeve. Maeve had stood between Artemis and disaster more than once, even defending her in childhood from the worst rigors of Dia Cleo's punishments. When Dia Cleo had decreed that Artemis should fast while she contemplated her childish transgressions, Maeve had fetched her soup instead of water. The two senior Mercies had had bitter words over that, but Maeve had continued to be Artemis' champion. In matters of Mercy Lore, Maeve must defer to Dia Cleo, but in matters of bodily health Cleo would usually yield. Dia Cleo was the elder by just a handful of years, but already her hair was a harsh gray while Maeve's auburn mop was merely softened by a few silver strands. The Mercy Medic's youthful looks were allied with a generous vigor and a brisk but kindly nature, and so Artemis gathered leechmoss whenever Maeve needed a new supply. Her reward was an aching back, stinging fingertips and disinclination to face the noise and bustle of life in the Mercy quarters. Tonight, the air was soft with balm. The breeze feathered her skin and lifted her veil of cloudy, dark hair from the shoulders of her short tunic. Artemis raised her face and arms in an unconscious gesture of longing. She loved the wind and reveled in the freshness of the night. The twin moons of Alida were glorious, pure and silver without the dark blotches that disfigured Luna, the moon of old Terra. As a child, Artemis had often gazed at Luna. She had longed to leave the fear that stalked the gray suburban sprawl where she had lived with her 2

Windsinger mother for the entire seven years of her life. Laura Kerrigan had been a factory worker, traveling two hours to work each day. This had left young Artemis alone in the crowded sector from dawn until long after dusk. ‘The town of a million screams’, they called it. Ironically, people were more likely to notice a silence than a scream. Artemis had screamed one day, and gone on screaming while her mother's murderers hunted her in the dark. It was the stuff of nightmares come true. Now she lived far from that terrible place. She was no longer a frightened Earthbound child, but an Amazon Mercy, beautiful, respected and aloof from the turmoil of humanity. She was supposed to be practical, too, but though her routine was busy, Artemis had never quite left her dreams behind. She had never lost her love of unfettered air. And now it had brought her to this summons in the darkness. She could remove her diadem and run to the commonhall, but Mercy Lore held firm. An Amazon Mercy was sworn to protect womankind, the sisterhood of women throughout a hundred worlds. As Maeve had protected Artemis. How those evil men had run when faced with flame-haired Maeve and her saber of light. Maeve had not shirked her duty then, just as Artemis couldn't tonight. Somewhere, a sister was in danger from male cruelty. With a faint sigh and a moment of regret for the supper she would miss, Artemis slipped her saber from the sheath worn at her hip. She checked the bow 3

Lark Westerly that hung diagonally across her back, and counted the white-feathered arrows by touch. The bidding was insistent so she raised graceful hands to the diadem on her brow, closed her eyes and tuned in to the silent summons. She quivered, not with fear, but with the strength of her empathy for the One who called. This One was strong. She must be fighting with rare strength and skill. Artemis should have registered the bidding with Dia Cleo, but the signal was strong and desperate. It would not be her time she spent, but that of an anonymous and distressed sister. Why register a bidding when the delay might bring death to the One who cried? She could do it later when she returned... “Sister, I hear your cry,” whispered Artemis, and the echoes came back from the twinned moons of Alida. “Sistersistersister...” She took a deep breath that lifted her white-clad bosom like the prow of a ship and launched into the darkness, riding the thrust of the Alida Beacon. The bidding throbbed around her in waves like the ocean, in gusts like the wild winds of the mountains— “No!” cried Artemis into the dark. “What have I done?” She gathered her mind and tried to retreat through the darkness to the hillside of Alida, but she could not turn back. Once an Amazon Mercy had accepted a charge, she could not abandon it but must continue on the trajectory through the depths of space. “What have I done?” whispered Artemis as the bidding raged about her. 4

Windsinger Tossed on dark wings of the storm, she knew too well what she had done. She had accepted the bidding of a male. **** He'd known he would lose the fight as soon as he saw the enemy. No matter how strong, skilled, and brave he was, a lone man had no chance against Daemons. He was tired. Pain ran along his muscles and tendons like streaks of molten lava. The backs of his calves ached savagely, and his shoulders were on fire. His only defense was a staff of windthorn wood, bound in bronze and hardened in the fire. It would bruise the Daemons more than they expected. He tossed it from hand to hand as lightly as if at practice, but he knew, deep in his bones and sinews, that this was the end. His staff whirled like the wings of a hoverbird, its high whistle keening in the air. The wind plucked the sound and carried it past the gabble of his aggressors. There was a snap of bone, and one of the Daemons shrieked. Saliva spewed from its gaping maw. It spattered his face, pocking the skin like flecks of acid. He cursed and struck, whirling from attack to defense, but still they drove him back. Step by step, each half-pace won with a hundred blows, they were driving him to the brink of the cliff. If he could reach his windwing he would be away, but between his goal and his feet was a veritable horde of Daemons. He tried to dart between them, but they were upon 5

Lark Westerly him immediately. A claw brushed his thigh and he cursed, letting his voice roll into the uncaring sky. There could be only one end to this battle, but by all the winds of the heights, he would sell his nightfall at the price of three of theirs. He cried out again, a bellow of defiance that became a scream of pain as the claw ripped through his leather garment and penetrated the skin beneath. The claw had tips of acid, and his final chance was gone. It no longer mattered whether he went over the cliff sooner or later. The more he thought about it, however, the better it seemed to do it now and die while he kept the heart of a Windsinger and could use his breath for cursing. Once the poison took effect, he would become a writhing, puling thing, screaming for the mercy of death. At the most he had a hundred breaths before he could no longer stand. Die, he thought. He willed himself to swoop from the cliff and ride the winds to his nightfall. The end must come, but he'd send those devils to the back of the wind before him. “Die!” he cried. “Die, Daemons!” With a final surge, he raised his staff and smashed it down on a scaly skull. The bone shattered, the jarring wrenched his arms and shoulders, and he sank to his knees. “Die!” He whispered it despairingly, for the pain in his thigh had overcome his strength. He knew he would never make it to the edge of the cliff. The enemy knew it too. At a signal from their leader, the Daemons drew back, sneering and slurring their outlandish talk. One darted in and pricked him 6

Windsinger with a claw while another anointed his bloody wound with a drop of pure torture. “Die...” he murmured, but whether it was a threat or a plea, he no longer knew. The pain was unbearable, but the impassive gaze of the Daemon crew was almost worse. Three were dead, but the eyes of the survivors were fixed on his body. Eyes of dull blackness, they gave him foretaste of his nightfall. “I'll see you behind the wind, Daemon,” he whispered. His head sagged, his staff slipped from his bloody hand. His eyes lost focus as the poison seeped into his blood. He struggled to stand, to die like the Windsinger he was. He made a last, tormented effort to gain the cliff's edge, crying an echoing note to the wind for help. Amazingly, the wind obeyed, buffeting, howling, and raging about his head. His sweat-soaked hair was lifting, the long bright strands whipping around his shoulders. The leather thong with which he had confined it slid awry, and his windcloak, spread for safety on a pinnacle of rock, stirred and ruffled and beat the air as if it would take one last flight without him. The force of the wind did what his weakness could not…it drove him to his knees. Out of the vortex of fury, he saw a windwoman racing the gale. She was so lovely that he reached out with his bloody hands. A shaft of pain drove through him at the thought that he would die before he held her. His 7

Lark Westerly blood raced and pounded, drawing him nearer the end, and he cried out with wonder and regret. The windwoman heard. She flung up her arms and dropped from the vortex, landing gracefully on the lip of the crag beside him. She cried out in a strong, clear voice and drew a glistening saber through the air. It glanced off a trio of scaly heads and singed the air. The Daemons howled and raised their claws to attack. The windwoman sheathed the saber and lifted a bow of light. Arrows flew, too fast for his blurring gaze to track. Daemons fell, pierced by smoking holes. In moments, it was done. “I salute you, maiden of light,” he tried to say, but the words were a moan of despair as he neared his nightfall. One hand struck the rocks, the arm gave way, and he sprawled like a drunkard. He tried desperately to raise his head for one last look at his vision. She ran to him, as quick and graceful as a windwoman must be, and bent to touch his brow. Her fingers were cool, but the poison in his blood made her touch a brand of fire. He strained to hold her, to bear her memory to the realm of nightfall, but his strength was spent and he slipped despairingly into the darkness.

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Windsinger

Chapter Two Leechmoss.

A

rtemis bent over the stranger. It was daylight on this world, and she could see he was in a pitiable state. She thought he would probably die within a few minutes. He had fought the monsters bravely, but with nothing more than a staff, he'd had no chance. And she'd had no reason to come. She had answered the bidding of a male. Males were the enemy from which Amazon Mercies were sworn to protect their sisters. Males were aggressors, destroyers, and the pillagers of innocence. Every day on a hundred worlds, males seized women, violated their bodies and broke their spirits. Not all males were bad, but enough were evil to keep the Mercies busy. Sworn virgins, they turned their backs on all emotion save the all-encompassing sympathy for sisters in distress. Male acquaintances, even blood-related, were barred from a Mercy's life. Males were the enemy. And Artemis had defended one from an attack he had probably deserved. “Malediction!” she said crossly. She didn't know 9

Lark Westerly what to do. If the bidder had been a sister, she would have offered her immediate succor and perhaps a new location on Alida. That wouldn't do for a male. She would be reviled, and he would be put down without question as soon as his presence was discovered. To the best of Artemis' knowledge, no male had ever landed on Alida, and no boy child had ever been born there. Artemis sighed. Perhaps he was dead already. That would be best. She bent again, touching his brow. He was crumpled and filthy, and her nose wrinkled at the stench of the open wound on his thigh. It bled sluggishly, which should have cleansed it, but there seemed to be a sickening in the blood. His brow was clammy and cold, and she jerked her hand away. He was dead, or nearly, but as she straightened, his halfclosed eyelids lifted and a pair of eyes, as blue as skylilies, met hers. They were dazed with pain and weakness, but there was a remarkable strength in their depths. The eyelids dropped and his body, which had stiffened against his terrible pain, relaxed. He was dead. Her obligation was extinguished. It had been for nothing. Artemis turned her attention to the scattered, smoking remains of the brutes that had killed the stranger. She nudged one with the toe of her sandal, noting the rigid skin and the livid purplish red of the flesh. The heads were rimmed with bone and covered with scales, the mouths were fanged, and the hands and feet were clawed. Their huge, aggressive-looking genitals, usually coiled for safekeeping, were slack in 10

Windsinger death. They were males, of course. Daemons always were. Daemons. She wrinkled her nose. Daemons lived to kill and steal. They tortured their victims by injecting acid into wounds, an acid that sent the most Spartan of beings into a frenzy of self-destruction. Karvallian lionfolk, the bravest of the brave, had been known to gnaw off a limb that had been touched with daemonic acid. With a powerful punt of her foot, she tipped the nearest corpse over the lip of the cliff. The others were too far away to be treated similarly so she looked for a lever. The dead man's staff looked sturdy enough. She had to pry it loose from his grip, and as she touched his skin, she felt a pang of regret. Suddenly, his fingers moved, weakly but surely, to clutch her hand. His flesh was icy. He should have been dead. The Daemons stank, and she had no business here. “Hexes!” she muttered as the fingers clutching hers tightened in a spasm of agony. Not even a male deserved the pain he suffered. She must pretend he was a sister and offer him the easing of his passing. “Mercy is thine,” she said, and fumbled with one hand in her pouch for the narcotic spray. Strange how the Amazon Mercies still used the ancient formula alongside synthetic medicines. Not that they had eschewed old ways completely. During Artemis' training, Maeve had shown her alternatives to be used on the many worlds, which frowned on modern ways. “A Mercy uses the best there is,” said Maeve. “If 11

Lark Westerly that is unavailable, she uses the best she has.” Artemis drew forth the spray and thumbed the dial to the right. One notch eased moderate pain while two helped severe pain. Three soothed broken bones and dislocations, and four numbed advanced cancers. Five brought a painless death. “Mercy is thine,” she said again and clicked the dial to the final notch. Her left hand was unpracticed, but her right was imprisoned in that ice-cold clasp. He was strong, even in extremity. He should have been dead already. She brought the narcotic close. She had only to find the vein in his wrist, just below his intricate wristband. One quick touch and he would be out of his agony for good. But somehow, she couldn't bring herself to hasten his death. She thumbed the dial back two notches. “My will is weak,” she murmured and injected the dose. It wasn't enough to bring true relief, but after a time his pain-racked body relaxed. He gave a small sigh, and Artemis tried to withdraw her hand. His clasp grew stronger and when she tugged on his hand, he opened his eyes. She found herself mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze. His long hair, the hue of bronze, fell over his shoulders, halfveiling his face. She smoothed it away with her left hand and looked into his face. His face was broad with high and slanting cheekbones. Despite the mature lines of his body, he was probably little older than Artemis. His lips 12

Windsinger moved weakly, but she could not make out the words. Perhaps he wanted immediate death. “I'll not refuse your need,” she said gently. Her heart swelled with pity as he tried again to speak. This time, the words were audible but still incomprehensible. This world, whatever it was called, did not use Galactic Standard speech. Artemis raised her left hand to her diadem and pressed the translator band. The dying male murmured again. He seemed to be asking a question, but the translator merely blurred and shifted the syllables. It was obviously glitzing again. Again he asked his question. Perhaps he wanted to know if he would die. Amazon Mercies were pledged to be truthful, but only when truth was the best thing for everyone concerned. Artemis couldn't bear to be open this time. Not while his eyes held such wide appeal. Not while her heart held such a heavy feeling of pity. “You are strong,” she said gently. “Perhaps you will mend.” Her tone must have satisfied his need. His clasp relaxed, and he lay back on the rocks. Artemis sat by his side as the shadows marched up the sky, and still he didn't die. She was cold and cramped, but he was colder. She moved to screen him from the wind. The thigh wound looked swollen and purple, so she searched her pouch for a sealant spray. Her fingers brushed spongy, fibrous material and numbed in immediate response. 13

Lark Westerly Leechmoss. Maeve used it to line the drying racks, but it had once had a medical application. Artemis recalled her mentor's words, “Leechmoss used to be applied as a sovereign poultice for the drawing of wounds. It was very effective and could even remove the poison of a venomtoad.” “Then why don't we use it now?” Artemis had asked. Maeve had sighed. “We do use it for certain applications, but not very often for wounds. Most folk find it disgusting, and synthetics are more hygienic. Besides, leechmoss has very real dangers. If you leave it in place too long, it draws and draws unceasingly and will dehydrate its host within an hour.” “What applications do we use it for now?” Maeve's generous mouth had tightened. “In times of necessity, when a rescued sister is found to be implanted with a male embryo, then the complication can be absorbed and removed.” Artemis remembered her mild distaste at that revelation, but her mind clung to one shining fact. Leechmoss could draw venomtoad poison. Did that mean it could be used for daemonic acid? Its dangers could hardly matter to the fallen warrior. If she tried and failed, he would die in an hour. If she did nothing, he would die anyway. She drew the leechmoss from her pouch, teasing the strands apart to form a pad. The stuff stuck to her fingers unpleasantly, sucking at the moisture in her skin. Artemis laid aside the prepared pad and, drawing her saber, sliced at the remains of the leather 14

Windsinger breeches her patient wore beneath his tunic. The limb thus bared was oddly strong and sinewy, but she ignored the strangeness and bent to her task. The wound was deep and narrow, and she hoped the chill of the flesh had slowed the acid's absorption. She closed her eyes for a moment, sickened at what she must do. To put it off would worsen a virtually hopeless situation, so she rose to her knees, thumbed off the heat-mode switch, and brought the curving tip of her saber towards the wound. Breathing pleas for her patient to be still, she forced the blade through the discolored flesh, cutting a neat crosswise slash. Stinking pus spurted forth with the purple of acid behind. The male jerked convulsively at the bite of the saber, but as the corruption began to drain, his taut features relaxed. “Now,” whispered Artemis, “the leechmoss.” Working quickly, she laid the pad of moss on the wound, holding it down with the flat of her hand, and sucking in her lips at the unpleasantness. The graywhite of the leechmoss darkened to red and purple as thousands of tiny suckers reached towards the moisture of the wound. Artemis watched anxiously. If she removed the moss too soon, the poison would continue to corrupt the wound. If she left it in place too long, the patient would die of moisture starvation. She wished she knew the correct amount of time. She took the male's right hand in hers. Running her fingers lightly over the skin of his wrist, she watched 15

Lark Westerly for the slight puckering and lack of elasticity that were signs of dehydration. There was none. She checked the wound and found the leechmoss had swollen to four times its original volume. The deadly chill seemed to lessen, the rigid muscles eased. The patient had lain with his head turned away, but now he rolled it slowly and painfully in her direction. His blue eyes were dim and shadowed but entreating. Artemis was acutely aware of his gaze, but she kept her own eyes fixed on the poultice. The purple color was fading, absorbing into the deeper cells of the rapacious leechmoss. Now the hue was blood red, the bright scarlet of the windpoppy. Suddenly, Artemis knew it was done. She released his hand and drew her saber again. She saw his jaw tense against expected pain. Deftly, she used the blade to ease the leechmoss from its grip. It resisted, but Artemis was strong. With a twist she whipped it away and laid it on a rock to be disposed of later. The stench of putrefaction was gone from the wound, and the blood was bright and clear. Artemis sprayed on a good coating of sealant, working from the outside in a spiral. The red slash faded to pink and then to milk white as the sealant dried to a supple, artificial skin. Artemis looked warily at her patient. Even if she had removed all the acid, the male could still die from shock, dehydration or loss of blood. But he would die with ordinary pain. “That's all I can do for you, stranger, and very 16

Windsinger much more than I should,” she said. “If the others knew what I was at, I would be spending a lot of time in the isocell!” She rose from her cramped position and took up his staff. Blue eyes flared with displeasure, and he lifted his hand to detain her. “I need to dispose of the vermin,” she said. “The stink is unbearable.” She used the staff to lever the eight remaining corpses over the cliff. They thudded down the rocky slope, then pitched out into space and were lost in the mist that veiled the land below. “I hope there's no one down there,” said Artemis ruefully. The heavy work had blistered her smarting hands. She rubbed them together and looked about with interest. While intent on a bidding, an Amazon Mercy had no time to admire her surroundings. Surely she could spare a few stolen moments now. The cliff was so high that the plains below were hidden in the haze. Before her lay emptiness lit by the last blaze of the day, while behind, the rocks swept back like a wave, rising now and then in fantastic shapes. To the north she saw forest. Now and again, a twisting, sinuous tree clung defiantly to the rocks between. It was a bright and impressive scene, but she had no idea which world she was on. The Daemons' presence offered no clue for those monsters had infiltrated half a hundred worlds. They had no original technology but instead hijacked craft belonging to spacewanderers or nomadic pilots. They would kill to gain possession of a Mercy's power of translation from one world to the next. Having killed, 17

Lark Westerly they would find that they simply couldn't use it. Artemis shuddered. The diadem she wore looked like a simple jeweled coronet. Within the delicate twisted metal was a mass of intricate circuitry, the translation device, the psychic antennae and the teleport-enhancer that allowed the Mercies to magnify and use their natural skills to tune to the Beacon and travel swiftly through space to a bidding. Many of those they succored believed the Mercies had supernatural powers, a belief the Mercies fostered. If Daemons, or even ordinary men discovered the true source of their power, the technology would be stolen and misused. She should leave this world. Her task was done. She glanced at the male, wondering how he had managed to bid her. She had never heard of it happening before. Or perhaps it had happened and the Mercies involved had shut their mouths. As she must do, she knew, for her own sake and for his. She had no wish to spend even a day in the isocell, and the penalty for spending precious Mercy resource on one of the Enemy would be severe. There was no question of defilement, of course, since the male had been struck down by Daemons, but she dreaded Dia Cleo's reaction if she admitted to succoring a man. Maeve might understand, if not condone it, but Dia Cleo would assume the worst and would place Artemis in the isocell. The best way to keep this incident quiet was to leave immediately and pretend she had been gathering leechmoss all the while. She must leave, but 18

Windsinger still she lingered, frowning down at the one who had bidden her. He was watching her, and she saw the beginnings of a rueful smile twitching his well-cut mouth. He had almost died, yet still he could smile at her. Tears clouded her eyes but could not shut out that gallant smile. If she left while he was helpless, anything might happen. More Daemons might come, or a storm might blow up. Besides, he must be very thirsty. She had done wrong to succor him, but she saw no reason to compound that wrong by leaving a job half done. Artemis closed her eyes and turned slowly about, allowing the diadem to enhance her awareness of the relative humidity of the air. There. A mile or so to the north, among the trees...there was a place of water and food. She replaced the windthorn staff near its owner's right hand, turned on her heel and ran lightly away towards the trees.

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Lark Westerly

Chapter Three Whirlwind.

N

ow that the worst of the agony was gone, his mind had just one focus. He wanted the windwoman. She had vanquished his foes and had tended to his hurts in a most miraculous fashion. But now that he was strong enough to converse and begin to woo her, she had spun away and was racing into the north. His windwoman, with her indomitable spirit, her ethereal beauty and her glorious dark eyes, was leaving him alone. She was the most beautiful, most tempting woman he had seen in a lifetime, and she wasn't staying with him. Frustrated, he struck his fist against the rock. The pain jarred, and he welcomed it, for it took his mind from the sullen ache in his thigh and the throbbing of his blood. He had to have her back. She had come to him out of the wind, the richest gift his Wild Moon could have offered, but the wind had dropped as night came on. Had he the strength to summon it again? 20

Windsinger He forced himself into a sitting position, folded one leg then grimaced as he lifted the injured thigh. The sky swam against his eyes, and he closed them, breathing deeply. The breath of air brushed his cheek, and he focused his mind upon it. “Grow, little one, I would reap thy fury,” he murmured, finding the archaic Wild Moon speech soft upon his tongue. He breathed in short pants, raising his arms in supplication and entreaty. Reaping the dying wind was a difficult feat, even for a man in full strength. He was mad to try it while so depleted, but he had to have the windwoman back and make her his own. A Singing would have been too gentle and too slow, and perhaps the wind would ignore it and bustle off to attend another Windsinger. The breath of air became a flurry, lifting his long strands of hair. The flurry became a breeze, became a wind, became a fury. It howled around him, and he spread his arms in triumph. His windcloak caught in its turbulence and sailed towards him. He scooped it from the air and fastened it about his shoulders. The feathers rippled, the hem lifted in a swirl of glory. The wind whirled and blew from the north. There was a feminine cry of surprise, and the windwoman came racing back from the trees. The wind chivvied her as it chivvied clouds and the birds of the air. Torn leaves and twigs hailed about her shoulders. He trembled with weakness and delight and lowered his arms. He had reaped a fading wind, and the windwoman had returned.

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Lark Westerly **** Artemis had found a grove of trees and a roughly built shelter by a bubbling small spring and had just stooped to fill her flask with water when the gust took her squarely between the shoulders. She strained away, but the wind was inexorable and she found herself racing before it back towards the cliff top. If this continued, she'd plunge over the cliff to destruction. Desperately, she summoned an image of the hillside of Alida. It would do her patient no good if she were dashed into the valley in the wake of the dead Daemons. Her hair whirled madly about her face, and she could barely see a thing. She had no idea where the brink was, but suddenly, the wind dropped. Her veil of hair settled about her slender shoulders, and she raised her hands to rub wind-tears from her eyes. She was back at the cliff top, and the injured man was still where she had left him. He had contrived to sit up in her absence and had put on some sort of cape. Artemis blinked. The cape was beautiful, shot with the iridescence of a jewelbird. Amethyst and sapphire glowed, so did silver and gold, and the deep, deep emerald of the leafstone. It was the most glorious thing she had seen. And, it told her at last just what manner of man she had saved. He was a Windsinger, and so this was the world they called Gale. His eyes opened and the blue shone forth with such a blaze that she was tempted to duck her head. 22

Windsinger A Windsinger. No wonder his eyes held the sky in their depths. But he was still as weak as a half-fledged marshchick, so she had nothing to fear. “You look better, Windsinger,” she said. She knelt to offer the flask of water. “Drink this, and then I'll try to get you down to the trees. That's where you live, isn't it?” She supposed it was, but the shelter seemed crude and poor for such a man. Perhaps he was an exile or a mystic among his kind. Yet he didn't have the look of a criminal or an aesthetic. He drank the water while she mused, never ceasing to watch her. Artemis found his steady regard strangely disturbing. It made her head spin and her body ache in a fashion that was half pain, half pleasure. She should leave immediately, but she had offered to help him down to the trees, and a Mercy's word was her bond. There was water there and shelter of a sort, fruit trees and aromatic shrubs. He would have shelter and sustenance for his recovery. “Come,” she said. He didn't understand, but she continued anyway. “Hexes,” she muttered and held out her hand for the flask. He drained the last of the liquid and laid it in her hand, ducking his head suddenly so his lips touched her wrist, lingering on the pulse point there. Artemis shrank away, and then gave herself a mental shake. Telling herself it was merely some local expression of gratitude, she forced a smile and then took his hand. Lightly, she pinched the back of it to check on the hydration of his skin. He looked much better already. She wondered why she found that surprising. He was a Windsinger, 23

Lark Westerly after all. “Time to go, Windsinger,” she said. She wondered what his name was and trawled her memory for information about these people. She knew very little, for she had not been on Gale before. There had been stray bits of secondhand gossip, mostly from rescued sisters who lived in the Sisterhood Village on Alida. From this, she had gained the impression of an enigmatic race, eagerly sought as mercenaries and champions by the militant worlds. It was apparently rare to find one prepared to leave his homeworld. Completely self sufficient, windfolk paid no dues and expected none. They logged no scores and acknowledged no debts, needing and asking nothing of anyone but their own kind. They seldom troubled anyone. If this one had a name, she concluded, it was unlikely he'd reveal it. She didn't need to know it, for she'd never see him again. Artemis was strong, lissome, and sleekly muscled beneath her feminine curves, and she applied all her strength to help the Windsinger rise. He pushed her gently away, dug his staff in the rock, and levered himself painfully to his feet. He wavered, and Artemis flung her arms around him, pushing him upright. The staff slipped, and she stumbled under his weight. “You're not so strong as you thought, Windsinger,” she said breathlessly, “and you're a whole lot bigger that I thought. Do not inflame that wound, for the leechmoss seems to have blown away.” 24

Windsinger He looked down at her, and his lips twitched in that rueful smile. He said something. Now that his voice was no longer hoarse with agony, she noticed the musical tone. She wondered if he could sing, but it was no concern of hers. He tried to move along the cliff, but Artemis tugged him back. “There's nothing there, Windsinger,” she said. “And if that whirlwind rises again, we'll be blown into next century. We're going to the trees where you can rest in safety.” The journey took time and considerable effort, but they arrived at last at the shelter. It looked new and had an odd air of impermanence, and she wondered again if he lived there all the time. She let him down on a couch of boughs and fetched fruit from the trees. She recognized none of it, but it smelled sweet and wholesome, and according to Maeve, this was usually a safe guide. She laid it within easy reach of the couch. “So, Windsinger, this is goodbye,” she said. “If ever you're in trouble again, please don't call on me. Males have no right to my time and expertise, and tending you could bring me a shuttle load of trouble.” He held out one hand, entreating her in the gathering dark. “I have to go,” she said firmly. “I should never have come here in the first place—” He spoke eloquently, but despite the tightness in her chest, she walked away. She must immediately return to Alida, but to leave in full sight of a male would violate Mercy Lore. And besides that, she 25

Lark Westerly knew that if she stayed in the Windsinger's presence, she'd never summon the concentration she needed to tune the diadem for home. He was too vital, too naked in his desire for her to stay. Had he been a sister, she would have offered him sanctuary on Alida without hesitation, but that was no option now. She was seeking the signal of the Beacon with increasing desperation when the whirlwind struck again. It buffeted her almost off her feet, swirling her about, sending her hair in a flurry. Her tunic strained against her, molding to her hips and bosom, and outlining her slender, rounded thighs. She gasped, arching against the wind, but the turbulence increased. Tufts of leaves, twigs and small branches striped her legs, striking her shoulders like tiny whips. Grit and twigs struck her face, forcing her to close her eyes against the stinging. The violence distorted the Beacon's already-fuzzy signal, and the danger of injury grew. A bough struck her back and another glanced off her head, knocking her diadem awry. She cried out in pain and panic, fearing it was damaged. The wind seemed to lessen a little, held its breath, and then it whirled and caught her again, sending her staggering back towards the trees. She feared even greater danger there, but with every retreating step, the wind seemed to blow less violently and less painfully about her. As she stumbled back into the Windsinger's camp, the fury ceased abruptly. Her ears rang in the sudden silence, her cheeks and arms stung as if she had been scrubbed with sand and fiberleaves. 26

Windsinger “I can see why they call this place 'Gale',” she gasped as she recovered her equilibrium. “I've never seen such weather. It blew up out of nowhere, but it's dropped now.” She looked about at the breathless surroundings, licked her finger and held it up. It dried evenly all around. She glanced at the Windsinger, then looked away. “This time, it really is goodbye,” she said and headed again for the cliffs. Before she had gone a dozen paces, the wind struck yet again. Artemis backed away, and then whirled to look narrowly at the Windsinger, meeting his dimly visible gaze. “I suppose you have nothing to do with this freakish wind?” she said. “No, of course you don't.” Baffled, she shook her head, then moved to sit at the far side of the shelter. “Looks like I'll be staying a little longer, after all,” she said in defeat. **** His woman had left his side three times. Three times Kestrel Windhover had brought her back on the wings of his brother the wind. He wondered if he should feel shamed. Windsinger talents should not be used capriciously, but what else could he do to hold her? He was too weak and too tired to woo her yet, so he had to keep her close until he could offer her the strength of a man. Kestrel was not particularly vain, but he knew he was considered handsome by the standards of his race. He knew he was strong in body and mind, and he knew his talents were higher and his providing 27

Lark Westerly skills better than most. He was solitary, unmated, and lusty, so what unbonded windwoman would find his embrace unwelcome? And this one was unbonded and unbowered. He was somehow sure of that. She was beautiful, so beautiful, a maid of the light. Her eyes were like velvet flowers in her lovely face, her hair was a net of darkness to catch a man and hold him her grateful prisoner. And she seemed to care for him somewhat, he thought. She had come out of the vortex to vanquish the Daemons, and had she not tended to his hurt in a fashion that had, miraculously, brought him back from the brink of his nightfall? It was chastening to be saved by a maiden, but he had given a good account of himself and her weapons were far beyond his simple staff. He had always thought it beneath the dignity of a Windsinger to carry arms of aggression, but after his brush with the Daemons, he was willing to reconsider his position. A man with a mate must find his dignity in caring for her as well as she cared for him. The weapons she bore were fine and lethal, better than any he had seen before. He would never hesitate to fight shoulder to shoulder with her against a common enemy. He lay on his couch willing himself back to strength, his eyes on the maiden. If he'd had the strength, he would have laughed at the irony of the situation. He, who had avoided the bower for so long, was caught fairly now. And the beautiful woman who had caught him had speech as foreign as her garments. Windsinger women of his clan wore voluminous robes or trews and high-cut tunics, and 28

Windsinger most of them cropped their hair for convenience. Perhaps that was the reason he had never before wanted a woman so much. This woman, who had surely journeyed from some other clan half a world away, wore the short boyish garb of the summerside folk. He wondered how she had come to hear his cries. What luck that her Wild Moon wanderings had brought her so far from her home! His arms ached to hold her, to remove her provocative dress. His lips yearned to cover her with caresses. Despite his continuing weakness, the thought of her beautiful body made his blood beat heavily with desire. He did not know where she had come from or where she intended to go, but if he could detain her long enough, he could explore her mysteries. She would learn his speech or he would learn hers; it scarcely mattered which. Perhaps they would learn the language of one another, he thought. It would be a fine thing to have twice the love words at his disposal when he brought her to the bower. He watched her intently, knowing he should sleep to hasten his healing but afraid to close his eyes in case she left him during the night. Her windkite must be somewhere near the cliff where she had joined him unless it had been blown over by his whirlwind. She was sitting cross-legged in a corner of the shelter, but he knew better than to bring her close to him yet. Tonight he could do no justice to her or to himself, so he watched her with hungry eyes until she lay down and settled to sleep. When her breathing deepened, Kestrel rose 29

Lark Westerly unsteadily to his feet. Cursing his weakness and supporting himself on his staff, he moved silently to where the windwoman lay. She had removed her bow and quiver of bolts but kept the saber, which had brought him healing pain, ready by her side. The charming ornament she had worn to confine her dark tresses was tucked half inside her pouch. He could see the gleam of the gems that decorated its band. With all her battle accoutrements removed, she looked less formidable, yet more enticing and more feminine than ever. The white tunic was smeared here and there with dust and his blood, and he could see a scratch on her cheek. Kestrel drew in his breath with a hiss. A twig had made that mark, a twig borne on the wings of his windraising. Remorsefully, he reached out to stroke her injured face. Such perfection, and he had caused it to be marred. If she was restless in the night she might injure herself on her weapons, so he gathered them up and put them away in the chest. He covered her with a sheet of hammer-cloth, and lingered for a while, gazing down at her with possessive eyes. She was already his in his mind, as decidedly his as the windcloak and staff he had made. And he was already hers, as completely in her hands as his life had been when she healed him on the cliffs. He wanted to be a part of her, but that must wait until both of them were rested. He went softly back to his couch, where he relaxed at last into sleep.

30

Windsinger

Chapter Four Jewelfeather.

A

rtemis stirred and woke. Birdsong swirled about her like a dream, and some soft, light cloth covered her against the chill. She opened her eyes, blinked, and sat up with a jerk. “Commination!” she exclaimed. “It's morning!” She moaned with fear and frustration. All hope of returning undetected to her quarters was gone now. It had been moonrise when she had left Alida, and she had come to Gale in the late afternoon. She had slept through the darkness, and it was morning on Gale, so on Alida it must be close on noon already. She must return at once, before the other Mercies sounded the alarm to Dia Cleo. Maeve might understand her misadventure. Dia Cleo would never even try. She swept back her hair, then glanced automatically at her patient to assure herself of his wellbeing. The Windsinger was asleep, his bronze locks falling over his face. She had a strange urge to brush them back so she could see his expression, could make certain he was truly on the mend, but she 31

Lark Westerly told herself sternly that she had better not disturb him. He had seemed agitated at the thought of her leaving him the night before, so surely it would be politic to steal away now without disturbing him any more. She listened acutely, and could hear nothing but bird song beyond the shelter's rustic wall. The wind had dropped in the night, and the morning was cool and fresh. She thrust away her covering and pushed herself back on her heels, feeling tired and grubby. Her tunic was stained, and she looked forward to taking it off. Absently, she groped for her diadem and weapons, but her hand met nothing except the smooth floor. She must have moved in her sleep. She must have shifted away from the place she had lain when weariness had overcome her. She must have somehow found the cloth and crawled beneath it to shelter herself from the cold. She flushed vividly. It was just as well she'd not moved in the direction of the Windsinger instead. As a source of warmth, he would have been tempting to her unconscious body, but to lie down near a male was forbidden. Artemis inched forward, sweeping her hands before her into the shadows along the rough-hewn wall. Nothing. She shook out the cloth, then swiveled round, searching frantically. Perspiration broke out on her brow and upper lip. If a Daemon had come or if a thief of any persuasion had stolen her belongings while she slept, she would be in the most fearful trouble. An active Amazon Mercy never relinquished 32

Windsinger her weapons and diadem until circumstances such as death or the increasing infirmity of age made it impossible for her to carry out her functions. The accoutrements were then handed over ceremoniously to her successor if one could be found. Artemis shuddered at the thought of what would happen to a Mercy who was careless enough to lose her accoutrements while she slept. She breathed deeply, forced herself to stop her flurried search. A Daemon would have killed her while she was helpless, so the thief had not been a Daemon. Few thieves of any kind would bother to enter such a crude and isolated dwelling. And she was sure no animal would carry off such unappetizing articles. It would make no sense. That left a single possible culprit. The Windsinger. Slowly, she turned to face him. He had woken during her search and was watching her through halfclosed eyes. Those eyes were as blue as the skylily, as bright as the wide clean air, as intense as the color of summer. They were eyes that were full of expressive goodwill, with no hint of slyness in their depths. Surely he could not be the thief. Surely he would never stoop to steal from her. Not when he owed her his life. But why should that trouble him? Windsingers acknowledged no debts. Artemis clenched her hands. His color, she noted, was much better today, and his eyes were brighter and more alert. The leechmoss really had removed all 33

Lark Westerly daemonic poison from his system. “I'm really pleased for your regained health, Windsinger,” she said fiercely, “but I'll thank you to return my gear. Not because you owe me anything for saving your life, but because you have no right to take something I didn't offer. Here. I suppose this blanket is yours. You may have it back.” He was watching her and gave no sign of comprehension as she tossed the covering in his direction. He must know what she wanted. She resorted to mime, drawing an imaginary saber at her hip, nocking an imaginary arrow at breast height, and raising her arms to touch her rumpled hair. Then she spread her hands in supplication and met his gaze full on. The Windsinger's eyes never shifted, but he smiled and rose unhurriedly to his feet. She noted he no longer needed the staff for support. He had removed the ruined leather garment of yesterday and was now clad in a simple dark breechcloth and crossed breastband. Despite her agitation, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his half-naked body. The sealant she had applied had produced a supple artificial skin, and, apart from the slightly discolored patch on this thigh, there was nothing to show the terrible wound had been there. It must still have been paining him under the patch, but he gave no sign of discomfort. “I need my accoutrements,” she said again, and this time he stretched out his hands to her, asking a question in his melodious tongue. “Now what?” she muttered. Had he mistaken her 34

Windsinger request, or was he making one of his own? She repeated her actions, and again he held out his hands, watching her intently. She flinched as he came forward to take her hands in a warm clasp. It was one thing to touch him while he was weak and ailing, but another to have him touch her with such confidence and strength. It was forbidden contact. It was highly dangerous for both of them. “No,” she protested. Her voice seemed strange as if a lump lodged in her throat, and she pulled away. “No. It is death for a male to touch a Mercy with intent. I need my belongings,” she added as firmly as she could. “Please give them to me.” It went against her grain to plead with him, since he should not have taken them in the first place, but she needed to retrieve her weapons and diadem immediately. Without them she was no Amazon Mercy, but simply a woman like the sisters she succored. Without accoutrements, she had no powers but those in her hands and mind, and no proper route of escape from this wind-scoured world. For a third time, she mimed her needs, and this time he seemed to understand. His face lit up and he nodded and pointed to a wooden chest that stood by his couch. “My things are in there?” she said uncertainly. “I may take them?” This time his gesture was one of offering, and he bent to raise the lid of the chest. He smiled his understanding and she smiled back before retrieving her gear. “You kept them safe for me in the night, 35

Lark Westerly Windsinger,” she said. “I thank you.” She put on her bow, quiver and saber-belt, and then bent again to take up the diadem. The Windsinger stopped her with a shake of his head, and her spirits sank. “I must have it,” she said, reaching out. “It is mine.” The Windsinger took the diadem in both hands and held it above her head. She looked at him uncertainly. No man should touch the accoutrements of an Amazon Mercy, any more than he should ever touch their owner. He had handled them before, though, so it could do no harm to let him place the diadem now. If she resisted, or if she tried to snatch it away from his hands, he might suspect it was more than a pretty ornament. Perspiration dewed her brow at the thought of how Mercy Lore would deal with one who allowed the Amazons' secrets to fall into the hands of a male. She waited, biting her lower lip, but he did not fit the diadem on her head. Instead, he laid it gently aside on the chest. Before she realized what he intended, he had slipped his hands beneath her heavy fall of hair. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the tresses, letting them slide sensuously through his fingers to fall back about her bare shoulders. A brilliant blush stained her cheeks, and she looked up in confusion. His gaze was fixed on his hands, and his expression was awed and enchanted. Artemis stiffened. There was terrible danger here. The Windsinger was touching her with obvious delight. He was looking at her in a fashion that no 36

Windsinger man should employ on an Amazon Mercy. She put up her hands to indicate that he should place the diadem now, but his own hands were there, ready to take hers in a warm clasp that made her pulses beat wildly with terror. “Stop it,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control. “I must go—please—you must never do that. You don't know what you're risking.” Tears stung her eyes, and she told herself they were tears of rage and frustration that she should be in such a ridiculous and compromising situation. The Windsinger saw her dismay and released her hands. He placed the diadem gently on her brow. She felt him adjusting it, settling it firmly in place, and again she quivered. Hot spears of sensation went shooting through her body. “Thank you,” she faltered and backed out of his reach. Now that the time had come, she was curiously reluctant to return to Alida and the other Mercies. There would be so much explaining to do, for not only had she overstayed her time on Gale, but she had not even registered the bidding before she left. She had thought at the time that the urgency excused her, but things looked different now. Returning was going to be so difficult and potentially dangerous. She wondered distractedly how she could avoid telling Maeve and Dia Cleo of her foolish error and its aftermath. It would be far better if her fellow Mercies believed she had not been able to find the one who had bidden her. She could let them think she had 37

Lark Westerly searched fruitlessly all the night for her suffering sister. A Mercy was generally truthful, but how would truth serve anyone well this time? Truth would bring trouble to her for a simple error, and might bring disaster to him. He had taken far too many liberties with her, but she believed he had not realized he was doing wrong. Why should he be punished for that? She smiled once more at the Windsinger. It seemed churlish to leave without some proper form of goodbye, although he wouldn't understand anything she said to him. Well—she had treated him as a sister so far, and might as well do so until the end. She put her palms together in the traditional farewell used by the Mercies to those whom they held in friendship or respect. “Farewell, Windsinger, may your path be free of thorns,” she said formally. Then she grinned and added; “And please do watch out for the Daemons! I won't save your skin a second time, but I hate to have my hard work go for nothing!” With that, she left the shelter and stepped out into the sunwashed morning. She touched the diadem, turning about to focus on the Beacon of Alida, but the signal still seemed strangely imprecise. She frowned, turning again. Usually, the Beacon called as clearly as a woodtrill, but today the focus was fuzzy and broken just as it had been in the windstorm last night. The thing was glitzing again, and this time it could be serious. “Hexes!” she said, and turned again, frowning as she tried to drag the Beacon into focus. As she 38

Windsinger revolved, she caught sight of the Windsinger. He was standing at the entrance of his shelter, leaning again on his staff. The breechcloth gleamed dark in the sunlight, and Artemis was aware of her own begrimed tunic. Her spirits sank to her sandals, for the Beacon signal was too weak and much too erratic for her to make a safe transition to Alida. She removed the diadem, and examined it minutely. As she had feared, several of the strands that formed the intricate filigree of wires were damaged; the hairline cracks had doubtless occurred when the branch had struck her the night before. The diadem had seemed undamaged then, but now the brilliant sunlight threw the flaws into relief. She touched the filigree gently, cursing under her breath. Mercy Lilith could mend it for her when she got back to Alida. But to get back to Alida, she needed the diadem. Glitzing was one thing, but actual structural damage to the conductors was another. This was a pretty problem, indeed, and she had no idea how to solve it. The Windsinger came and stood beside her, obviously wondering what she was doing and why she seemed frozen in place. She couldn't let him guess the implications of what had happened, nor could she properly pretend that all was well. He was much too intelligent not to have noticed her concern with the diadem. He was looking at it, and at her. Thinking quickly, she gave a rueful shrug and indicated the damaged diadem, pouting a little as if piqued at the ruin of a trinket. He reached out, and, 39

Lark Westerly after a painful hesitation, she handed it to him. He stroked the cracks with a fingertip, lips pursed in thought. Then his face cleared and he turned to smile at her reassuringly, holding out his metal wristband for her inspection. He said something that sounded positive and cheerful. If she were not mistaken, he thought he could mend the diadem. It went against all her training, but it seemed the only choice she had to escape this place. She gathered her courage and nodded, and the Windsinger moved slowly back into the shelter. Even in her disquiet, Artemis noticed that he no longer limped and barely seemed to favor the damaged limb at all. His constitution, as she had noted before, must be remarkable. He bent once more to the wooden chest and removed a small pouch, which he displayed for her approval. She would have taken it, but he shook his head, smiling, and indicated his wristband again. He said something, took up a tiny metal probe and brought it against the band. Deftly, he twisted the relief pattern and gave it an extra curlicue. “You repaired your armband?” she hazarded. “Or maybe you made it?” He had done one or the other obviously, and it hardly mattered which. The filigree was not an active part of the diadem's circuitry. It served merely as a conductor, so his repair would do no harm and would probably do some good. It would be much better if she could borrow his tools, but he seemed disinclined to lend them. Perhaps he needed this task 40

Windsinger to salve his pride. She bit her lip but told herself there was no way he would ever discover the circuitry inside the diadem. It was cleverly shielded from all but the most sophisticated instruments. There could be no danger from someone whose only form of defense was a wooden staff. The Windsinger settled cross-legged under a tree and began his delicate work. Artemis, having nothing better to do, sat down to watch. His hands moved surely, unhurriedly, and she glanced at the sun. The morning was advancing, so after a while she fetched fruit from the sweetest smelling of the trees. It was a different kind from that which she had found before, round, deeply cleft and covered with a velvety rind. She handed it to the Windsinger, and he took it with a long, unsmiling glance that seemed to probe her very soul. She wondered if she had somehow offended him, but he removed the rinds from two of the fruits and with the same strange, arrested expression, offered one back to her. She thanked him and accepted it, biting into the succulent flesh with relish. He gave her a blinding smile before eating his share and taking up the diadem again. The work was slow and painstaking, and Artemis tried not to fidget as the Windsinger's big hands dealt with the tiny probes and hair-fine wire. It was noon on this part of Gale by now, and later yet on Alida, but at least she had the perfect excuse for her tardy return. 41

Lark Westerly She would explain that a chance gust of wind had caused damage to the diadem, and that a local crafter had offered tools to repair it. This was a simple tale, and she need not mention the Windsinger and his bidding. She need not mention that he, not she, had done the repairs, or that she had ever allowed the diadem out of her hands. She moved restlessly about the camp, examining things here and there, wondering again if this were his permanent residence. It seemed increasingly likely that it was not, for, apart from the few belongings in the shelter, she saw no sign of any attempt to make the place a home. She decided he must be a crafter, and therefore not as primitive as she had thought. It followed that he would have made or traded for furnishings and comforts had he intended to remain for long in this place. He did not act like an exile or a criminal, so perhaps he had come to meditate or simply to refresh his spirit in the wilderness. She glanced back at the Windsinger. He seemed absorbed in his task, and she smiled a little. So much mystery was made about the windfolk, but this one seemed gentle and generous despite his arrogant appearance and evident strength. The Mercies showed so much antipathy toward males that the whole sex had grown almost demonic in their minds. The Windsinger was undeniably male, but she felt instinctively that he meant her no harm. She sensed that her regard was unsettling him, so she wandered off, bending to touch flowers, pausing 42

Windsinger often to examine the strange trees and rock formations. She would probably never visit this world again, so she might as well enjoy the view while she could. Now the sun was high, she could see the underlying color of the place. The trees and grass were brighter than those she was used to. The sun had a sparkle and the air a lucid quality that was missing on Alida. She was delighted to see a jewelbird darting from one tree to another. She had heard of such creatures on other worlds and had seen their feathers in the Windsinger's cloak, but she had never observed one in flight before. She stared wonderingly at its delicate beauty and was enchanted when it flitted from the tree and landed on her shoulder. Hardly daring to breathe, she tilted her head sideways to see the lovely creature. Its plumage gleamed green and gold in the sun, and it trilled a few notes before flitting off to another tree. A single glistening feather spiraled down, and Artemis picked it up, twisting it to catch the sunlight. Its colors reflected against the white of her tunic. She longed to share the delight of experience with someone, but she knew she never could. None of the other Mercies would care to know and the Windsinger, who might have understood her enchantment, was unable to understand her language. It seemed increasingly wrong that he and she, who had fought death and won, who had shared shelter and food, who had traded skills for one another's benefit should be wordless with each other. He was a 43

Lark Westerly male, but he had offered her no intentional harm and indeed was mending her diadem. Still holding the jewelfeather, she walked slowly around to where he sat. The lowering sun sliced under the tree and struck his bronze hair with a reddish sheen, making it gleam like copper. His face, now no longer drawn and shadowed with pain, glowed, and she realized that his skin held a faintly golden tint. Man or not, he was as attractive in his way as the jewelbird. He looked up inquiringly as she approached, and she held out the feather in explanation, touching her own shoulder and whistling a phrase of the jewelbird song. He took the feather, then whistled a second phrase and favored her with another of his breathtaking smiles. He touched her upper chest lightly and asked a question. Perhaps he too wished to exchange names before their parting. “I am Artemis,” she said clearly, separating the syllables and indicating herself. “Artemis of the Amazon Mercies. And you are?” Putting the question with voice and raised brows, she leaned forward and touched his smooth chest with her fingertips. He inhaled sharply then spilled forth several syllables, liquid as birdsong. She shook her head, miming puzzlement, so he took her by the hand and led her to the edge of the trees. He scanned the sky then pointed upwards to where a brown-colored bird rode the air currents in a lazy spiral. “It's a kestrel,” she said uncertainly. “A windhover. Oh! That's your name. Kestrel?” 44

Windsinger She indicated the bird, and then the man, and he nodded. “Kestrel,” she said more certainly. “And I am Artemis.” “Artemis,” he agreed and touched her chest again. This time, his fingers lingered, brushing gently over the fabric of her tunic, questing for the neckline. Artemis backed away, shaking her head, her foreboding flowing back like floodwater. “You should never touch me.” “Artemis?” “I am Artemis. You are Kestrel,” she stammered. “You must not touch a Mercy in such a way. Not ever.” He was smiling, but his eyes were burning blue, and she thought he was enjoying her confusion. Perhaps he was not the gentle giant he appeared, but she dared not leave him until her diadem was repaired. The sharing of names had been a grave mistake, but she knew why she had done it. An Amazon Mercy owned almost nothing, and a name was one of the few things that might be given and kept at the same time. Artemis. It was the name that Dia Maeve had given her shortly after her rescue. It was not usually done to take a Mercy name before receiving Mercy status and diadem, but Maeve had been so certain about her and had overridden Cleo's indignation. Maeve had proved correct. Artemis had ridden triumphantly through the trials and lessons, even mastering the diadem with less than the usual pain. She could have been a medic by now, had her skills at 45

Lark Westerly answering biddings not been so effective. Thinking about it now, she almost laughed. Her instinct for a bidding had been right off course this time. Her stat-lines were crossed and tangled, no mistake about it.

46

Windsinger

Chapter Five Bowering.

T

he evening came in suddenly and as the sun dropped, a cold wind began to blow steadily through the camp. The Windsinger seemed undisturbed but Artemis, still in her brief tunic, began to shiver. She set her jaw and hugged herself for protection, but the cold increased and the thought of another night in the chill hut filled her with dismay. She could borrow the covering again, but it was his, and she thought it was perhaps the only one he had. “Will it take much longer?” she asked, indicating the diadem. The Windsinger glanced up in surprise, then pointed to the last edge of sunlight that glinted low in the western sky. He swept his hand around and indicated a spot directly above them. The implication was clear. He thought the diadem would be mended by noon the next day. “Hexes,” muttered Artemis. Mercy Lilith would have had it functioning within an hour. But then Lilith would not be working with hand-held metal 47

Lark Westerly probes. She would use laser and circuit solder as a microspray. It seemed ungrateful to compare the Windsinger's mode of repair with Lilith's, but she wanted to be gone from this forest clearing and from its disturbing occupant as quickly as she could. Surely he could work faster than this? But to urge him to more speed, even if he understood her, would have made him suspicious. He must continue to believe, like everyone else who ever encountered a Mercy, that the diadem was nothing but a pretty ornament, worn for ceremonial decoration. She shivered and blew on numb fingertips. Her companion contemplated her, then put aside the repair. “No, go on,” she urged. He ignored her protest and went into the hut, beckoning her to follow. From the chest where he had laid her weapons and pouch the night before, he removed a folded tunic, which he handed to Artemis with one of his open smiles. She thanked him. It was clean and blue and a good deal bigger and thicker than hers. She waited for him to leave, but he beckoned her outside again, and she followed him through the trees to a natural depression in the rock where water bubbled from the ground to form a shallow pool. Artemis shuddered. It made sense to bathe before assuming clean clothes, but even an Amazon Mercy flinched from submerging her already-chilled body in mountain-cold water. She bent to dip in her fingers and was considerably surprised to find that the water was not cold at all. 48

Windsinger There was even a faint heat-shimmer hovering above the surface. She glanced doubtfully at Kestrel, but he had already turned away and was leaving the clearing. That was a relief. She had had no idea of the Windsinger code of modesty. Or if they even had one. A traveling Mercy saw many cultures, some aspects of which were shocking to her morals and sensibilities. And, she reflected honestly, the Mercy codes she followed were as shocking to some of them. Anxious matrons who wanted her to cover her legs or hair had often waylaid her in the middle of a rescue. Some had offered her shield-like garments designed to flatten her breasts and had been distressed or insulted when she had refused to wear them. Artemis hunkered down and dipped her fingers into the pool. Her instinct had been right. The water was warm. Artemis slicked off her soiled garment, shivered slightly, and slid naked into the pool. The warmth of the water lapped her chilled skin. It felt wonderful, but she dared not spend too long at her ablutions. The Windsinger could return at any moment, and modesty code or not, she would feel dangerously exposed without the protection of clothes. As soon as she was warmed through, she climbed out, rosy and glowing, and toweled herself briskly on her discarded tunic before diving into the one Kestrel had given her. As she expected, it was much too big, slipping off her shoulders. The hem fell to her knees, the belt 49

Lark Westerly came around her hips instead of embracing her waist, and the short sleeves covered her arms to the elbow. The cloth was supple and soft. She thought it seemed like very fine leather, and although part of her rebelled at the thought of wearing an animal skin, the other part, that feminine core that she rarely acknowledged, thrilled to the sensuous softness against her skin. She adjusted the belt, gathering in the surplus material, and settled the gathers about her. The neck gaped, but her hair filled in the gap. A twig cracked behind her, and she turned to see the Windsinger returning. He carried an armful of glory, which he held it out in an unmistakable gesture of invitation. It was his windcloak. “It's yours,” she stammered, but he smiled and offered the cloak again. There was a warm expression in his blue eyes. Artemis was cold. The warmth garnered from the water was fading fast in the chill air. “Artemis,” he said, and her name was sweet in his musical voice. “Kestrel?” It seemed only polite to respond in kind. “Artemis.” He held out the cloak again, shaking the folds, extending it like wings. She smiled, then half turned so that he could drape the cloak over her shoulders. Her first thought was that it was gloriously light, and then the warmth began to spread over her. Kestrel adjusted the fastening and lifted her hair clear of the gleaming collar. No one had helped her garb herself since her mother, Laura, had been killed. To 50

Windsinger hide the sudden rush of tears, she glanced down at herself. The cloak cradled her neck and shoulders, then formed a deeply scooped neckline to cover her from breast to ankle. Even in the dull evening light, the colors glimmered and shone like the jewelbirds from which they came. It was the most glorious thing she had seen, and by far the most luxurious garment she had ever worn. With the windcloak for protection, she could brave the chills of Gale. She smiled her thanks, impulsively reaching out to touch his hand as she might have touched one of the Mercies who had rendered her an extraordinary kindness. Something unsettling leapt in his eyes, so she withdrew her hand in haste and headed towards the shelter. The lovely garment brushed her calves as she walked, but a gentle tug at the collar warned her that the Windsinger had followed and had other ideas about their proper direction. He had put on another cloak, a garment of the same soft hide with a single feather woven in at shoulder level. The quill gleamed green and gold, and she recognized the one she had given to him earlier. Was this perhaps the genesis of a new windcloak? It was obvious that he would use cast-off feathers for his weaving, for if the birds were ever hunted for their plumage they would not be so friendly and confident. Beneath the cloak, at his hip, hung a large cloth bag, and in his hand was the windthorn staff. He had made a bundle of her weapons, pouch and soiled tunic, and this he now handed to her. She saw he 51

Lark Westerly must be planning to leave the campsite and wanted her to come along. If she had been correct in assuming that this place was a temporary lodge, it seemed likely he would return to his usual place of residence. She wondered where that was, but she supposed it could do no more harm to go with him now than it had done to spend time with him already. If he couldn't mend the diadem after all, she would have to investigate alternative routes home to Alida. There was bound to be a shuttleport on Gale. There had to be. Maybe there was even one bound for Parallax. The fare would be costly, and the delays intrusive, but the Mercy coffers would pay, and perhaps folk leaving Gale would welcome an Amazon Mercy to guard their party. All of this went through her mind in a flicker. Mercy training had taught her to think quickly and to weigh up courses of action. “Yes, Kestrel, I'll come wherever you're going,” she said and followed the Windsinger. She was a little dismayed when he headed for the cliff top, but perhaps there was a way down after all. She hoped so, for the cliffs were a treacherous place for a journey, even on a world with a more predictable air stream than Gale. The walk to the cliff where they had met seemed shorter than it had done when taken in reverse the evening before. Then she had had to support the Windsinger's faltering steps, but now she found herself panting as she tried to keep up with his fluid 52

Windsinger stride. He must have the constitution of a Wonthaggi Ox to have made such a swift and complete recovery. It was difficult to believe that he was little more than a day from what had seemed a certain and agonizing death by demonic poison. She shook her head in amusement and hastened in his wake. He was an exasperating and puzzling creature, but she could not be sorry she had saved him though the error had inconvenienced her and stranded her on his primitive world of Gale. They reached the lip of the cliff before it was fully dark, and to Artemis' relief he had aimed for a place some distance from the spot where they had fought the Daemons. Just as well, she thought. If they were supposed to clamber down some obscure path in the cliff she had no desire to stumble over the stinking corpses of her late enemies. In this place, the rock was uneven with great, stacked pinnacles and mesas pocked with holes and caves. The Windsinger cast about like a scent hound, then retrieved a bundle of windthorn staffs from one of the small caves. Artemis watched uncertainly as he unlaced the leather thong that bound them and pulled them apart. Evidently they were still linked together in some manner, for she saw his muscles rippling smoothly as he worked. She heard distinct clicks as if joints were snapping into place, but it wasn't until he shucked off his cloak and lashed it onto the struts that she realized that he was assembling a light aircraft. Perhaps it was a flitter, or perhaps a gyro. She wondered when he would attach the motor and 53

Lark Westerly where he had it stashed. With Daemons about, it made sense not to keep all component parts of his craft in the one place. So…the struts in this cave, the leather wing in the chest at the shelter, the motive power someplace else. He raised the craft above his head, his bare torso expanding with the effort, then settled it on his shoulders and fastened a broad strap around his chest, lacing it through the crossed breastband he was wearing. He turned slowly, almost as she herself turned when tuning the diadem to a beacon. He stiffened as a sight hound might and closed his eyes. She saw his lips move, heard the liquid, musical sounds that emerged. He was singing, and she was abruptly entranced, breathing a deep, unconscious sigh of pleasure. As he sang, a flight of jewelbirds gathered from the rocks and flew to join the music. They perched for a moment on the Windsinger's upraised hands and arms, twittering and trilling a counterpoint to his song. He smiled and tossed them into the air, and they swooped and wove about him until Artemis was dizzy with delight. They were spectacular in the dusk. In daylight they would have been breathtaking, not only for their colors and songs, but for their trust in the Windsinger and their evident joy in living. At length, the jewelflock swooped away, and the fitful wind that had been blowing around the cliffs seemed to gather purpose and direction and shifted to center itself squarely behind them. Artemis felt the windcloak filling and lifting, the feathers caressing 54

Windsinger her limbs and neck with sensuous pleasure. Her scalp crisped, for it was almost as if the Windsinger's song had called the wind to obedient attention. The glamour of jewelbirds and music was fading. The windcloak's touch was too personal, and she felt unsafe on the cliffs. Kestrel turned towards her. He had stopped singing and was smiling and holding out his hands. “What is it?” she said, still dazed from his song and the birds and the beauty. “Do you want the cloak back now?” She touched the fastenings, but he shook his head. His smile deepened, and he made one of his unmistakable gestures of invitation. Artemis saw the hide covering of the craft billowing and lifting, and suddenly, with a shock like cold water down the spine, she understood. This primitive vehicle had no engine, no other source of power than the wind and the strength and will of the Windsinger. He was perilously close to the lip of the cliff, and the rising wind was catching the sail, rocking him on his heels. “Come back, you fool!” she snapped, too angry to be polite. “I didn't mend your leg to have you smash yourself at the foot of a cliff!” She reached out to urge him back from the edge, and the Windsinger smiled his dangerous smile and put out his hands to meet hers. There was a shock of sensation, a jolt as if she had touched a stat-charged saber, and she was in his arms, cradled against his great chest, held close to his heartbeat. He bent a little to settle her comfortably, and she 55

Lark Westerly thrilled momentarily with the wonder of it. She had not been held this way since—but she had never been held this way. With this realization came another: that they had left the cliff and were plummeting towards the ground far below. **** Kestrel Windhover was drunk with delight. He had won his windwoman wholly into his arms and with much less effort than he had feared. He had not had to wait another day, nor even another moonrising. She had come to him of her own accord and without any pretence of disinterest. Not only had she offered bridal-fruit and accepted it from him, but she had put on his tunic and his windcloak the first time he had asked her. She had protested a little, as a maiden should, but she wore the garb that had touched his body, wore it against her own sweet skin with the windcloak still warm from his wearing. She had offered him music, offered him her name. So simply had she accepted his gifts and given herself in return. And now she had made the final commitment. She had accepted his invitation to ride the wind in his arms. This was the ultimate act of trust for the windfolk, who wanted no obligation and who preferred to trust in themselves. His blood pounded through his veins and his rod throbbed. He could have taken her there on the wings of the wind, but he forced himself to damp his ardor until the appropriate time and place. 56

Windsinger The wind for the wooing, the bower for the winning, and everything the way it must be done. He had waited a long time to bower a mate, and now he would reward himself by pleasuring her as no woman had ever been pleasured before. And he would reward himself further by loving her all his days. He looked down at her tenderly, tracing the outline of her pearly face in the dusk. Her eyes were dilated, and her soft mouth was held in a rigid line. Incredibly, she was afraid. He could have laughed at the absurdity of being afraid in the arms of her love, and still less in the arms of their brother, the wind. Surely she understood its singing, for had she not arrived out of the vortex herself? He had thought her high caste, for only the most adept of his folk would ride the wind without the wing of a kite. And now she was afraid? Perhaps she had fallen from her windkite. The summerside folk of Gale were not so skilled at the management of the air. He wondered if she had tumbled to his aid on the cliffs by accident, or if the wind, his boisterous brother, had decided to gift her to him as she passed. To ease her fear, he braked the swoop and angled the windwing for climbing. The airflow took them and arced them through the air, and he dived exuberantly and arced again to prove his mastery of the craft. “You are safe,” he said. “I am safe in the arms of my brother, and you are safe in mine.” 57

Lark Westerly The hammercloth wing sang sweetly and the windthorn masts bent gracefully, but his lover moaned and tears ran from her eyes. He abandoned the aerobatics and let the windrush carry them on towards their landing. “Artemis,” he said, using her strange and musical name as a love word. “Artemis Windhover, you are and shall be forever.” He gathered her more closely against him, his arms about her thighs and shoulders. One lovely breast teased his chest through the layers of hammercloth and down, and he trembled with anticipation. He released a broad bight of hammercloth from the wing and looped it under his thighs so that he was able to sit in the air and draw her into his lap. Holding her to him, he stroked her rigid shoulders and kissed her cheeks, kissed her taut jaw, her eyelids and then, unbearably tempted, he touched his lips to her mouth. The tautness eased, her lips trembled, and parted, and he tasted the salt of her tears. He kissed her gently, but with all the skill at his command, stroking that enticing breast with the tips of his fingers until the nipple hardened against the caress. He thrust his hand beneath cloak and tunic and pushed his palm to her breast. His breath was coming fast, and he knew he had to come to land, now, now, before he lost control of himself and the kite. Taking her into his lap had been a mistake. You fool, he thought, smiling a little at his own anticipation. He was a grown man, and he should not 58

Windsinger have been so importunate as this. He flung his challenge back to the wind. Why should a lover not anticipate the future? He laughed with urgent delight at the hours to come. He would let the winds of desire carry him where they would, just as the winds of Gale carried the windwing. His mastery of the air would be nothing to his mastery in the bower. The sensual rush of the wind would be nothing to the love of a Windsinger and his mate. His pride was great. He had always known his worth, but now he had won the most splendid treasure that any man could crave. Touching his mouth to the windwoman's again, he angled the windkite downward, and brought them to rest in a grassy dell, screened by the upthrust of the cliffs. It was growing late, so there would be no traditional bower, but he could smell flowers and sweet warm herbs, and perhaps these would serve his purpose better still. Holding his lady close to his body, he wrenched free of the straps that bound him to the windwing. He let it slide to the grass, and the wind dropped to a gentle breeze. He could have stilled it utterly, but his blood ran hot and he welcomed the touch of its breath. He wanted his spiritual brother to witness the triumph they had won. He set Artemis on her feet, unfastened the windcloak and let it fall in a pool about her. He loosed her girdle, then bent and stripped the oversized tunic from her body. It was close to full dark now, but he could see her dimly, and his hands 59

Lark Westerly seemed endowed with extra senses to learn what his eyes could not. He ran his palms over her, caressing her breasts, rejoicing as they hardened in response. He slid his hands down her thighs and around her sweetly curving buttocks, pressing her to his own aching desire. All the time he was kissing her wildly, kissing away any words she might have tried to say. Love words could come later, when they had the leisure to learn one another's tongues. Love words were for later visits to the bower. For now, there was only the wind and the dark. There was only the perfume of green and growing things and the warmth of her sweet, mysterious body. A bringing to the bower was not to be hurried but was to be savored to its fullest extent. A Windsinger should hold desire in check for hours, but with Artemis in his arms, Kestrel Windhover felt less of a Windsinger and more of a man. He could not wait an hour for their pleasure. He could not wait another minute. And surely there was no shame in that. Perhaps his brothers who boasted of their powers of control were more concerned with their pride than with their ladies' desires. He had plenty of pride, but his pride was in her and not in himself right now. He lifted his love against his chest, then bent and laid her on the spread windcloak. He undid his breechcloth and tossed it impatiently aside. His breath hissed through his teeth at the cool relief of the air against that most sensitive part of his body, but then he imagined her soft hands touching him there and abruptly he was on fire. He staggered a little and 60

Windsinger knelt astride her on the cloak. She had curled up, her hands shielding her breast and groin, but he took her wrists and coaxed her fingers to open. He stroked her soft, inner thigh and brushed his fingers through the curling fleece that grew there. She shuddered and cried out, so he brought her right hand against himself, clenching his teeth as his rod surged wildly in response to her touch. Her eyes and mouth flew open in protest, and he set his hands to the cloak and let himself down, rolling at the last moment so that he lay on his side. He pulled her into his arms, her hand still trapped between their bodies, her palm rigid with surprise. He kissed her gently, and after a few tense seconds, her hand relaxed and he felt her fingers curl about him, stroking and exploring his contours. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and in an effort to forget the torment she was inflicting on his rod, he pressed her down and bent to take each pointing nipple in turn into his mouth. He suckled fiercely for a moment, but that became unbearable, too. He was writhing, surging against her hand. Almost in despair, he got to his knees, pressed apart her thighs, and brought himself against her softness, teasing and probing her delicately until he thought he would go mad. He throbbed against her, felt the welcome wetness in reply. A little more coaxing and a little more response would ease the path to the bower for her. But nothing could ease him except for the act itself. He must not thrust. He knew that. A primary 61

Lark Westerly bringing to the bower must be soft and gentle. He must not thrust. He must ease into her gently, adapting his body to hers. But suddenly her hands were curving about his buttocks and she was tugging him towards her, raising her knees, arching and panting what were surely words of desire. The engorged tip of his rod slid within her, and with a groan that was close to despair, Kestrel Windhover moved his hands beneath her hips and brought their bodies together with a jolt that shook him to his toes. He cried out with ecstasy, she cried out with astonishment, and he was spiraling, spiraling, and spilling his seed in its warm receptacle in a starburst of sensation. He panted, collapsing, but she was writhing against him still. “Wait a little, my love, my love,” he said. “It will not be long before I ease you as you have eased me.” Nor was it long. He withdrew a little, then caressed her buttocks, her thighs, her breasts, and kissed her belly and throat. He began to harden almost immediately and guided her hand so that she could hold and stroke him to renewed readiness. He was ready to kneel between her spread thighs and tease her to the point of no return, ready to roll suddenly on his back and pull her astride his body, and ready to bring her gently but surely to a shuddering, gasping ecstasy in his arms. He kissed her eyelids, felt her lips on his throat, and then he was shuddering himself for a second time.

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Chapter Six Defiled.

A

rtemis stirred. Her body felt light and far away. Her thighs ached, she was sticky and...and she was defiled. She, an Amazon Mercy, a perpetual maiden, was a maiden no more. And she had not resisted her fate. More than that, she had encouraged the Windsinger, had welcomed his invasion, his maddening toying with her body. His tongue, his lips, his fingers, all had done things to prepare her that she could never have imagined. She had felt that he was twisting her tightly about, increasing the tension until she was ready to explode. And explode she had, going off in a blaze of sensation, bright as a shooting star. Wonderingly, she touched her thighs and the stickiness there. She had been defiled. She never doubted that. Dia Cleo had described the process to her, her narrow face rigid with distaste. A man would strip off a woman's clothes, push her down, and then force his grotesquely swollen member into her body. 63

Lark Westerly Sometimes he would subject her to other tortures, crushing her breasts in his hands, bruising her mouth with fist or teeth. Artemis touched her lower lip with her tongue. It felt swollen and tender. He had certainly handled her breasts and had thrust his member into her body. All had been the way Dia Cleo had described it in her warning. Yet it had not been that way at all. His mouth had been soft and persuasive. His hands had set her on fire, but not with pain. Never with pain. His member; he had let her touch it, let her stroke the soft skin and explore it as she willed. He had rested it against her, but there had been no force except from her. She had grasped at him and had forced him to plunge within her. She writhed with humiliation at the memory, but there was warmth in it, too, for hadn't he held her and stroked her after the defilement and then helped her to a pleasure of her own? Her body throbbed again at the thought, melting and flowing, demanding that pleasure again. Artemis moved uneasily and opened her eyes. She was lying on the windcloak, which was spread on a sweet smelling grassy bank. All around were small groves of trees, hummocks of blossom, and she could hear a stream somewhere in the distance. This was a delightful place, if only she knew where she was, if only she were not shamed and defiled and robbed of the meaning for her existence. The Windsinger was standing a little way off on a small knoll, his bronze hair unbound and hanging 64

Windsinger down his back. He had raised his arms, tilting back his head, and the eye she could see was closed. He was wearing nothing. Not even the breechcloth and band of the day before. His slightly golden body gleamed in the sunlight, and the light wind teased and ruffled the curling bronze hair on his chest and lower belly. She watched him for a moment, until he lowered his arms and, still quite naked, strode away among the grassy banks. She had no idea where he was going, and none of what he intended to do, but she had no intentions of waiting to find out. Her night with the Windsinger had given her pleasures that she knew should never exist. That was why she would not be here when he returned. She must leave him now, immediately. Somehow she must obtain her diadem and travel to a shuttleport, then begin the complex journey back to Alida. She might take the shuttle from Gale to Parallax with its difficult entry rituals. She would return to at last to the Mercy Quarters and—and what? She was defiled, disgraced, and deflowered. She could no longer be an Amazon Mercy. Unless... Artemis chewed her lip, contemplating a daring possibility. She might somehow conceal what had happened to her. She could simply return to Alida and have her diadem repaired, and then continue her ministering work as usual. She was quite uninjured and untorn. There was not a mark on her body that would not be gone in a day 65

Lark Westerly or two. Despite what Dia Cleo had said, she was absolutely undamaged. Mercy Lore would never let the thief of her virtue go unpunished, but the Windsinger had meant her no harm. He had used no force and to punish him for his natural actions would be cruel and unjust. He had been so kind to her, even in the grip of the apparently overwhelming desire to slake his need in her body. She could not give him cruelty in exchange for kindness. She need not bring harm to herself when he had given her none. To let him be punished would not undo what had been done. It would do no good and would hurt them both. The penalty for her was bound to be heavy for something she had never intended to happen, and for something he had intended for her pleasure as well as his own. Perhaps the Windsinger ethical code demanded such an exchange between the parties when one had saved the other's life. If so, it would have been doubly cruel to refuse him. She would leave him now, forget him, and that would be the end of it. Having justified her own inclination to escape and silence, Artemis pushed back the cloak that covered her. Beneath it, she was as naked as the Windsinger. She knew she must leave the valley before his return. She must put on the tunic he had given her, gather her Accoutrements of Mercy and steal away. She had no reason to believe he would try to prevent her from leaving, but every instinct told her to be gone before she had to face him again. 66

Windsinger She bit her lip. She could never face him again. Not with the memory of that extraordinary night between them. She had surrendered so totally to his desires. She had nestled in his arms and slept with deep contentment. She touched her lips with her tongue and tasted salt. She cringed as she remembered how she had licked the healthy sweat from his chest as he held her to him. She could not have imagined the roughness of hairs against her tongue, the firmness of flesh as she closed her teeth so lightly on his shoulder. He had liked it very much. If she'd really done it. No. It had to be some kind of fever dream. She had to get away. She put on the tunic, fumbling with speed, and settled it in place. Her hands on her own hips reminded her of the Windsinger's, of his gentle fingers curving about her as he guided her. Artemis snatched her hands away. Almost sobbing with shame and panic, she laid ready her saber, bow, and quiver. She was searching feverishly through the Windsinger's bundle for her diadem when great arms came around her, and a warm, slightly roughened cheek was pressed against hers. One hand closed gently on her breast, and she stiffened with astonishment, jerking away, her cheeks warming with fury and embarrassment. Imagination and memory had not prepared her for this sudden familiarity. The Windsinger laughed, and turned her in his arms so that her face was against his chest. He said 67

Lark Westerly something cheerful and tugged at the tunic. Artemis clamped her arms to her sides, but her face was still buried against him, and the warm, sweet odor of healthy sun-warmed skin was making her feel faint. She had licked him there. Her mouth remembered the taste of him, as he must remember the taste of her. She clamped her lips shut in horror and tried to squirm away, but he had his arms crossed behind her back, his hands anchored in the cloth of the tunic. Another tug and a cool draft at the backs of her legs warned her, but he stepped back, making her stagger, and lifted the ill fitting garment neatly over her head. He laid it aside, then came purposefully towards her. She knew it would do her no good to run. Despite his late injury, the Windsinger would catch her in seconds. Instead, she tried to screen herself from his gaze. She could feel the things he was seeing. The sensation was something that threatened to engulf her in a maelstrom of confusion. He shook his head, smiling with mischief, then took her hands and lifted them up and out. His eyes darkened with an expression she still didn't recognize, but which made her catch her breath. She felt the fine hairs stir on the back of her neck. He looked her up and down, then knelt suddenly and brought his face against her belly. She cried out with incredulity at the pang that shot through her body, and he looked up at her and ruefully rasped a thumb down his jaw. Angling his face so that only his lips touched her skin, he kissed her gently, around the slight dome of her belly, up the 68

Windsinger flare of her hips and up again to the underside of her breast. She was melting again, and the twisted feeling was beginning deep inside her. His lips brushed a nipple, and she gasped. He pressed his mouth against her for a moment, then stood up abruptly. Blushing wildly, she glanced at him, and saw that he was raising his arms, turning towards her, and then she understood. He was offering her the chance to make a daylight exploration of his body. She should have retreated, but she couldn't bring herself to turn away. Not with the things her hands and mouth thought they remembered. And then there was the scent of him. How could an unperfumed body raise her senses to such a height of pleasure? She knew she must turn away, but instead, she knelt as he had done. She turned her cheek to press it against his belly and gently rolled her head to touch the firmly toned skin with her lips. Her knees felt weak, so she clasped at his thighs to steady herself. She felt the muscles tense, felt the soft fuzz warm against her chest and something else as well. His member, that had lain limp and relaxed against his thighs when she had seen him on the knoll, was growing. She recoiled, then, tempted by curiosity, she brought back one hand and brushed it with her fingers, stroking it gently from tip to root as she had done in the dark. It hardened under her touch, and she heard him catch his breath harshly. She took her hand away, then turned her face to his belly, kissing him gently again, trailing her tongue against the 69

Lark Westerly slightly salty skin, inhaling the musky scent. She had done something like this before. She had touched and tasted in the dark, but now the sun was warm upon her shoulders. She kissed her way downward, her fingertips monitoring her progress. His buttocks were tensed, and he said something urgently. She ignored it as he had ignored her protests the night before and buried her face in warm fuzz. His hands had been touching her shoulders; now they slid down to her elbows and lifted her abruptly away. She looked up, wondering if she had angered him. His eyes were dark, the blue almost swallowed in blackness, but the smile on his lips was rueful and self-mocking. He let her go and held out his arms. Despite her resolve, despite her dilemma, she went into his embrace. He held her gently for a moment, then kissed her, pressing her against him with a hand flat to her buttocks so that she felt his arousal against her belly. He gently parted her legs and surged against her, making her weak with longing. Artemis, with a thrill of dismay, anticipation and fatalism, knew she had made a grave mistake. She was about to be defiled all over again.

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Chapter Seven Doubts.

M

ore by instinct than anything else, Kestrel had chosen the ideal place for a bower. Surrounded by towering cliffs, this grassy place was sunwashed and well protected from marauders, human, alien and animal. No wheeled or beast traffic would come this way, so they had the privacy they needed. If another of the windfolk chanced by, he or she would sheer off. Newly bowered mates were always left courteously alone. The length of bonding time varied from couple to couple. Mates who had known one another for years seldom stayed in seclusion for more than seven risings of the sun, but others, struck down by wild desire as he had been, might linger for thrice that long. Desire was one thing, but bonding was what they must achieve, physical compatibility and spiritual accord to last their lifelong union. He and Artemis would take the time they needed, and they would need more time than most, for they had the lack of common language to surmount. Perhaps he 71

Lark Westerly should have postponed the primary bowering until that problem had been overcome, but he knew that would have been impossible for him. There was a thermal spring nearby, and he led Artemis there by the hand. He carried her into the water and encouraged her to wash him while he performed the same service for her. He could stand only a little of her attentions before the familiar tautness began to build. He glanced ruefully down at his rod, already questing in Artemis' direction. He should bring her to bower often during this bonding period, but not often enough to cause her pain. He wished they could speak to one another, for conversation might have taken his mind off his discomfort. As it was, he had to make do with nods, smiles, and the occasional headshake and stumbling word. He tried to stay alert for her meanings, but as the day wore on, he began to worry. She seemed strangely ambivalent toward him. Her body reacted almost as quickly as his, but while he wanted to hold her and look at her all the time, she seemed reluctant, her face downcast. After that first morning she never kissed him without a struggle, never went willingly into his embrace. That night they shared bridal-fruit and slept naked, embraced under the windcloak as newly bowered mates should, but in the morning she still seemed distrait and almost unhappy. He could not understand it. He knew he had not taken an unwilling mate, for she had offered herself in the plainest possible terms. 72

Windsinger And that had delighted him, for it implied that she had been as struck by her first sight of him as he had been by her. She had chosen him, and he had chosen her. He was overjoyed with his bargain, but he wondered why she seemed distracted. Sometimes, she would strain away from him, cover herself with her hands, and avert her gaze from his nakedness. She seemed unwilling to be loved, but her body responded so generously to his lightest caress. If ever he had hurt her, she would have tensed and cried out, but her cries, when they came, were of pleasure, and his entry of her body was always easily achieved. She seemed to love his attentions, so he couldn't understand why she turned from him and tried to deny them. On the fourth day of their sojourn, he found his own happiness dimming. He had woken her with kisses, and she had bowered with him eagerly enough, caressing him with mouth and tongue and hands until he writhed against her and cried out for relief. When he took her in a hurried scramble she was as ready as he, but while they lay panting in the aftermath of their loving, he realized she was weeping. Despite her wordless objection, he drew her to him and her tears soaked his chest. She slept, finally, but Kestrel Windhover was wide-awake, fighting an icy foreboding. His Artemis was not bonding to him as she should. The next day, he made a greater effort at communication. By now they had a few words in common, but most were simple concrete terms. 73

Lark Westerly Eating and bathing. They could propose or reject these, and he had taught her the proper names for the windcloak, his tools, and the animals and birds. They had the words for hands, hair, tunics, and he had learnt a little about her weapons, but when it came to discussing their feelings, their past lives and, most importantly, their future, the abstracts were impossible. He remembered her fearful first reaction to windriding and tried, by the making of miniature windkites, to discover which kind she was used to and which had caused her fear. Her clothing, her distrust of windriding and her habit of shivering in what was no more than a crispness in the air had led him to believe she was a summersider from the equatorial part of Gale, but now he began to wonder. He had a few words of the equatorial dialect, picked up by chance meetings in interclan gatherings, but she reacted to none of them with understanding. Occasionally it crossed his mind that she might not be windfolk at all, but he dismissed that as the foolish product of imagination. She had arrived from the vortex of the wind. Whatever her origin, she was his mate and his perpetual love, and he was stubbornly determined to achieve the necessary bond before they left the valley. Belatedly, he decided to build a bower, but instead of plucking garlands and blossoms that would fade and decay, he chose a grove of flowering shrubs and wove them, still rooted and living, about with living vines. There in the green twilight he laid the 74

Windsinger windcloak down. The preparations took some time, and when he looked up for her approval of his traditional skills, he found she was once more searching his bundle of belongings. She had done that before, and he frowned. She had no need to act so furtively. Everything he owned and was he had given to her. He ran to her and she looked up, guilt written largely on her lovely face. With an effort, he smiled at her. “What, Artemis?” he asked. “What do you wish?” She bit her lip, glancing away, as usual, from his naked body. She was wearing a tunic, which was wrong, but he had not objected. He knelt beside her and took her face in his hands. “What, Artemis?” Her eyes darted to her weapons, and there was something in her expression that shocked him terribly. If he were not much mistaken, she was contemplating their use. Not against him. Surely, not against him. “Enemies? Daemons?” he queried. He let her go and clawed the air, pointing to the barely noticeable scar on his thigh. He took up her bow and pretended to aim it at the place where he had been, then scanned the horizon. “No.” She shook her head. “No—” and she made the same signs for Daemons as he had done. “What, Artemis?” He pointed to his bundle and then opened it out, spilling his belongings on the grass. She took up his tool kit and looked at him with tears in her eyes, touching her own brow. Now he understood. She wanted him to finish mending her 75

Lark Westerly ornament. It was a pretty thing, but in his opinion she needed no ornament for her own delightful hair and skin. He had completely forgotten about it. “I promised to mend it, did I not?” he said. “I'll do it now.” He had not put the ornament with his own belongings fearing that it would be broken more. Instead, he had bound it to the windwing, hidden beneath a flap of the soft hammercloth. Hammercloth was made from the shed bark of the velvet tree, damped and pounded, stretched and dried into a supple and versatile material. It carried many of the virtues of leather or hide without the necessity of killing a beast. He fetched the ornament, showed it her to prove it had taken no additional damage, then sat down by the bower to finish the task of mending the flaws. It took some hours, and she sat close by, watching with attention. Her gaze was fixed on his hands, and this disappointed him. After four days of his devotion to her happiness she should surely have placed him above a trifling trinket. His frustration made him more clumsy than usual, and he had to break one meld and do it over. Her gasp of dismay made him glance at her sharply. “What, Artemis?” he asked indicating the circlet, but she simply shrugged and turned away. He would have thought her disinterested had it not been for her frightened eyes. He knew that some clans treated high caste windfolk as if they were their masters. These nobles 76

Windsinger were marked apart from the lower ranks by circlets, but those he had seen were of much less delicate workmanship than this. If she were a high caste lady, it was just possible she had been promised to another Windsinger and might fear the man's revenge on Kestrel. But how would mending her circlet change that? It would be better, surely, if she should discard it entirely, and her own former identity with it. Kestrel shrugged. He was the equal of any of his compatriots when it came to a fair combat. He was a peaceable man, but he would fight to the death to keep his mate, as would any Windsinger. It had to be so, since the loss of a mate to anything but death brought such terrible consequences for the partner left behind. He finished the repair just as darkness came over and showed the mended trinket to Artemis. She reached out for it with a relieved, half-guilty air, but he shook his head. “After all my efforts, have I not won the right to place it, my love?” he asked. She understood his gesture if not his words and bit her lip. Even in the failing light he saw the color come up in her cheeks, and she folded her hands and bowed her head. He lifted the circlet, hesitated, then, as he had done once before, he laid it aside and slid his hands beneath her hair. He felt a frantic pulse beating in her throat and pressed it gently with his thumb, then ducked his head to touch it with his mouth. He held her in his arms, but she was straining away, and when he raised his head to follow her gaze, 77

Lark Westerly he saw that she was staring at the ornament. That made him angry. He had been as patient as any man could be, more so than most. He had pleasured her and built her a fragrant bower, and she had not even glanced at it. She had scarcely glanced at him after that first morning. All her attention and all her desire, seemed to be for this wretched bauble. He had intended to give it to her immediately, but now he resolved to let her wait. “It grows late,” he said slowly and clearly. “It is time to seek our bed. You may try it on tomorrow.” To reinforce his words, he pointed to the circlet then to the eastern sky, mimed sleeping, waking, and placing it on her head. He bent and put it safely aside, then took her arm and urged her towards the bower.

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Chapter Eight Diadem.

A

rtemis bit her lip in panic. For four days she had fought, not the Windsinger, but her own weak self. She had known she would not escape from this valley without the diadem, but her conscience had bidden her to hold herself aloof from his attentions. She still believed that he had no intention of holding her captive. He seemed to have accepted her as a friendly companion, but he had not bound or imprisoned her in anything but his arms. Had they been in a civilized place, in a city or a port, she could have walked away, but here in the enclosed valley she had no hope of leaving unless the Windsinger flew her out in his strange craft. Unless she got the diadem to work. Meanwhile, more than once a day, he continued to press his masculine attentions on her body. Each day, she resolved to fight him and to refuse to lie with him. Each day she shamed herself further by dissolving helplessly beneath the onslaught of his mouth and his 79

Lark Westerly hands. His smile broke down her resolve, and his bright blue eyes gazed at her with delight. She knew he was trying to please her by giving her the gift of loving attentions. Unfortunately, he succeeded much too well. In his arms, cradled against his great warm body, she was helpless to resist. His kisses disarmed her, his silky golden skin drew her own hands and mouth to repeated exploration. Sometimes, as she writhed beneath his touch, she wondered how she could ever leave him and how she could ever give up this exquisite pleasure. She felt this even more sharply when her hands and mouth had driven him to the brink in his turn. To give this bliss to such a kind and deserving person—how could she turn aside from that for the disinterested satisfactions of her work? Sometimes, he would lay her down and minister to her body with long, slow strokes of his tongue, or she would take him in her mouth and do the same for him. The thought was disgusting, even Dia Cleo had not hinted at such depravity, but the experience was a world away from that thought. Whenever she had surrendered to her own desires, whenever she had been tempted to pleasure him as he had pleasured her, she regretted it sharply and wept with shame and desolation. She wondered if one could be repeatedly defiled, or whether the first defilement was the only one that counter. Mercy Lore had never mentioned that. To an Amazon Mercy, taken from society at around the age of seven, the ways of ordinary men and women were 80

Windsinger matters of mystery. Yet she comforted herself with the thought that as soon as possible, she would leave this situation. She hoped none of the others would blame her for being mistaken in a bidding. Surely they would admit that it was better to submit to the desires of a male than to risk injury or death by trying to climb the cliffs. Dia Cleo wouldn't. She felt guilty, knowing that she need not have submitted. Kestrel had made no attempt to keep her weapons away from her, so she could have killed him a hundred times over. She could have incapacitated him in a score of ways. She could have sedated him with her narcotic. Once she had done so, she could have bound him with his tunic and then forced him to mend the diadem and fly her to the nearest shuttleport. But she couldn't do it, after all. She might think dark thoughts, but when she looked at him, when he smiled or held her in his arms or put her pleasures before his own, she knew she could never harm him. But now the diadem was mended. She was on fire to test it, to try, if possible, to propel herself immediately back to Alida, yet the Windsinger was setting it aside. He indicated that he was tired and wanted to sleep, and also that he proposed to give her the diadem in the morning. She tried to argue, but he kissed her. Perhaps he wanted her favors in return for his work. She had been defiled so often, so she supposed once more could not matter. Impatient with the whole 81

Lark Westerly situation, and longing to make an end to her uncertainty, Artemis pushed him away. She stripped off her tunic and, evading his hands and mouth, preceded him to the shelter he had made that day. It seemed covered with flowers, but it was too dark to see much, so she simply ducked in at the entrance and lay down, parting her legs to receive him. He followed her down, but rolled her into his arms and began covering her face with little nibbling kisses. Angrily, Artemis turned her face away. “This is payment, damn you!” she said. “Get on with it, and give me my property back.” To underline her meaning she reached down and tugged at his member. It was hard and upright, but as she parted her legs once more in readiness, she felt it growing lax. She squeezed it, but his large hand came down and removed hers. He touched the place between her legs, found it dry, then lifted himself on one elbow and gazed down at her for a moment before beginning to kiss her once more. “No!” she said. “I don't want you to kiss me.” She knew he understood that, but he paid little attention, clasping her against him and forcing one thigh between her own. He rolled her over on to her back, pinned her arms with his hands and leaned to kiss her deliberately. He drew back to suck her nipples, then continued to kiss her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he was quick. Holding both hands in one of his, he reached down between their bodies and slipped his hand back between her legs. His thumb teased her gently, circling until she was ready to 82

Windsinger scream. She began to writhe and twist, and he let her hands go. With a swift motion, he lifted himself away and sat back on his heels. “Artemis not kiss?” he said slowly. Sobbing, she raised her arms, but he shook his head. He touched her again in the spot that throbbed for him, then rubbed her breasts. She was crying out, arching towards him, but he shook his head again. After an endless aching moment, he lay down beside her, cupped his hand, and rubbed the heel of it against her. Relief came within seconds, relief and shattering shame, and she clamped her thighs together, trying to push away his hand. He held her down with his left hand and the other continued its rhythmic movement, the fingers sliding in her moistness to enter and leave her body. Unbelievably, the tension began to build again. She cried out sharply, spasmed, and collapsed again in tears and sweat. “No—no more—please,” she begged. He hesitated, then took his hand away and reached for a piece of cloth. Clinically, he cleansed her and then pulled a covering over her nakedness. Remorsefully, she reached to touch his member, but he lifted her hand away, turned on his side, and apparently went to sleep. She could have fetched the diadem then, but instead she lay beside him, exhausted, bitterly ashamed, and as lonely as she had ever been in her life.

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Lark Westerly **** He had not known he could be so angry. Not with his Artemis. Hearing her small gasping breaths he wondered sickly what he had done to make her treat him like that. If she did not feel like physical loving, she had only to say so. She had only to kiss his cheek and put her head on his shoulder. They could have slept in the dark and delighted one another instead in the morning light. But to turn aside his caresses and lie there like a paid pseudomate was disgraceful. He had never been so bitterly insulted. His desire for her had died instantly, but he had sought to teach her a lesson by kindling hers and then turning away. He might have done so, but as she writhed and cried out it occurred to him that she did not know how to slake it for herself. It would be cruel to leave her and he was not a cruel man, so he had eased her himself. He had still been angry, however, so he had refused her belated attempt to make amends. When she was asleep, he rose quietly and went out into the night. The flowery bower seemed despoiled now. He had made it for her pleasure, but she had first ignored it and then joined him there only to deliver him an extreme insult. He touched his rod, heavy and limp against his thighs, and wondered if they would ever bond. After tonight, he feared for the future more. That bauble of hers was at the root of their troubles. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced of that. She must have been covertly 84

Windsinger searching for it for days and had tried to insist on putting it on tonight. She had set it above his pride and his loving, had set it above the bower he had made her and the offer he had made to her. Perhaps he should destroy it. He bent and picked it up, examining it critically in the light from the stars. It twinkled at him, delicate and whole, and his fingers itched to close roughly, to splinter the intricate filigree, to crush the thing that threatened his future. It came to him then that he had never known such jealousy before, for he had never needed to know it. Kestrel Windhover had never had much trouble securing the things he wanted. A combination of good luck, personal charm and shrewd, fair dealing had always served him well. There had been any number of windwomen eager to bower with him, but he had held off until he found the one who surpassed all others. And now he was losing her to a piece of decorated metal. His mouth curved bitterly. He should have crushed the thing, pounded it to nothing beneath his heel, but it was hers, and he would not be so childish. Perhaps it was more than a bauble to her. Perhaps she had been a courier and the thing belonged to some high master or mistress, and she feared punishment for its loss or damage. That made sense, but why did she not realize she was safe from their punishment now that she had him for her mate? He would fight anything and everything, the whole world if necessary, for her. He would lift her away from problems of her former life. They would cease to 85

Lark Westerly exist. Kestrel looked thoughtfully at the bauble again. It seemed little enough, but perhaps it was worth more than it appeared. And perhaps, Kestrel Windhover, he thought ruefully, sitting down in the grass, perhaps you have been all kinds of a fool to take a stranger to bower. He was foolish, romantic, mistaken—committed. His jaw hardened. Artemis Windhover was his, and he was hers. Almost mockingly, he looked up at the uncaring stars, lending their twinkle to the thing he held in his hand. He had handled it for hours as he repaired the filigree, but now it shone coldly with a blue reflected light. Capriciously, he set it on his head. It fitted well enough, but just as he was about to remove it, he became aware of a strange buzzing sensation in his skull. He shook his head to clear it, the circlet slipped down and he felt the unmistakable deep vibration of bone conduction. It set his teeth on edge and made his head ache slightly, so he removed the bauble and studied it once more in the starlight. Nothing seemed important. There was just the blue reflected light of the metal band. Not the slightest vibration ran through his fingertips. Kestrel hissed meditatively through his teeth then, more cautiously, replaced the thing on his brow. Once more he could feel the low buzzing through his skull, too faint to be called a sound. It was unnerving, and it made his teeth feel sensitive. The headache niggled again, so he took the thing off. Perhaps this was some kind of sensor or a 86

Windsinger communication device. That would explain Artemis' distress at its flaws. If she had told him its nature, he could have made a better repair. He snorted gently. Perhaps she had told him its nature, but of course he'd not have known what she said. Yet surely she could have mimed, sketched in the ground and made him understand. He put that thought away and fell to wondering what he should do. He still felt the thing was a threat to his relationship with his new mate, but he had too much integrity to throw it away or to crush it. The thought came to him that it might be a medical appliance, but he put that from his mind. His Artemis was bursting with health and vitality. If she were ill at all, what ailed her must stem from mental or emotional stress. So he should give her the appliance tonight and see if it soothed her trouble. But first, he must make a few experiments, just for his own peace of mind. Kestrel took up his tool kit, hesitated over the metal picks, unfolded the final layer, and removed an energy probe. He had treated the trinket as if it were purely ornamental, but this probe should register what power source, if any, it used. It was probably solar powered, he thought, or perhaps it took its energy from the one who wore it. There were timepieces that worked like that, quickened by the pulse in wrist or throat, but of course such things had no place in a man's observance of Wild Moon. The probe glowed, questing for power, so with some reluctance, Kestrel replaced the circlet on his 87

Lark Westerly head and tested it again. He found that aligning himself to the north made the power ratio climb in an inaudible whine. It was most uncomfortable. Each hair seemed energized, and his sense of humidity and temperature seemed heightened. He touched the circlet gently with his fingertips, moving them minutely until the whine steadied to an almost tuneful tone. The thing was tuning itself to something, but to what he didn't know. It would be foolish to mess with something so alien and fragile, so he took it back into the bower. His mate was sleeping, her breath still catching in tiny sobs, and remorse overcame him. In punishing her, he had probably offended her as much as she had offended him. He set the circlet on his head, kindled an illuminer from his pouch and set it on the ground. So much for tradition, he thought wryly as the interior of the bower swam into view. So much for his romantic bowering in the wilderness. So much for his meticulous adherence to the olden ways, and for the traditional mores of Wild Moon. He reached out and touched Artemis on the shoulder. Her long hair was damp and a little sticky from her tears, and he stroked it away. “Artemis Windhover, wake up,” he said. She sighed, caught her breath and opened her eyes, blinking in surprise at the light in the bower. Then her clouded gaze took in the circlet on his head and wariness leapt into naked fear. “What—what do have, Kestrel?” she said 88

Windsinger awkwardly. Silently cursing their lack of common speech, he tried to phrase his own questions in the few words she understood, but after a moment she interrupted him. “Oh—it's no good—I can't understand you— Kestrel—Kestrel, I'm so sorry for all of this.” He felt his face blanch with amazement, for her words came through clearly, echoing as if from a translation center. “Artemis?” he said. “Do you understand me, my only love?” It was clear that she did not. The translation device, if that was what it was, worked in one direction only. He knelt by her side, dizzy with the scent of her warm skin and the blossoming branches woven in his bower. Petals had fallen while she slept, and now they starred her drifts of hair, and lay here and about on her shoulders and throat. His lady of flowers…his lady of the wind. His heart began to beat with great heavy thuds, echoed by the pulse of blood in limbs and groin. He longed to press his face to her throat, crushing the petals, replacing their sweetness with his scent upon her skin. He held himself back, restrained as the bird of his name when held by a falconer. “I love you and I want you,” he said passionately. The words came out with no softness; he sounded both stubborn and hard. “You are my mate, and my lover. You are not to turn aside from me again.” He reached out for her hands and, doubtfully, she 89

Lark Westerly acquiesced, half-raised on her elbow, letting the coverlet slip from one breast. A petal fell down from the branches above, and lit like a butterfly on that beautiful hummock, but Kestrel kept his gaze on his windwoman's eyes. They were dark as the night. The haze of sleep had passed, and the pools of them shimmered with tears. He caught his breath as he waited hopefully, expectantly, for words of love and desire to match his. “Artemis?” he prompted, bending close to her. “Artemis, tell me that you love me.” She opened her lips, those soft, full lips that he loved. Out spilled words, echoing like bells in the Tower of the Wind. “Malediction!” she said. “How the blazes do I get away from him now?”

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Chapter Nine Skirmish.

K

estrel knelt by the couch, transfixed. He was numb with horror. He had wanted words of love and reassurance, and he had expected an explanation of what so troubled his mate. But it seemed that she truly wished to be rid of him. Shame seeped over him in a chilling tide. The poison of the Daemon had felt like this, a growing pain moving sluggishly through his blood, threatening a greater crescendo of pain to come. Daemonic poison would have killed him in screaming agony. The poison of his love's repudiation would kill him just as surely. He felt it strike his foundations, as if a blunted axe were chopping away at the roots of his existence. He would die, his pride would shrivel, and the Windsinger Kestrel Windhover would cease to exist. He would still be a man, he supposed, but his clan would never recognize him and rightly so. He would 91

Lark Westerly be outcast, nameless, unacknowledged, and would ride the winds no longer. He would have no place on Gale. Cold dread fingered his spine and shriveled his groin as he knelt. If he lost Artemis, he would lose everything. It crossed his mind in that frozen moment that no one knew he was bowered. He had been on his Wild Moon, and, apart from Artemis, he had met no other windfolk since quitting the slough in the city. None of his acquaintances knew of his battle with the Daemons, and none could possibly know of his rescue by his love. None knew of his hasty wooing and winning of her or of her offer to him of her body and love. If Artemis left him now, he could end his Wild Moon alone as he had begun it. He could sing down the wind and ride on its wings, eat fruit and commune with the birds. At the end he could return through the slough to the city and keep the respect of his clan and of others he met. The Windsinger Kestrel Windhover would survive. The Wild Moon would keep its secrets, and his brother the wind would never betray him. He could unweave the bower and return to the hut and make believe that none of this had happened— Even as these proposals trailed seductively through his head, Kestrel knew they were hollow. It was of no use to pretend that no one would know of his shame. He would know, and his judgment of himself would be harsher by far than the judgment of 92

Windsinger those who knew him. The clansfolk would reject him and make him outcast, not because of their disgust but because of their pity. They would know he was shamed and would know he could not bear their knowledge of his humiliation. And so they would let him leave the clan and pretend he had never existed. That would be their greatest and last kindness to one who had had their respect. He could be no less kind to himself. Living a lie would diminish him more than living with the truth. And so he had come full circle, knowing again that if he lost his Artemis, he would also lose everything else. “Kestrel? What do?” She spoke faltering words in his own language, and he shook his head decisively to clear it. He was still holding her hands and she moved awkwardly, trying to draw them away. The tendons bridging shoulder and breast were shadowed and taut. The sweet white petal still clung to her skin and gleamed like a droplet of snow. He looked away from her tear-brimmed eyes, glanced at the petal and saw how the chill of the air had brought out gooseflesh on her skin. The nipple that crowned the breast he could see was as round as a hayberry. The cold was affecting that, too. He closed his eyes and answered her in a torrent of words, not pausing to measure them as he might have done if she could have understood. “What do I do? I am undone! I am failing myself and failing you. I am nothing without you. My life is 93

Lark Westerly gone. I risked everything to have you as my mate. I have failed to win you and failed to please. But why did you offer yourself to me if you wanted to go? And what have I done to have you send me away? And what have I not done that would have made you stay?” She wrenched one hand away from him, and he heard her fall back with a gentle crunch against the couch of branches. “No—no!” she cried urgently. “Don't be like this. Please don't be hurt. Please don't ask me—” She caught her breath with an audible gasp and then finished, so low that he barely made out the words “Please don't ask me again whatever it was you asked me.” She had not understood a word that he had spoken, but he had understood every one of hers. While he wore the accursed trinket he could access what she said via the translating circuit. And might he make it work for him, this new one-way understanding? Talk to me, he thought fiercely. He opened his eyes, not caring if she saw the pain that must be in them. The tears in hers showed an answering pain, a panicstricken fright, and some kind of hopelessness. There was nothing there that looked like hate or even distaste. Deep in his stubborn soul a seed of hope was sprouting. She didn't hate him and yet she wanted to leave him. Somehow, he must retain one of these feelings in his love while reversing the other. He must be clever and use every advantage he could. 94

Windsinger Talk to me, Artemis Windhover. Let me know your mind. Kestrel drew sweet air deeply into his lungs. He must find out what was going on in his beloved's brain. He must discover what drove her from him, and he must remove whatever it was that threatened her contentment. He steadied himself, girding his mind for a long and intricate battle. He must go bit by bit over what he had done, and bit by bit over things undone. He must examine every thread of his time with Artemis. He must listen to what she said and try to read her reactions. If he treated her gently enough, she might relax and give him some of the answers he needed. No more pride, he warned himself. No matter what she said or did, his pride must not become a factor. He must give up conceit in his loving, and let her respond to him as her heart allowed. He must not thrust. He had told himself that on the first sweet night of their bowering. Now he must tell himself again, but this time he must mean something different. He had not thrust at her body to force an entry, and he must not thrust at her will or her affection. It was going to be difficult to win this battle, but win he must and would. He had heard of those who pretended love when all they wished was to slake their lust. He despised such behavior, as any good Windsinger should, but now he must be every bit as deceitful himself. He must pretend to restraint and friendship when he loved and wanted with every 95

Lark Westerly thread of his being. So, there must be no more impassioned pleading for her love. There must be no more attempts to force her acquiescence. His intensity had obviously frightened her. She was half in fear and half in desire of him. Perhaps she felt his love was consuming her. “I would never want to take your whole self away,” he said. He made his voice persuasive but matter-of-fact. “You should know I would never ask you for anything you couldn't offer.” He grimaced a little, for he knew he had done just that. She had tensed again, and he thought she was planning something. Her eyes flickered sideways, as if she sought the quickest way out of the bower. He drew back a little, determined not to crowd her. He rolled down from his knees to sit on a hummock of grass as if relaxed. The sharp sweet scent of the crushed stems rose to meet him, and he realized every sense was alive to every small sensation. He felt the coolness of grass against his haunches, the imprint of every stem upon his skin. “Did you want to go out?” he asked. Her gaze swung back to him and fastened on the circlet. He heard her draw a hissing breath between her teeth, and she pulled herself up to a sitting position. She clamped the coverlet under her arms, veiling her body from him. Resolutely he ignored the insult. A bowered mate should never do such things, but he was done with pride. 96

Windsinger “You wanted this?” he asked. He touched the circlet with his fingertips, smiling as if to tease her just a little. She smiled back with fear in her eyes. “Artemis have,” she said carefully, miming the placing of the thing on her head. “Tomorrow,” he said. He made the gesture he used for sunrise. “Did you want to go out?” he repeated. He indicated the opening of the bower. He saw the consideration in her gaze and surmised she would not go out while he had the circlet. This was the tricky part. He had resolved to please her patiently, but if he gave her the translation device he would lose his advantage of knowing what she said. It made his head ache, and a tension tingled behind his eyes. It mattered not at all. He would pay the price a thousand times if it led to understanding. How could he keep the circlet without setting her against him? He put his mind to the question, and the answer swam into view. If she thought he believed it was nothing but decoration, she might be content to wait to have it back. Let her think it a childish game between them. He smiled again and tilted the thing rakishly on his brow, apparently mocking himself. She hissed again. Was she afraid he would break it? He set it straight, and then stretched his arms in a parody of weariness. “Sleep,” he said. It was one of the words she understood, and after a second, she nodded. He 97

Lark Westerly gestured to the couch, suggesting he might lie down beside her. Apprehension flitted across her eyes, and he made himself move casually as he rose to his feet, then bent to turn down the illumination. “What is?” she asked. He glanced at her, pretending puzzlement. “What is? What—” She paused, and, as he had hoped, went on in her own language. “Light—um— how do you say that? Not sun, not moons…what is that thing?” Moons? he thought, catching the pluralized form. Why would she speak of moons? There was only one on Gale. “What is the light—lamp—lantern?” she asked, pointing. Kestrel put away the oddity and smiled as if belatedly understanding. “Illumer,” he said with a shrug of his naked shoulders. “Not the thing to use on Wild Moon, my beloved, but you have already thrown too many of my traditions back in my face.” He winced, hearing the bitterness in his voice and praying that she had not noticed it. She nodded. “Ill-oo-mer,” she said slowly, inflecting it wrongly. “Ill-you-muh.” he corrected, smiling as if at an apt pupil. “Ill-you-muh. Illumer…” Now she had it right. Artemis Windhover was a very quick study. He remembered how quickly she had learned the ways of bowering, and half-turned away to finish dimming the light. 98

Windsinger Then, in the last fading glow of the filament, he grasped the edge of the coverlet and joined her on the couch. He lay on his back, his skin still highly sensitized, feeling every small twig in the mattress. The scent of blossoms and greenery intensified, and he tried to relax, tried to pretend he did not notice the tension in the woman beside him. She moved a little, restlessly. There was silence and stillness, and then she moved again. “Malediction…” The word was a whisper. “Ohhh!” And that was a sound of exasperation. “Artemis?” he said, trying to sound sleepy. “What is the matter?” A slight gurgle startled him, but then it came again and he recognized it and almost smiled. “Food,” she said. “Hungry.” She sounded apologetic. Of course she was hungry. She had been too upset to eat earlier, and so had he. “Food,” he agreed, and rolled off the couch. And if you think you can take the translation band while I am out, you are mistaken. He stepped out of the bower and glanced at the stars. The edge of the moon was glinting over the cliff top. Its sweeping curve would soon dominate the sky, but for now it was only just rising. Wild Moon. He flexed his feet in the cool of the grass. His ancestors had prayed to the Moon, but that was many eons ago, when Windfolk had all walked barefooted and had offered their skin to the sky as he did now. 99

Lark Westerly He strolled to the fruiting trees beyond the bathing pool and reached for some of their bounty. There were long orange fingerfruit and peppery alovas, but Kestrel's fingers closed on the deeply cleft fruit of the bower. His jaw tensed and he felt his pride begin to stiffen. She had offered him bridal-fruit. She had made the first move that had danced them along to the bowering. Now he would offer it to her and see what she did. He took six of the plump ripe globes, caressing the grooves in the rind with a sensuous finger. If handled in just the right way, the lobes of the fruit would ease apart, releasing the sweetness within. He swallowed hard, feeling the sudden tautness down below. Just so had his bride eased to let her sweetness flow as they bowered. His hands clenched over the fruit, and he almost flung it away. But windfolk never wasted the fruits of Gale, and in this custom, tradition bound him as tightly as it had ever bound the moon-worshipping ancestors of his. He strode back to the bower, sourly unsurprised to find his woman leaning over the edge of the couch and scrabbling in his chest. I said you might have it tomorrow. The words trembled in his mind, but he tamped them down. “Artemis?” he said mildly. She whisked herself upright, panting a little from her exertions. He could see her faintly outlined by the radiance of the moon, and he supposed she could see him just as clearly. But the sight of him could not be 100

Windsinger affecting her as he was affected. If only it did, their joy would be unassailable. “I brought you food,” he said and sat on the couch beside her. The heady scent of the fruit mingled with that of the bower. He held one plump globe out to her, and after a moment, she took it. “Oops!” she said. “That's sticky. It's…” Her voice faded and he heard soft sounds as she closed her lips on the seeping cleft. She did not, as he had hoped, offer fruit back to him, but the sounds and the scent still shattered him with longing. He closed his fingers viciously and gasped as thick cool juice ran over his fist and trickled into his naked lap. A tiny gasp from Artemis suggested that her fruit was as juicy as his. He tormented himself by imagining how the heavy nectar might be dripping its tears on her breasts. It might dribble down her shapely ribs and pool in the hollow of her belly… From the brushing movements she was making it seemed that his imagination was accurate. He heard her sucking her fingers and felt the spatter of juice hit his cheek as she flicked her hand. She seemed to be fumbling between them, and he dragged himself back to his senses. She was looking for more. He hesitated, and then held out the piece of fruit he had been clutching. She was covered in juice already, so she would probably not object. “Here,” he said. His voice sounded strained, and he pushed the fruit towards her. She fumbled for it and laughed uncertainly. 101

Lark Westerly “This one's really sprung a leak.” He sensed she had raised the globe to her lips and was licking along the seam. He raised unsteady fingers to his mouth and pushed his teeth hard into his fist. The pain of that might distract him from what his love was doing. The bridal fruit had been a mistake. She had taken it without hesitation, but also without ritual. She had not offered any back to him. If he didn't know better, he would have thought her an outworlder, a woman to whom bridal fruit meant no more than something to slake a bodily hunger. She was a windwoman, he protested silently. She had come to him out of the vortex. She was windfolk. She spoke of moons, insisted his logical self, just as an outworlder might. She was licking her fingers again, and he felt her pause, as if she was puzzled by something. “Kestrel?” His name sounded musical on her lips and he flinched. “No eat?” she added. “You need to offer it to me,” he said in a stifled voice. “A man cannot serve bridal fruit for himself. It has to be offered freely by one who wants him.” She would not understand his words, but if she was windfolk she should have known the traditional ritual anyway. “No more?” she said slowly. “You didn't bring any more? Um—tree bare?” She had used the wrong word there, employing one that was reserved for the naked human form. She might have done so innocently, or she might be 102

Windsinger mocking him snidely. Suddenly, he burned to know. If he could only see her face he might understand. He reached out for the illumer, and light blossomed into the bower. He turned to look at her and was transfixed by her disheveled beauty. He had been right about the fruit juice. It had run down the cleft of her breasts and left a viscous golden trail to her waist. Her fingers gleamed bright with the nectar, and her lips glistened as if kissed by the morning sun. She caught him staring at her and raised her hands defensively to screen herself from his gaze. Her attention was caught by the stickiness, and she seemed to consider. She held out one hand to him, mutely asking for something. Perhaps she wanted a cloth or a bowl of water. He would have fetched them for her, but he was in such a state of readiness that he could not walk without discomfort. Now she had seen this, too. So much for not thrusting his passions upon her notice, he thought wryly. He could dry her hands on a tunic, he supposed. Make light of the rest. Pretend it wasn't happening. Pretend his body wasn't signaling desire with an urgently waving staff. He took the hand she offered, meaning to reach for a tunic. Instead, he found he was drawing the hand to his lips. There was juice on his tongue, and he could make believe she had offered him the fruit. He heard her gasp and sigh as her thumb slid into his mouth. “Oh, Kestrel—” she murmured, and if love words failed to follow, he persuaded himself the tone was there in her voice. 103

Lark Westerly But he must not thrust himself at her. He must, if he could bear it, let her make a new move. His rod felt like a wild thing, straining and close to spilling. The shame of that would be— “Aghhhhhh!” A groan was torn from his throat as her free hand brushed his groin. It might have been accidental, for she was taking one of the extra fruit that lay on the couch. Her face was aflame with blushes, but she lifted the globe deliberately then crushed it against her mouth. Juice streamed down, glistening over her breasts. Her gaze met his, dark and beckoning over the golden rind. “Sticky,” she said and squeezed the fruit again. This time her intention was unmistakable, and Kestrel groaned again as the sweetness mantled his straining rod like laval dew. Artemis offered him her other hand, then gestured towards her breasts. “Sticky,” she said again. Her voice was shaking. He leaned forward, giving her plenty of time to move away, but he hadn't mistaken her intention this time. There was no other possible meaning for what she was doing. She was offering the fruit in her own eccentric way. She wanted him to lick her clean. He brought his mouth against her satinwood skin, sipping and licking the juice there. Her nipples were tight with what was surely excitement, and she made tiny murmurs as she adjusted herself to bring more flesh to his attention. She even pushed the coverlet clear. That might have been to keep it clean, but it brought the part of her into view that reminded him so unbearably of bridal fruit. Drops of juice gleamed 104

Windsinger here and there among the feathery down at her thighs, and he pressed her gently back on the couch, then sipped the drops with his lips. He was powerfully tempted to continue the caress, but she was pushing him away and sitting up. “No—no!” he stammered blindly, but she had her hands against his chest and was pressing him down in his turn. She walked her fingers down his ribs and then brought them across his belly. He bit hard on his lip, trying to pretend the gentle warmth on his skin was not her breath. Her hands moved down and one moved to cup his heavy sac. He groaned again. Featherlight fingertips touched the glistening spire, and then her mouth came down. Kestrel tensed, holding on with every dram of control, but one hand had taken a rhythm, gently kneading his balls while her tongue caressed him. He moaned and surged, then forced his buttocks hard into the couch. He was holding, holding, and then with a rush he spilled. He lay panting and sweating as if he had fled from Daemons, aware in the back of his mind that her hands were still busy. She was stroking him gently, cleaning him with her mouth, and then she moved up to kiss him, sweet and salt together mingled on their tongues. Abruptly, she let him go, and there was silence. She murmured something. At first it was simply a blur of sound, but then the translation circuit picked it up and echoed it back. “Do I have to draw you a diagram, you stupid 105

Lark Westerly oaf?” The idiom was vulgar, but he realized with a leap of understanding that she was inviting him to further delights. Still panting a little, he let one hand fall idly beside him. As if surprised, he brought up a piece of fruit and gestured slightly towards her waist. She drew in a breath and he pressed her down in turn. He slit the fruit and let the juice run down through the fleece to coat the lips of her cleft. She tensed as the deluge came, and he deliberately set aside the rind, then bent and used one finger to spread the golden liquid. She lay back with her arms flung outward. Her eyes were closed, but her legs were tense. He stroked her thighs, and then brought his lips to take the sweetness back. He licked and sucked, then pushed his tongue to reach where his lips could not. He wanted to make it last, but the familiar tightening distracted him. He brought her to the edge, and when her gasps became urgent, he lifted away and settled back at her side to see what she would do. With a sound like a sob she rolled over to straddle his groin and pressed her excited flesh to embrace his own. Once, twice, three times they surged in unison, and then she cried out. As her muscles tightened convulsively around him, he was swept to the brink and spilled triumphantly. The skirmish was over, brought to a heartbreakingly perfect conclusion, but as their breathing returned to normal, Kestrel did not delude himself that he had won the war.

106

Windsinger

Chapter Ten Moons and Blossoms.

A

rtemis lay wakeful in Kestrel's arms. She traced his sleeping face with her fingers, letting the roughness of his jaw delight her skin. Dia Cleo had been wrong. She had spoken of things that men did as if they were done to unwilling women. She had never spoken of the way a woman's flesh might welcome a man. It was not only her flesh that had welcomed him, either, she thought restlessly. Her imagination was sparked, and it suggested things for her to do. They were shameful things, yet they did not seem shameful at the time. The way she had toyed with him, played him like a flute. The way she had brought him quivering to his crescendo. He had been utterly helpless in her hands, with every nerve of feeling concentrated on what she was doing to him. And he had done the same to her. No, she thought in a burst of honesty. He had done the same for her, taking pleasure in her pleasure. And that meant Dia Cleo had been wrong, at least in this. 107

Lark Westerly The thought of Dia Cleo keening with abandonment under some man's clever tongue made Artemis grimace. Of course it had never happened. It could never have happened, for Dia Cleo was a virgin Mercy, just as Artemis had been. And maidenhood was not a matter of choice for the Amazon Mercies. It was a matter of law, of Mercy Lore, and Dia Cleo had not been mistaken about that. Artemis stroked Kestrel's brow again, her fingertips tingling as they encountered the delicate filigree of the diadem in the dark. A man was wearing her diadem and suffering no great discomfort. Anger flooded her, born of indignation. She had asked for it back, and he had agreed to give it to up, but now he was keeping it from her. She could remove it right now from his head, then put it on and tune it to the beacon. She could be off and away and safely on Alida before the Windsinger knew what was afoot. She slid her fingertips under the band, but the intricate structure was caught in his hair. If she tried to take it off he would feel the tug and awaken. She bit her lip. She needed him distracted while she took the diadem away. Unfortunately, the only way of distracting him would also distract her. If only there were someone else in the valley, some other woman who could tend to him with lips and fingers while Artemis eased the diadem from his head. A gush of distaste swept over her. The thought of another woman touching his flesh was not to be borne. It was only for her to coax him to such 108

Windsinger abandonment. It was only for her to hear the way he gasped and cried out under her caress. It was her name he called when his passions spilled into his voice. She could not endure to hear him cry another name. Her fingers clenched, tugging at his hair, and she felt him come awake under the tiny accidental tug. Thinking quickly, she pulled his head towards her, offering her breasts to his seeking mouth. She found that she was crying quietly, the anger spent. She had to leave him and go home, but how could she get away? It could not be tonight. That much was obvious. She flushed at the sudden thought of how it would be if she snatched the diadem and fled to Alida now. She would come before the Mercies naked and branded with kisses. The mingled sweat and the scent of fruit would mark her down as one who had been defiled. The lack of attendant injuries would mark her as one who had not protested that defilement. She would be condemned, cast out by Mercy Lore. She must carefully choose her leaving, picking a time when she was freshly bathed and her tunic would cover the tell-tale marks of her pleasure. He never hurt her at all, but sometimes, in the grip of his passion, his thumbs left tiny bruises on her arms. Just as her nails left faintly tattooed scores along his buttocks. Just as his mouth— She writhed, suddenly overwhelmed by a gush of sensation. He had been suckling fiercely at her breast, with both arms wrapped about her. 109

Lark Westerly “Aghhhh!” The woven boughs above them seemed to wheel crazily as she lost her thread of thought and spiraled helplessly out of control in his arms. Afterwards, she was limp and exhausted. She was bathed in sweat and could barely think at all. Yet one thing tapped insistently at her mind, demanding attention. She must get away from here, from him. She must. She must get away. Tears ran down her face and into her hair. The Windsinger licked them away, sucking gently on her cheeks. He drew back and spoke to her. His voice was soft and earnest, but almost casual. She supposed he wanted to know why she was crying. “I'm crying because I have to leave you,” she said on a sob. “And it has to be soon, before I am any more lost than I am already.” He kissed her brow and her mouth, then settled her back in his arms, with her head in the curve of his shoulder and his legs against hers. Artemis fell into blackness and a pool of uneasy dreams. **** Kestrel frowned as he held his sleeping woman. It was just the way he had feared. She apparently felt his passions were swallowing her whole. Even when he let her call the music of loving, even then she must have felt overwhelmed. A properly bonded mate would not have felt drowned by his love. Instead, she would have met him with an equal passion of her own. As his Artemis did, in body. It was her mind 110

Windsinger that she struggled to hold aloof, that and her utter trust. If only he could make her understand him, he could explain there was no need to fear. If only the translation circlet worked two ways. He could give it back to her, but then he would no longer have the advantage of learning her spoken thoughts. He settled to sleep, secure in her presence, but waiting with apprehension to find out what she might try tomorrow. **** Artemis awoke and sat up, easing herself gently away from her bedmate. She felt sticky, unhappy and resolute, so she slipped off the couch and picked up her tunic. She would cleanse herself in the thermal spring and hope the act would help to cleanse her mind of its confusions. She must remain resolute and plan a way to get the diadem back without revealing its secrets. She looked at the scattered rinds of fruit and remembered with disbelief how she had employed their contents in the night. Then she left the shelter and hurried over dew-misted grass to the spring. She had more than one reason for hasty washing. It was important to clean herself of the evidence of the night, and, if she could be out and clad before Kestrel arrived, she could take the diadem back while he was bathing. He would surely remove it before he entered the pool. It would take no harm from getting wet, but 111

Lark Westerly she could dissemble and convince him that it would be badly damaged. Once it was off his head, she could put it on and leave. She stumbled into the water and immersed herself, watching her chill, pale flesh flush with the heat. Water eddied around her, soothing a slight soreness she had not noticed before. The sky shone silverblue with the promise of morning. She heard the song of the jewelbirds and watched as one alighted on a twig. Pursing her lips, she whistled back to the gemlike creature, smiling bitterly as she remembered the trust its flock had shown in the Windsinger. “And so you might trust him, my friend,” she murmured. “You can trust him with your life. He would never hurt you. He's so kind to living things, unless they are Daemons.” She paused, remembering the one time the Windsinger had not been kind. He had been angry with her when she had tried to buy back the diadem with the offer of her body. He had refused to accept the payment and had kept the diadem for himself. That was not kind or even reasonable, since it belonged to her. He must know how important it was to her. Her train of thought trailed off. He could not know how important it was. None but the Amazon Mercies knew that the diadem was their passport from one world to another. They made certain the secret was never revealed. A Mercy would be vulnerable if any male knew, or guessed, that taking away her diadem would render her earthbound. Of course no male could ever use it, since he would have had no 112

Windsinger training, but males, according to Dia Cleo, would cruelly torture a Mercy to learn the secret. They would force her down and beat her or defile her repeatedly. It was ironic, in its way, since none of the active Mercies had the faintest notion of how the diadems worked. Dia Cleo knew, and so did Lilith and Mab, but none of these three ever left Alida. There was one firm conclusion to be made from all of this. The Windsinger was keeping her diadem from her. He was good and kind and tried to please her. Therefore, it followed that he could not have guessed he was holding her to ransom over the diadem. Could he have mistaken her request for repair, and thought she was giving the thing to him as a gift? To a primitive mind it might appear that way. And Artemis acknowledged that her Windsinger, however intuitive and intelligent he appeared, must be truly primitive. He slept in a shelter made of branches. He ate raw, unprocessed food and owned nothing more than what he could carry. His method of transport was ingenious, but it depended on the wind for its motive power. He was a crafter of some kind, perhaps, but his tools were fit only for mending small items like jewelry. Oh yes, he was a primitive. He was a man in tune with the world of winds, with the music and dance of the birds, who made and mended for ornamentation, and who kept pace with the natural things in life. Not, Artemis assured herself, that she would ever make the mistake of thinking a primitive culture was a synonym for a lack of intelligence. The fact that her 113

Lark Westerly Windsinger had learned a few words of her language and that his own language seemed varied and richly toned was obvious proof of a lively intellect. Her haste forgotten, she lay limply back in the water, gazing up at the cliffs that enveloped the grassy valley. The sight of the cliffs seemed to make her uneasy, as if they loomed and cast clouds over her spirits, but the beauty of the place below them was startling. Alida was fresh and fertile, but its natural colors were muted gray-greens, dull olives, and maroons. Artemis had made brief visits to countless worlds in her work as an Amazon Mercy, but she had never before seen such an array of flowers and shimmering grasses as she saw here in this valley on Gale. There was a faint scent of honey on the everpresent breeze, and a few windblown blossoms lit gently on the surface of the pool. She waited for them to turn brown as the hot water soaked them, but instead they floated with buoyant waxy splendor. They were white as candles but faintly flushed with pink, and the warmth drew a dizzying perfume from their hearts. “Artemis bathes?” She jumped as the Windsinger spoke. She had been so absorbed in the blossoms and her mournful thoughts that she had not noticed his approach. She looked up, finding him naked, as he always seemed to be in this valley. But he was not, she noted with relief, in the mood for physical affection. “Artemis bathes,” she agreed, using his language. She sat up in guilty haste, disturbing the water. She 114

Windsinger must get out, dress, and be ready to snatch the diadem and go as soon as he entered the pool. Yet she must not betray her intentions. Primitive or not, he was hard to fool. He was eyeing her with a quizzical gaze, as if he intended to join her in the pool. “What this, Kestrel?” she asked, and lifted one of the blossoms that bobbed in the water. “Candlesweet,” he answered. He bent and took the flower, rubbing the petals between his fingers, and then repeated the name to be sure she had it. Smiling, he brought it close to her face so she was surrounded by the heavenly scent. “Not see?” he added with a lift of a well-shaped brow. She frowned at the flower, confused. Of course she could see it. It was big enough and plainly visible, and besides, she had brought it to his attention. Maybe he meant something other than the obvious. “Not…?” she prompted. “Not see sun back?” He reversed the gesture he generally used to indicate sunrise, so she supposed he meant to ask if she had seen the flowers before coming to the valley. “Oh, no. Of course I haven't seen them before. We don't have them on Alida. The vegetation there is completely different from what you find on this world.” She was looking up at him, knowing he wouldn't understand, but hoping he might catch the sense of it in her shaking head. She was unprepared for the sudden stiffening of his face. He didn't look angry, or surprised. It was more as if something he had 115

Lark Westerly dreaded had been confirmed. “What do?” she asked. He knelt in the grass by the pool, steadying himself with one hand. “What Alida?” he said lightly, casually, but the look in his eyes was tearing her apart. “Alida,” she agreed. “That is my world. It is where I come from. My home. Where I work.” She offered as many definitions as she could, hoping he might grasp one of them. He stared at her instead, so she sighed. Miming this concept would be difficult, but she could present a practical demonstration in rudimentary astronomy. She took one floating blossom from the water and rested it on the bank near his supporting hand. Using her forefinger, she nudged a round pebble into place, and then moved the blossom in an elliptical arc around the pebble. “Gale,” she said, drawing his attention to the flower by shaking it. “Sun,” she added, pointing to the pebble, and then up at the sun in the sky. It was not the same sun, of course, but it was like enough. Humans and human-type people could live on only a narrow variety of worlds. He nodded slowly, and she exhaled a soft sigh of relief. He understood that the world of Gale was in orbit around its star. Some primitive societies even yet resisted that idea, let alone admitting the existence of other worlds. Folk who lived in such places tended to view the Mercies as visiting angels from the stars which was a fair enough definition. 116

Windsinger She left that pebble and blossom where they were, and then took up another pair and placed it two hand-spans away from the Gale pebble. “Alida,” she said, setting the blossom in motion. “Sun,” she added, then substituted the proper name of the star that warmed Alida. Kestrel gazed at her model in obvious dismay. Then he touched the blossom she had designated as Gale, his fingertip resting on its edge. “Kestrel Windhover, Windsinger,” he said. He moved his finger to the other side of the blossom, and then touched Artemis on her bare shoulder. “Artemis Windhover, summersider?” He seemed desperate for her to agree, but she shook her head. Whatever that last word had been, it seemed to indicate that he thought she was a native of Gale. She pointed firmly to him. “No, I'm not like you. It goes like this. You, Kestrel Windhover of Gale. I, Artemis of the Mercies, am from Alida. I was born on Terra, but I have lived on Alida since I was a child.” She was babbling, saying too much to someone who was struggling with the concepts of other worlds. The misery in his eyes seemed to deepen, and she said, apologetically, “I thought you knew I wasn't from your world. Don't look like that. You must have known. Your world doesn't even use GalStan!” The look in his eyes suggested that even if he hadn't known she was no Gale woman, he must have at least suspected. She couldn't see why her origin should matter so much. She had never said she would 117

Lark Westerly stay with him. She had said repeatedly that she must go home. She drew an exasperated breath. If only the blasted translator band had been working on her diadem, she might have sorted this tangle long ago. He might have given the diadem back to her long ago if she hadn't seemed overeager. As she watched, he seemed to pull himself together, swallowing hard, and flicking her a smile. He took up a handful of pebbles and stirred them in his palm before selecting those he wanted and discarding the others. “Gale,” he said, pointing to the first representation she had made. “Sun, Gale.” He nudged a much smaller pebble into place between the two. “Moon.” She nodded doubtfully. Next, he named her home, “Alida”, stumbling slightly over the syllables. He gave the name of the star as she had done and then placed two more pebbles. “Moon?” he asked and held up two fingers. “That's it.” she said. “Alida has two moons, each about half the size of the one you have on Gale. But how did you know that if you didn't know I was from Alida…” He stared at her and said something brief and sharp. After that he shrugged and swept together the pebbles and blossoms. He cast them aside with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. It was more than clear that Kestrel Windhover was angry again, but not, she perceived, with her. He rose from his knees and, with one fluid motion, stepped down into the pool, submerging to his waist. 118

Windsinger “No!” she cried in simulated alarm, just as she had planned to do. Shaking her head violently, she pointed to the diadem he still wore on his brow. “Not water. Not bathe!” She pointed urgently, then plunged her hands into the water, making an expressive sound representative of a shorting piece of circuitry. “Water hurt!” Understanding flooded his face, and he gave her a reassuring smile and lifted the diadem clear of his head. He laid it on the bank, well clear of the water but also, she noted, well out of her reach. Then he sank lower into the pool, leaning back until it lapped his broad chest. He tilted his face to the sky, and she saw that the first shock of whatever it was that had troubled him had passed. He looked tired, but resolute, and the slight frown on his forehead was not for her. She began to get out of the pool, but he detained her with a light touch on her hand. “Artemis Windhover,” he said. She shook her head. “I am Artemis of the Amazon Mercies. I am not a Windsinger.” “Artemis Windhover.” His voice caressed the syllables as his mouth had caressed her tingling skin in the night. It was a beautiful name, but it could not be hers. “Artemis of the Amazon Mercies,” she said again and left the pool. She schooled herself to walk straight past the diadem, and to dry her body as if she had no great interest in recovering her trinket. Kestrel was watching her again, not suspiciously, but as if he 119

Lark Westerly could not get enough of the sight of her. She knew she should be ashamed, but instead she gloried in it. This gentle man found her beautiful, even when he was clearly feeling no immediate lust for her body. She slipped her tunic over her head, and then wandered over towards the trees. There were long pale fruits growing in clusters, but she found the strange cleft round ones he had brought her in the night. They seemed to be his favorites, so she picked a couple and took them back to the pool. “You might as well eat them in there,” she said. “They're much too sticky to eat anywhere else.” His blue eyes seemed to blaze, but perhaps she was mistaken, for he took the fruit. He offered one piece back to her, but she smiled and shook her head, then turned away. Heart pounding as if she had just run a race with a whirlwind, she strolled a few paces from the pool. She could not even glance at him in farewell. This felt like a sad betrayal, but she could not stay without revealing her real existence. She counted under her breath in an effort to steady her breathing, and then, quick as a flickersnake, she bent, scooped up the diadem, and took to her heels. She ran for the shelter, setting the diadem on her brow as she fled. Her hands shook with haste as she gathered her pouch, her bow and quiver and her saber. Now she had all the accoutrements that made her an Amazon Mercy; all of them but one. And that one she would never have again. Sobbing with apprehension, she spun about in 120

Windsinger place, seeking the pulse of the Mercy Beacon on Alida. The diadem's conductive casing was repaired. She knew that much. She could feel the steady reciprocal tingle as it drew its power from her and fed back its responses. It was giving and taking in a smooth and endless cycle, inexorable as the tides, just as she and Kestrel had given and taken their pleasure the night before. She must not think of Kestrel now or ever again. She must focus her mind and correctly align the signal before she leapt to ride the beam. She must— She spun faster and faster, and then more slowly, refusing to admit, even now, what her subconscious must have known already as she gazed with unease at the cliffs. In this low rift of a valley, she would never align with the beacon. The signal could penetrate infinite space, but it couldn't find her here in the shadows of the rocks. Even in the center of the valley, the angle would be too acute, just as it was in the commonhall on Alida. She was trapped.

121

Lark Westerly

Chapter Eleven Duel.

M

alediction!” she cried and stamped her foot. Tears spurted from her eyes and splattered her tunic, and she sobbed her rage and frustration to the sky. “Artemis?” Of course the Windsinger had followed her. He was streaming with water, but not even slightly out of breath. That fine deep chest of his must house truly impressive heart and lungs, thought Artemis dispassionately. Everything else about him was equally impressive. If only she could make him understand why she needed to go home. “Artemis?” he said again. She clenched her eyes shut, letting more tears spill, and then opened them again. “Kestrel.” She thought his eyes accused her, so she touched the diadem defiantly. “Mine!” she reminded. “Artemis have. Belong Artemis!” “I know it's yours,” said the Windsinger in deeply 122

Windsinger exasperated tones. “What I want to know is why it matters so much to you to have it right now. I know what it does, but you could have demonstrated that to me without running from my side like a startled clifffleer. It is unnecessary and insulting.” Artemis blinked in astonishment. “Do not look so blank, beloved,” said the Windsinger. He tilted his head and drew the hank of bronze hair over one shoulder, squeezing it until drops trickled over his chest. “I told you I know what it does, your translation device. Since you are wearing it again, I have no doubt you are hearing my words in that outlandish tongue you speak on—what is it— Alida? I regret that now you have the device, I no longer understand what you say in that same outlandish tongue. Unless you count the words that reduce me to the level of a staggering baby.” She blinked again, and then ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips. A shudder of excitement racked her. “I wish you would not do that,” said the Windsinger. “The sight of it reminds me of things I might one day not care to remember for fear of embarrassing myself with an unseemly physical display. That is, if a man whose love has deprived him of name or home is in any state to be embarrassed.” Artemis swallowed. The faint echo in his voice was receding now as the translation band settled on the best interval to deal with his language. The voice was the same, the intonation correct, and the audio output 123

Lark Westerly from the diadem was so nearly perfect that she could almost believe he was speaking Galactic Standard. If she didn't watch his lips, which were clearly shaping alien syllables, she could believe it completely. The translation band was working again and working better than it ever had done before. The Windsinger had mended it along with the bone conduction casing, rendering sophisticated and glitzing circuitry into perfection. The surprise of this clever repair work was jolting enough, but the subtext of his speech was an even greater one. No primitive person would ever have used such precise and elliptical sarcasm. He sounded as sophisticated as any high-taught scholar, and she could not believe he had been speaking like this all along. Her hands clenched defensively as she realized what an arrogant fool she had been. She had taken him at face value, and he had lulled her into pity and regret that she must leave him. She had wept for his loss as much as for hers, and she had silently vowed to shield him from the force of Mercy Lore. Defilement of a Mercy was a catastrophic crime. She had told herself he didn't understand the enormity of what he had done. Now he was betrayed from his own mouth. He was not a gentle primitive and so it followed that he had practiced gross deceit to have his carnal way. He had carried her off and defiled her in an act of cynical abduction. Her rage rose in her breast to choke her, and it was all she could do not to fly at him with her nails. This 124

Windsinger time, the scores in his flesh would not be brands of ecstatic passion. They would leave him scarred for the rest of his life; a life that would be short and painful if she made the report that Mercy Lore demanded. She heard the rush of her breath as her breast heaved with indignation. “I should have given you the ultimate mercy when I had the chance,” she said. Her voice was husky with anger. “Better yet, I should have left you to the Daemons. I was hasty in killing them. Was it you who incited the attack? And as for sending the bidding—how dared you fetch a Mercy from her proper path to tend to your base flesh?” He was staring at her, and now he swept up a hand as if to ask her silence. “What?” she demanded. She flushed anew at the way she had shown him Gale and Alida in terms better suited to a child. She had felt sad pride in his quick comprehension of her pantomime, and now she felt nothing but grinding rage. He had hoodwinked her royally, and how he must have laughed inside. “Give me the trinket, my love,” he said impatiently. “I can see you are enraged, but I cannot understand why you refuse to bond with me. You might not be windfolk born, I was mistaken in that, but you are windfolk now by right of bowering. In what way have I failed in my duties of joy?” “You have defiled me!” screamed Artemis. “You have taken away my heritage and my right to wear the diadem of a Mercy! You have forced me to break my vows of chastity and you lied and—” “Give me the trinket,” he repeated, raising his 125

Lark Westerly voice over hers. “My heart's beloved, you say you wish to leave me. This will take away everything I have and am and should be. Can you not at least tell me what I have done to have my heart ripped from my body and my body from my world?” Fine words, she thought contemptuously. They were very fine, for a man whose body was as frankly bare and expressive as his face was patently false. And that was the second time he had accused her of taking things away from him. She frowned and scrubbed the still-flowing tears away with her fist. He had taken her virginity from her. What did he think she had taken from him that could possibly compare with that? Had he, too, been a virgin? She shook her head, frustrated. What did it matter? He reached out again, his eyes as entreating as his voice was now persuasive. “Give me the translation device, my only love. You shall have it back quite soon, I promise you. Let me have it for a time. Then you can explain how you believe I failed you.” She scowled at him. For two blades of grass, she would have flung away and left him to his stated confusion. She would have done it for nothing had she been able to. Unfortunately, she had already learned that there was no way she could tune the diadem to the Mercy Beacon while she remained in this valley. She had to get up on the cliffs again to be in range of the Beacon, and to do this she needed the Windsinger's assistance and direction. She drew a deep and steadying breath, which caught in her throat in another sob. She might as well 126

Windsinger give him the diadem, at least for now. If she refused, he was quite strong enough to take it by force. She was convinced he would never hurt her, but he would probably hold her tightly against his body while he pried the diadem from her grasp. And if she were held close against him, her senses seduced by the mixed scents of healthy male and green and growing things, she would be lost once more in the world of his enchantments. She narrowed her eyes at him and raised both hands to the diadem. “Artemis have,” she said haltingly in his language, and pointed from the diadem to her own breast. Then she indicated him with a scornful flick of her fingers and traced a short arc against the sky. “Kestrel have little time.” She could have screamed with frustration at the way she had to simplify her words, but she supposed she could reinforce her meaning once he had put on the diadem. He nodded, once, his gaze never leaving her face. “It is your device, and I have no claim on it. I understand that. I shall wear it only to hear your complaint against me, my love. Then you shall wear it again while I plead my explanation and beg your pardon for whatever wrong I have done.” She nodded, and then reluctantly removed the diadem and handed it over to him. He set it on his brow, and she saw him wince slightly as it adjusted itself to his brainwaves. She remembered, in a brief flash, the horrifying headaches it had given her when she had first put it on during her training. She had strained against the straps of the diadem chair and 127

Lark Westerly screamed for it to be taken off, and that was less suffering than most of her peers had experienced. Yet Kestrel wore the thing untrained, and sat on the grass at her feet and motioned invitingly for her to join him. “I prefer to stand, Kestrel,” she said stiffly, recalling her resolve to keep her distance from him. Her mouth dried. She had so much to say to him, and so many accusations to make. She had to bring home the enormity of what he had done to her. Yet, even knowing his perfidy, and even knowing how artfully he had pretended to be a simple crafter, she was drawn to the naked love in his eyes. Her heart, which had been thudding heavily with anger, seemed to roll over inside her chest. “Speak, Artemis Windhover,” he said, then added something whose eloquence was lost on her. “Stop calling me that,” she said. “It is not my name.” “Artemis bowered with Kestrel Windhover. Artemis Windhover.” She knew what bowering meant. It meant the sweet violence of their unions. “You have defiled me,” she corrected. “I came to you on the cliffs when I sensed your bidding. I thought you were a sister in some deep distress. I came to offer succor and I found out you were—” She gestured at his groin, then recalled he did not need her miming. “I found you were an accursed male. I should have left you be, but instead, I succored you as if you had been a sister. And in return for that 128

Windsinger kindness, you carried me off and brought me here for defilement!” She could see protest in his eyes. Or perhaps it was the pretense of protest. “You brought me here against my will,” she continued. “I tried to save you, when I thought you would fall off the cliff, but you grabbed me and would not let me go. You laid me down when I was too afraid to resist, and you took advantage of my fear to have your carnal will!” Denial replaced the shock in his eyes, and his chin came up. So the Windsinger had his pride? “Bridal fruit,” he said. “Artemis give.” He mimed the giving and taking of fruit. “You were weak from the daemonic poison and from the leechmoss I used to heal you. I had to give you something to restore your fluids.” “Bridal fruit,” he repeated. He described it with his fingers, and the action was so sensuous that she felt a warning throb of desire. “Artemis give Kestrel.” He pointed towards her body with unmistakable meaning. “I gave you fruit to eat because you needed food and fluid!” she snapped. “I did not offer you the use of my body! But you took it anyway.” Her eyes blurred with anger, but her body remembered that taking. A taking that was also a giving she could not bear to remember. She clamped her thighs under her tunic with a moan of frustration. His stubborn chin was still thrust forward, and more than his chin was thrusting. His member had 129

Lark Westerly stiffened as well. She looked resolutely at his face. “Windcloak,” he said. That was another word she knew, but he sketched it in the air. “Artemis have.” “I know I wore your windcloak,” she said. “You offered it to me…” She saw something flash in his eyes, and out of the corner of her own she saw his shaft had stiffened more. “Why are you doing that?” she demanded. “You cannot want—you cannot expect—” He glanced at his unruly shaft and made a gesture of negation. “You offered the cloak,” she repeated. “I accepted. I offered that fruit, that particular fruit?” He nodded. “And you accepted.” He nodded again. “You thought or pretended to think that all that offering and accepting meant I would let you—or even that I wanted you—” She rubbed her hands across her face. The thought of what she had let, and of what she had wanted, were much too vivid in her mind. Her legs were sagging and her heart tripping out of control. “Oh! Tell me what you pretended to think and why,” she cried in exasperation and stepped forward to pluck the diadem from his head. True to his promise, he made no effort to prevent her from taking it, but she knew better than to trust him. She adjusted the diadem on her brow, then turned expectantly to Kestrel. His body signaled an eagerness that made her feel faint with longing, but his face was sharp with a battle of mixed expressions. “I pretended nothing,” he said flatly. “You came to me, Artemis. You offered me bridal fruit and you brought me the gift of a jewelfeather. You joined with 130

Windsinger me in the music of the jewelbird. You accepted the shelter of my windcloak. You did all this willingly, even eagerly, which meant you were willing to bower with me and to be my love forever.” “What!” She could not believe he was putting the blame on her shoulders. “Forever.” he repeated. Even in her surprise she noted his tone had softened and his translated words had taken on the cadence of a ritual chant. “When a man of the windfolk takes his love to bower, they share their bodies and souls and minds forever. They must slake themselves in one another, sip one another's juices, taste the sweat of desire and ride the winds in one another's arms. Their joining will never be broken while they both live.” Artemis bit her lip. Her body throbbed. She had come to a climax once when he fondled her breasts, and now she realized, with horror, that the same thing might overtake her while she merely listened to his words. She must shut out the hypnotic rhythm of his voice and concentrate on whether it held the ring of truth or not. “A man of the windfolk and his love will bower in some wooded place until there are no constraints between them,” he continued. His voice was soft, but implacable, and she could feel it stroking her senses as his hands might have done. “So you and I, Artemis Windhover, must keep to this valley until our bond is secure. You committed yourself to me by your own sweet actions.” He must have seen her trembling denial, for he rose and took back the diadem. His 131

Lark Westerly fingers caught in her damp hair, and she winced. As her eyes dimmed with renewed tears, Kestrel's face shed its haughty lines and rumpled into pity. “My dearest, don't,” he said softly. He wrapped his great arms against her, drawing her close against his chest. She wailed with surrender and let him gentle her, pressing her hips against him in an abandoned effort to ease the ache between her thighs. “Help me!” she gasped, and he gathered her even closer, rocking her gently and kissing her bent head. The cloth of her tunic was a barrier between them, and her knees were giving way. He supported her down to the soft grass, and the scent of the leaves pierced her senses. Her head was tucked under his chin. “Do you want me to take you now?” He slipped one hand between her thighs. She writhed against his fingers. “Oh please…” “You give yourself freely to my care and my love?” “Whatever—you—aghh!” she gasped, rearing against him. He lifted her until she was kneeling on all fours. She squirmed in protest as he tugged her tunic, and then she felt his warm thighs behind hers, the soft crisp hair of his belly and groin against her buttocks. He bent so her back was braced along his chest and his head was alongside hers. “Tell me you want me,” he insisted, as she strained her thighs apart, wanting him between them. “Say you want me, Artemis Windhover!” “Yes, yes, yes!” she cried. 132

Windsinger With a groan he thrust up and into her, filling her with his warmth. She bucked against him, frantic for release. His arm around her waist was a shackle she could not break, and she was gasping words she never thought she knew. He surged again, filling her, and then his free hand came around and touched her, gently massaging. She knew she was going to explode at any second, but exquisite as this sensation was, she wanted something else. She struggled. “Let me go!” He gave a great heave, and a groan tore loose from his throat. His arms slackened, and Artemis fell forward. She scrambled to her feet and spun to face him, then blindly thrust her hips against his face. She felt his lips and tongue begin their magic and leaned against the hands that clamped her buttocks. She strained her thighs apart as the excitement built, and then the shattering climax came and she screamed her ecstasy into the rising wind. Her legs gave way and she collapsed. When she focused again, seconds later, she found herself held snugly in Kestrel's lap. His cheek was against hers, and he was murmuring love words to her. Her head jerked up. “Kestrel, I understood every word you just said! And I'm not wearing the diadem any more!” He frowned, looking down into her eyes, and said something. She knew it was a question, but the brief flash of understanding had gone. She shook her head. “Kestrel?” 133

Lark Westerly He spoke again, apparently seeing the incomprehension in her eyes. Keeping one arm closely around her, he raised his forefinger in the universal symbol of silence. He seemed to come to some conclusion, for he brought her into a closer embrace. He drew her head to his shoulder, and bent to bring their faces together. “Do you understand me now?” he asked. “Yes—yes, I do. But why?” “This translator works by bone conduction,” he said. “Your head is touching mine. Our voices echo through us both. And why should this surprise you? We are one!” “It is not supposed to work that way—” she protested. He gave her a tiny shake. “Apparently it does work that way, for us. Accept the miracle as a gift, and be content.” She digested this. “So we must sit like this when we need to talk?” He chuckled unexpectedly. “I have no objection, my love. We are bound with ties that are stronger than any other union on Gale. You offered to me and accepted my offer to you.” “Stop saying that,” she said. “Apparently things I did back on the cliffs made you think I was carrying out some kind of primitive mating ritual.” She felt him stiffen. “You couldn't have been more mistaken. I admit I did give you some fruit and wear your cloak, but I had good reasons for doing it, and they have nothing to do with your customs. I didn't even know 134

Windsinger your customs.” “That alters nothing,” said the Windsinger. “Whether you meant to bower with me or not, Artemis Windhover, it cannot be undone. Suppose you stood on the brink of a great ocean and decided to cool your feet in the waves. Suppose you waded in and stepped off a shelf and plunged deeper than you expected. Could your lack of intention undo your total wetting?” “That's different!” she said. “The ocean is the ocean. It cannot help wetting those who fall into it.” “And I could not help but fall into your lovely body,” retorted Kestrel. “Had you struck at me with your weapons, I would have understood your indignation now.” Artemis swallowed. “Why were you pretending to be a primitive?” “I pretended nothing of the kind.” “Oh no?” She struggled in his embrace, and then recalled she had to stay very close to share the diadem. “You sleep in a hut, and you eat wild fruit. You pretend to adhere to a primitive mating ritual.” “Artemis.” His warning tone stopped her in full flow. “I love you and I will hold you forever in my heart and arms, but you must not insult me. I am windfolk, a Windsinger. Like others of my clan and caste I uphold the Wild Moon ritual. I truly believed you were doing the same observance when you came to me.” “You cannot worship a moon.” “I do not worship a moon,” he said, “although my 135

Lark Westerly forebears did. Wild Moon is a time spent apart from the clan and the city. It is a time when windfolk return to their beginnings and reclaim brotherhood with the wind and the birds. On Wild Moon, for one thirteenth of a year, a man may renew his spirit alone, or he may spend the time to bower and bond with his chosen mate.” “So you're having a holiday?” “I am observing Wild Moon,” he corrected. “It is a time for renewal and for commitment. It is also a time when windfolk may wander in search of a mate. And you, Artemis Windhover—you call yourself an Amazon Mercy. What is that, and how do you come to be on Gale?” Artemis considered. “An Amazon Mercy is a woman dedicated to the Lore of Mercy,” she said. “We defend and succor womankind from the depredations of males. We cure ills where we can, and bring final mercy when we cannot.” “But how did you come to me here?” asked Kestrel. “I thought you were windfolk when you came out of the vortex. I thought you were seeking a mate.” Artemis licked her lips. “You were mistaken, Kestrel, in everything. After all, you were in pain. The wind was blowing up a gale, and it almost knocked me down. That was what you saw. As for finding you—the translation circuit was down on my diadem and I thought I heard a woman cry for help. I was trying to find her.” “So I was mistaken in the manner of your arrival, 136

Windsinger and you were mistaken in the nature of the one who needed you.” She nodded. “I should never have succored you. I should not have been with you at all.” “But you saved my life and delivered me from the nightfall. You gave me everything I ever desired in one package.” “I am sorry, but I must go back to Alida. I should never have been here.” “If you leave me, your bowered mate, I will lose everything. I lose the right to my name and the right to ride the wind. I lose my heritage, my heart and home. If you leave me, I might as well fling myself from the cliffs to the nightfall you forestalled.” “It isn't true,” she said in a tight voice. “Unlike me, you have not been damaged. You have taken away my maidenhood and defiled me in the sight of the Mercy Lore.” “Then do not return to these Mercies,” he said logically. “What is done is done, Artemis Windhover. Why destroy our lives when we can keep so much?” Artemis bit hard on her lip. “I am a Mercy vowed and dedicated,” she said. “I can no more give that up than you can give up your own traditions.” “But my duties of delight have taken your maidenhood. You say that you cannot be a Mercy now.” “I can still be a Mercy,” she said rigidly, “if nobody knows what you did.”

137

Lark Westerly

Chapter Twelve Battle.

K

estrel knew he was fighting the battle of his life. His Artemis was so unyielding, save when she yielded so sweetly to his body. How could she suggest the lying course he had deemed impossible for himself? “You will know,” he said with gentle emphasis. “Have no fear. I shall never tell anyone what you did.” “Fear?” he said, puzzled. “Why should I fear for folk to know? It is a matter of pride and rejoicing. Bringing a maiden to bower is one of the greatest privileges life can offer. To have you cry out in my arms in longing but never in pain; to have you draw me into your sweetness. Oh, that was the crowning moment of my life. You have crowned it again and again since then, and yet you think I wish you to deny it?” “We made horrific mistakes,” she said faintly. “I have broken your tradition because I can't stay with you. You have committed an act that would have you 138

Windsinger gelded by my fellow Mercies before they put you down. Do you understand, Kestrel? If they knew what you have done, you would either be in great pain or dead. But they need never know if we part now and live as if we had never met. The Mercies won't know I am defiled. Your clan won't know you had a bowering.” He shrugged. “You may act the lie, Artemis Windhover, but I cannot. If you leave me, I am a nameless outcast. I am publicly shamed if you leave me, but I would be shamed to death if I tried to hide the facts.” “I—” Suddenly, Artemis lifted her head away from his chin. “What is that?” She pointed, seemingly at the ground a few paces away. He turned to see, but she had drawn back from him already. She ran a few steps, and then knelt gracefully, as if to admire a flower. He could see no color; no brightness, nothing but a dull gray green patch among the verdant grasses. Whatever it was, it clearly enthralled Artemis, for she had broken off their argument to see. He came to inspect the thing, but was not much enlightened. It was a plant, but boasted neither delicate bloom nor spice-scented leaf. It sprawled, dry and yet somehow suggestive of luxuriance, half across a rock. Its mass of stems twined in and about one another, forming a foaming pad. “What is it?” he asked, abruptly, bringing his head close to hers as he stretched to touch the plant. Artemis stayed his hand with hers, not in lover-like 139

Lark Westerly fashion, but as if to protect a child from an unpleasant scald. “Leechmoss,” she said. “I would never have believed it. After all Maeve's efforts, I find it growing here.” “Leechmoss.” The word was unknown to Kestrel, yet he felt he had heard it somewhere before. He wrinkled his nose at the faintly bitter smell. “Is it—” His voice broke off at the sound of a cry of dismay from Artemis. “What?” he demanded. “Another plant?” “Malediction! Over there!” Her tone was tinged with horror, and he looked sharply about to see a horde of Daemons shambling towards them. He would have sensed their presence had he not been so swept up in his duel of words with Artemis, but it was too late for self-recrimination. The things had seen them, and their dead black eyes were fixed greedily on the bare flesh on display. Daemonic faces were not built to hold expression, but there was a horrid eagerness in the way their heads turned from side to side, taking in the apparently unarmed man and woman before them. Drool appeared on the heavy gray lips, the claws flexed as if already rending their victims. Kestrel's breath grow short at the memory of the dreadful pain such beasts had inflicted on him just days before. He would fight again, but he would be at a disadvantage without his ruined leather breeches for protection. One scratch from those claws would take him down. He rose, gently spilling Artemis from 140

Windsinger his lap. “We must attack.” He realized she could no longer understand him, and there was no time to give her the translation device. His windthorn staff was three paces away, and he moved warily to fetch it. He saw, with fear and approval, that Artemis was rearming herself with her quiver, bow and saber. Had she intended to flee from him and the valley before he could find her? That was something they must thrash out, if they lived through this confrontation. There was no hope that the Daemons might not risk attack. The brutes lacked fear of death. Or perhaps they lacked the imagination to fear. He gripped his staff, and felt its weighty promise. Adrenaline coursed through his blood. He regretted the breeches, but a remote part of him thrilled to the notion of battling as his ancestors had, clad only in wind. He swung his staff in a ferocious arc. Artemis was touch-counting her few arrows, and from the worried pucker on her brow, he guessed the total was smaller than she had hoped. She let one shaft fly, piercing a Daemon's eye in a puff of smoke. The thing crashed in an explosion of stench that made Kestrel's belly heave in response. A second shaft grazed another of the monsters. It flinched at the reeking wound and roared its pain, but the others ignored it. Kestrel swung his staff again, letting it cut the air with a humming whistle. “Come on,” he murmured. He felt his teeth baring in a savage grin. He would kill to save his life and his love's, and Artemis had already proved a sterling 141

Lark Westerly companion in battle. She had vanquished these beasts before. How many were left after her initial shots? Six? Seven? Their grayness and lack of clothing made it difficult to distinguish one outline from another. Two of them were smaller, but Kestrel did not make the error of thinking of them as children. They were merely subordinates. They had less social and military power, but just as much cruelty and appetite for blood as the others. His sharply tuned hearing took in the uncouth sounds that served Daemons as a language. The two biggest monsters were discussing tactics. Or were they? With a sudden shift of perspective, Kestrel realized that he could understand them. The translation device must be tuned to their tongue as well as to his and his mate's. He focused as well as he could, isolating the voices from the drumming of blood in his ears. One massive brute sniffed the air, muttered in its throat and spoke again to its companion. The words fell sluggishly, as if the device had a hard time rendering them intelligible. “This meat been rutting.” The tone was guttural. “Faugh!” The second brute sounded disappointed. “No seed in the sack.” “Mare's sack will do enough for we. Kill the buck and get we the mare to fill.” “Slit him. Let him see us work his furrow.” The biggest Daemon made a groan that Kestrel's outraged mind could not accept. The thing was fixing 142

Windsinger its gaze on Artemis. Its phallus, usually held tightly between the legs, was standing proud, slick and glistening. Kestrel could not believe it. He had heard rumors that Daemons sometimes ate pieces of their victims, but he had never heard of them using women for pleasure. The thought of that turgid rod invading his love's flesh made him sick and cold. Thoughts of caution fled, and he leapt at the monsters with a howl ripped straight from his windclad ancestors. He shrieked for the wind to aid him as he laid about with the windthorn staff, cracking it on limbs and skulls so rapidly it seemed a spinning blur. Artemis was with him. She had let loose the last of her arrows and was using the saber with neat precision. The stench of daemonic flesh and fluids was overlaid by the smell of singeing. The brute that intended to rape her was still displaying its phallus, engorged with excitement and lashing like the tail of a snake. Let me crack the staff across it, thought Kestrel violently. He lunged in its direction, but two other Daemons came in a pincer movement and distracted his aim. They feinted and struck, advancing and retreating. Their claws were drawn and ready, gleaming with acid. Grass smoked and shriveled as the drops scattered, but more were constantly forming to take their place. The wind was rising, whipping Kestrel's hair about his face. He gave silent thanks for its reaping and beckoned it on. It must grow to a gale before it would work its fury against the Daemons. Meanwhile, he 143

Lark Westerly must stand against its bluster, and so must Artemis. Kestrel struck again at the two Daemons that targeted him. He could hear their crude invitations to him to step up and die, but surely if they wanted to kill him they would have rushed him together. He thought they were probably distracting him from some other purpose. A shriek from Artemis had him whirling from his opponents. He bought the staff up hard between one's legs. It squawked and clutched at itself, and then keened with growing agony. It must have pricked its furled-up genital with the lethally armed claws. Now he saw why they had wanted him distracted. The two biggest Daemons were closing in on Artemis. One snatched for her arm and then drew back as the saber seared its flesh. The other's engorgement had grown to obscene proportions. The thing was dribbling with excitement as it staggered closer. The wind blew the scanty hair apart on its belly, and the drool was splattering in the air like filthy spume. With another howl of incandescent rage, Kestrel sent his remaining opponent sprawling, then drove the hardened tip of the staff deep into its eye. He backhanded the staff to stun the one Artemis had injured, then shaped up and delivered the blow he had promised himself. Hard and true across that straining phallus came the staff, connecting with an indescribable sound like an exploding melon. The Daemon jerked in a parody of ecstasy, spurting evil fluids onto the grass. It staggered, was caught by the wind, and fell on its back. Its blank eyes 144

Windsinger gazed at the sky, but the mouth was open in a terrible gape of disappointed rage. Artemis used the saber again, then leapt to face the two subordinates. Her face was a mask of fury, her beautiful eyes as cold as winterberries. Her bosom heaved under the tunic, and in the rising gale her hair streamed like a flag. She screamed a curse whose ululation chimed with the wind. It was beyond the powers of the translator to tackle. The sight of the avenging Mercy was too much for the remaining Daemons. Ignoring their dead and wounded compatriots, they shambled off, buffeted by the wind. Cowardice meant nothing to them. Nor did brotherhood. Their only emotions, if they had any, would be disappointment at the lack of blood to shed. Kestrel would have gone after them, but he knew he had to calm the maelstrom he had created. If he left the wind untended, it would blow the valley half to bits. Even as he lifted his staff, the woven boughs of his bower were snaking free. The vines that had leashed the living wood sailed the wind like ships on the breast of a tide. He had truly reaped a tempest. “Rest thee, brother,” he murmured. The wind of Gale was capricious and seemed to respond best when addressed in archaic mode. Perhaps it remembered the olden days with affection. “Thou hast spent thy fury and purged the wickedness,” he soothed. His hands suggested falling leaves, and the wind began to fall. A residual eddy brought his windcloak sailing towards him. It fell over his naked shoulders and caressed him with its folds. Kestrel 145

Lark Westerly sketched thanks to the wind for this gift, and it responded by settling to a steady breeze. It was never far away when he was on Wild Moon, and he wondered if it might be waiting for another summons. Shaking and limp with fatigue, he turned to Artemis. Her expression was peculiarly blank, but her face crumpled as she met his gaze. She dropped the saber and sprang into Kestrel's arms. He clasped her gladly, the splendor of the windcloak falling over them both. “You are shaking,” she said in a low voice. “Are you hurt?” He brought his face to hers to share the device. “Not this time, beloved. And you?” “N-no.” Her voice wobbled. He felt the thud of her heart under the tunic. “Kestrel, we have to go. Those things will stink the place putrid. And more might come for some sport if they get a whiff.” He nodded acquiescence. The valley was despoiled. “But how do we get out?” She sounded uncertain but her breathing was returning to normal. Kestrel drew gently away from her and indicated her scattered accoutrements. He was tired to the point of seeing shadows instead of solids, but she was right to be impatient. They had to leave. He bundled his belongings and began to assemble the windwing. A jewelbird hovered, singing a questioning trill. He whistled a phrase of apology, telling the lovely creature to leave the valley for a 146

Windsinger time. Then he sang a snatch of melody to alert the wind to help the bird with an updraft. With the windwing completed, he raised it to his shoulders. It felt unexpectedly heavy, but as he reviewed the events of the day and previous night, he was unsurprised at the weight. He should make this departure quick, but he must use proper courtesy. If Artemis really left him, he would have no need to think of courtesy to the wind. The pain of that thought stabbed him, but he began the first phrases of the age-old music that told the wind of his desires. The ritual soothed him with its familiar lilt, and the wind, already alert, responded with a playful flurry that settled to the updraft he desired. “We're not going up in that thing?” Artemis said in evident dismay. He bowed his head so she could take the device and set it on her head. “You will be safe with me, I promise you.” She pulled a wry face. The wind was insistent, bustling and tugging, letting him know it was ready. He sang a phrase of thanks, then took Artemis into his arms. He angled the windwing. The wind whisked up the kite, and it rose in a stately spiral. When they had gained enough height, Kestrel drew down a bight of hammer-cloth to make them a sling-seat. “This is not possible,” gasped Artemis, tilting her head so they could share the device. “How did you know the wind would blow up just then?” “I am a Windsinger, my love,” he said. “I sing the 147

Lark Westerly wind.” “You mean you tell it what to do?” “I ask it to do what it was born to do. Not every singing works, and I may forget that part of my nature for days on end. But Wild Moon is a special time.” She was silent. “Are you afraid to ride the wind?” he asked. “Not this time. I was terrified before, but now I know what's happening, and besides, I'm safe with you.” “You are as dear to me as my life,” he said simply. “Yes.” She lifted her face to kiss him. “I know, and I wish I could offer you all that you deserve.” He thought of the glorious certainty of the bowering flight and felt the weight of doom fall over his spirits. Her kiss had held the sadness of farewell.

148

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Chapter Thirteen Surrender.

A

rtemis' anger had subsided. Faced with the evil designs of those stinking Daemons, her objections to Kestrel's actions seemed petty. It was not her fault she had thought him primitive, but it was not his fault either. He could not have explained things to her while the diadem was broken. Indeed, he would not have felt the need to explain, since he had believed she was windfolk. Even his perverse adherence to traditions made sense. The Mercies had customs every bit as illogical and archaic as those of the windfolk. Except that the Mercies moved with the march of time, she thought tartly. Their accoutrements looked simple, but the scientific principles behind them were exceedingly modern. And exceedingly secret, too, she reminded herself. Kestrel knew her diadem was more than an ornament, but he thought it was just a translation device. He had no idea of its use in teleportation. She sighed. She had been less than frank with Kestrel about the diadem's power, but why should 149

Lark Westerly she feel any guilt when he had not chosen to explain how the windwing worked? She could believe it could glide from the cliffs to the valley, but that couldn't explain how it was rising now. It was Kestrel's business if he used a secret engine to mimic unpowered flight. It was hers if she used a teleportation beacon and failed to mention it. She nestled closer to him. It was true she was not afraid, but the thought of that other flight intruded on her enjoyment of this one. He had been triumphant then. He had kissed her tears and carried her away to his nest, sure and proud as the bird whose name he wore. His joy had been invincible, and she could no more have resisted him than a flower could resist the attraction of the sun. If she had not been sworn to the Mercies, she would have loved and lived with Kestrel Windhover forever, without a backward glance. Yet if she had not been sworn to the Mercies, they would never have met. The child Artemis had been would have died back on old Terra. She owed her life to Maeve and her status to Dia Cleo, so now she must spend that life in offering succor to sisters as Maeve had done for her. Constant service was the price of her salvation. It was the way it had to be. But not quite yet. “Kestrel? How much longer will your Wild Moon last?” “Another five days,” he said. He angled the windwing and brought the kite to a running landing at the top of the cliff, catching Artemis in his arms as he did so. “Are you all right, my only love?” His chest 150

Windsinger was heaving and there were lines of strain on his face that had not been there before. She was not all right, but she smiled, tilting her head to share the diadem's circuit. “Will you go back to the hut where you stayed before?” “It is too close to the Daemons' lairs,” he said. “Could we find another place where they won't find us?” she ventured. He stiffened, and his eyes went blank for a second. Then he smiled. “I know a place too hot for daemonic blood,” he said softly. “Will you come with me there and spend the rest of Wild Moon in my arms, Artemis Windhover?” “Yes,” she said. “And will you stay with me after Wild Moon and be my mate forever?” “No,” she said. “Then five days is all we shall have before I have, and am to be, nothing?” She swallowed painfully. “We shall have five days.” It was all the promise she could give. **** Kestrel fetched his remaining belongings from the hut and put on a breechclout. Then he raised the wind and launched himself and his mate from the edge of the world. Across the misty hills they spun, the windwing dancing on the air as its random feathers had once danced on the wings of the birds. Kestrel 151

Lark Westerly angled in to land on a sandy shore where a spit of sweetfruit trees defied the heat with their virulent crimson leaves and purple fruit. The sun poured down like honey, and Kestrel wove a new bower among the trees. There was a silver thread of water tracing a line in the sand, and he found the place where it bubbled from the underground spring. It was fresh enough to drink, and he scooped a hollow and let it fill so they could cleanse the stink of Daemon from their bodies. He watched the garland of expressions wreathing his lover's face. Amazement at the glittering sand, enchantment at the dancing rainbow shallows, and a troubled love that was bleaker than dislike. They slept in one another's arms, despite the heat, and he woke in the milk-warm night to find Artemis crying in her sleep. He went on holding her, then sadly kissed her cheek. The touch of his mouth woke her as private grief had not, and she opened herself to him without hesitation. When he would have disengaged, she clung with arms and legs. It was too hot for a coverlet, but it was not the heat that kept her from putting on her tunic. Now that he had accepted their imminent parting, she apparently saw no reason to hide her desires. The heat made her languorous, and her slow explorations of his body held him enthralled like a moth with a flame. Their unions, when they came, were more explosive for being delayed, and their voices mingled in cries of rapture that left them too spent to speak. 152

Windsinger The device that Artemis called her diadem translated faithfully, but soon they found themselves able to converse without it. Learning went swiftly when they could use the diadem to clarify terms that seemed obscure, and by the fourth day, they scarcely needed it at all. “Where will you go?” Kestrel asked that night. They lay in the silky dark, their bodies cradled in the windcloak. He was unbearably weary, but he would not waste his last hours in sleep. “I must return to Alida,” said Artemis. “The others will be worried.” He frowned into the dark. “Do they not know you are on Gale?” There was an almost tactile silence. “Where do these women think you are?” he persisted. “They'll not know what to think,” said Artemis. Her voice was constrained, and he knew with a flash of bitter jealousy, that she was hiding something. “You came to me on a lonely part of the cliffs,” he said slowly. “How did you come to be there, Artemis?” “I told you before. I thought I heard a sister cry for help.” “You were on the cliffs answering a call from a woman?” “Why, Kestrel?” she asked. “How can it matter to you where I was before you knew me?” “It matters. Everything about you matters to me.” “I was out gathering plants Maeve needed,” she 153

Lark Westerly said. “I think I told you about Dia Maeve. She is my savior and mentor. I should have been able to contact her, but my diadem was glitzing.” Kestrel perceived that his Artemis was speaking only the partial truth. “You had come from your Alida to Gale to fetch these plants?” he prompted. She was silent again. “My only love,” he said, “you are taking my world away from me very soon. Can't you give me the complete truth?” “I would tell you everything if I could,” she said in a low voice. “But some truths cannot be told to those outside the Mercy Lore.” “You are away from your home without leave?” he said, more gently. “You traveled to Gale, perhaps on some other errand, and lost yourself while trying to return to the shuttleport?” He heard her catch her breath and then swallow. “Something like that,” she admitted. “Will they punish you for leaving?” “I shall explain I had to go to a bidding. It would have been wrong of me to ignore it.” “What if these women knew you had bowered with me? Would they release you from your place with them?” She caught her breath. “I cannot be released.” “Then why return to them?” “I owe them my life. How can I desert them?” “Let us have no talk of owing,” he said roughly. “The Windsinger way is not to owe, but to see love as something freely given. And, Artemis Windhover, the 154

Windsinger Windsinger way is to embrace whatever the wind shall offer, and not to throw it back in the teeth of the gale!” He bitterly regretted his questions. The sky flushed with the dawn of their final day. Why must he render it ugly with an argument they had had too often already? “The Windsinger way is not to owe,” she murmured. He heard her take a deep breath and release it, exhaling as if she would be a sister to the wind instead of to those far away women. She reached out for him in the faint hopeful light, and he saw her face as a milky shadow touched with nightdark eyes and hair. “I like the Windsinger way,” she said. “To be grateful for love but not to give it from a sense of obligation seems a fairer way than most. There is one thing I do owe, however. I owe it to the sisters I succor to serve them with a whole heart and whole dedication. If I cannot do that, then I am failing them.” He waited, every nerve alive and in suspense. “I cannot give all my love to them,” she said, “for I have given it to you. I think I should follow the Windsinger way, and stay with you.” She curled her fingers into his and of all the intimacies they had shared in their bowering, it was this abrupt surrender that robbed him of breath and pierced his heart with a sharp, exquisite pain.

155

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Chapter Fourteen Dreams

A

rtemis had expected a roar of delight or an eruption of uninhibited loving. She had not expected silence. Then his fingers closed around hers so hard it almost hurt. A jewelbird began to sing beyond the bower. The breeze, which had just barely stirred the leaves since they came to this place, riffled the branches with a sound like the faint whisper of harp strings. The water rushed up on the sand with a rustle like silken plumage, and she heard her Windsinger draw a breath that sounded like a sob. Her throat thickened in response, and tears brimmed in her eyes. They rolled together, face to face, and body to body, in a passion of reunion. **** Kestrel's Wild Moon was over. Danger and pain had come, but he had emerged tempered and strengthened and filled with a pride and delight that 156

Windsinger half frightened him. “What happens now?” Artemis asked as they bathed in the sandy basin. Kestrel smiled. “We ride the winds again, and then go to the slough. After that, we will show you to my clan,” he said. “Your clan now, Artemis Windhover.” “What is a slough?” She rose and stepped out of the water as she spoke. Her new life with Kestrel beckoned, but she could not imagine it. She knew they would not spend all their days in the bower or riding the wings of the winds. But what would they do instead? And how would she deal with the day-today minutiae of life on Gale? “It is the place where I slough my Wild Moon self and return to civilization,” he said. “You will be welcomed, love, and our bond will be celebrated by those who know me.” She nodded, suppressing the instinctive terror at the thought of having anyone know she had allowed a man to defile her, but she knew she must not think like that. They did not think like that on Gale. Besides, there was no defilement in what Kestrel often called the duty of joy. She repeated it firmly to herself; there is no defilement where there is love. “Shall we live with your clan?” she ventured. “We live wherever we choose. I have a house—” He paused at her slight gasp of surprise. “What, my love?” “You have a proper house? I can't imagine it.” Kestrel laughed and rose dripping out of the basin. He stretched his arms above him, inflating his ribs 157

Lark Westerly and making the smooth muscles ripple in the unconscious gesture that never failed to entrance her. She loved every part of his body, and enjoyed the way his movements echoed his emotions. “Did you think we would live in a bower, beloved? I have a house and gainful occupation.” “Oh,” said Artemis doubtfully. “Put on your tunic,” said Kestrel. “At the slough I shall fetch you a robe or trews if you prefer.” Kestrel's main previous interest in what she wore had been to remove it, and Artemis quaked with apprehension. Had Gale a modesty taboo after all? “No,” said Kestrel when she asked. “Many Windsinger women choose robes, but if you wear your tunic, no one will object.” “Not even you?” Kestrel grinned. “I shall object if you wear any garb within our private quarters.” He stepped behind her, his body already dried and warmed by the sun, and put his arms around her. His hands clasped lightly against her stomach, his biceps pressed against her breasts. She nestled against the warm fleece of his chest and belly and felt the soft liquefying of desire. The breeze she had heard in the dawnlight was stirring again, feathering gently against her. She could feel Kestrel's rod stirring, then questing between her thighs. She eased her legs apart, her eyelids drooping with pleasure at the exquisite sensation. He put her away from him, then knelt to take her gently in his mouth, laving her with his tongue, tasting the evidence of her desire for him. She came quickly to 158

Windsinger culmination, writhing against him. She was still panting when he rose and thrust deeply inside her, lifting her so her legs could wrap around his waist. She opened her eyes as he cried out, seeing naked pleasure on his face. “Is this embracing whatever the wind will offer?” she gasped, still clinging with arms and legs. “It is embracing whatever the Windsinger offers,” he returned. **** The flight from the shore was long, and Artemis marveled at the way Kestrel read the wind's intentions. Exhilarated, she regretted their lovemaking after their bath. To take and be taken in the arms of the wind would be a wild experience… but one that must be postponed. They did not land on the cliffs, but swooped onwards towards the central city. It was totally enclosed by a polished dome, which gleamed white as porcelain. Artemis gasped as the arched and towering gates came into perspective. They were immense. Kestrel brought the windwing to a tidy landing, took Artemis in his arms and set her down. He unmade the windkite, folded its components, and led Artemis through the gates. As she entered, she felt the slight bulge of a membrane and the fine hairs on her arms and nape rose with discomfort as she stepped through. Her ears popped, and her skin felt suddenly 159

Lark Westerly hot, then cold. “What was that?” she gasped, rubbing her arms free of stinging gooseflesh. Kestrel looked puzzled, and then his face cleared. “That is the alkaligate, my beloved. The alki field feels unpleasant to us, but I am assured it is a hundred times worse to a Daemon. They will not come through.” Beyond the gates lay the slough court, which apparently acted as an airlock between the city proper and the wild outer world of temperate Gale. Kestrel left Artemis in an anteroom while he went to stow his belongings and reclaim whatever he had left for safekeeping in the slough. He was gone for quite some while, and Artemis began to feel restless. On a whim, she put on her diadem and immediately detected the tug of the Mercy Beacon on Alida. So far away it seemed, so long ago since she had left the hillside. She pictured Maeve out gathering leechmoss. Perhaps the red-haired woman would gaze at the twin moons, longing for news of Artemis and fearing the worst. She would not be the first Mercy to vanish while attending a bidding. Mercies were strong, well trained and well-equipped, but they were not invincible. If she could only explain to Maeve that she was well. But Maeve would not understand. The Windsinger code was not the code of the Amazon Mercies. To them all was obligation. They owed duty to one another, to chastity, and most of all to the salvation of sisters from rapacious males. 160

Windsinger She was deep in her reflections when she saw the stranger. He was tall and well built, clad in straight dark trousers that concealed the play of muscle and sinew and masked the expressive angle and swing of his body. He had on a shirt of dull leaf-green, with a studded belt and a high round collar, and his long hair was clubbed back in a neat and gleaming braid. A silver hoop swung in one earlobe, and as he turned his head, she noted a tiny trickle of blood. “Kestrel?” she said doubtfully, jolted by unfamiliarity. He raised her hand to his lips. “My lady Artemis.” “Kestrel, your ear is bleeding.” He smiled, blindingly, and touched his ear lobe. “I could not wait to announce my completion,” he said with engaging frankness. “A newly bowered man is permitted to display his pride.” He noticed the diadem she was still wearing. “You do not need that any more, Artemis. You know my words, and I know yours.” She agreed, but the unease persisted. The call of the Alida Beacon was difficult to resist. She drew a tremulous breath, hoping to ease the constriction in her breast. Kestrel visibly reveled in this new phase of his life. It seemed the earring was a visible symbol that he had taken a mate and was, as he put it, complete. If only he had not looked so unlike himself. The naked lover of the valley and tropical bay was all but buried in this neatly clad sophisticate. He was even wearing molded boots of synthetic hide. The dearly 161

Lark Westerly familiar and expressive body she loved was tidied away with the windcloak and windthorn staff. This was a stranger. The Beacon was calling. The Mercies were waiting. She could sense the bustle and chatter of commonhall and kitchens just beyond the range of hearing. “Artemis? Will you come to our house and warm its heart?” “Our house.” Her voice sounded odd and remote. She did not want the call of the Beacon. She preferred the call that bound her to her lover. She need not wholly forsake her calling. She could succor women on Gale, though there would be little work for a Mercy if the men of Gale were all like Kestrel Windhover. She must embrace her new life as she embraced her Windsinger. But first, she must silence the Beacon's summons. She must rid herself of temptation and of the diadem. She could not cast it aside. It must not fall into prying hands. She couldn't break it, for a diadem was worth a princess's ransom. Losing this one would shake the Mercies as much as losing Artemis. She removed the circlet, weak with relief as the maddening pull ceased. She smiled at her companion. “I will come to the house, but first I must go to the shuttleport.” A shadow touched his eyes. “Might I know why? Are we to take a journey?” “No!” she said hastily. “I must send this diadem back to Alida.” 162

Windsinger Kestrel shook his head. “The shuttle flies at sunhigh tomorrow. There is nothing to be gained by going there today.” Artemis bit down on her lip. She wanted to be rid of the diadem now, but she could come up with no good reason for insisting. “Could I leave it here until tomorrow?” she asked instead. “The slough is a good place to leave behind the past,” he said, and she thought he sounded approving. She handed him her accoutrements and waited while he stowed them safely with his windwing and cloak. “And now, my Lady Artemis, let us go home,” he said. Artemis was considerably astonished and rather chagrined to find that going home meant taking a journey in a motorized capsule. It was shaped like a nutshell, but the top part was retractable which meant passersby could see the occupants. It moved along the colonnaded roads at a stately pace little faster than she could run. White buildings arched and sparkled on either side, and she had the vague impression of a great many strolling figures along the walkways. Most of them turned honey-colored faces to inspect the capsule, and she flushed as she realized they were all staring at her with surprised attention. “Can we go faster?” she asked. “It is not the custom,” said Kestrel. “They are going faster.” She indicated a capsule that skipped along as energetically as a pebble across a pond. “They are not newly bowered.” 163

Lark Westerly She heard the smile in his voice and almost smiled herself, but she disliked the stares of the curious. An Amazon Mercy was always aloof from the common folk. But she was no longer an Amazon Mercy. She stared at Kestrel's profile to distract her mind, but he looked so unlike his Wild Moon self. Her thoughts trailed off in a delta of dismay. She had grown to love this man in a setting of natural abundance. She had accepted one chameleon change, when she had realized he was not the simple primitive she had supposed, but she was unsure that she could accept another quite so quickly. “What happens next?” “We go home,” said Kestrel patiently. “Yes, but after that.” “The homewaking.” Homewaking? But what do we do? How shall we live? And what have I done? she added painfully in her mind. Kestrel brought the pod to a skilled and silent landing, and it trundled sideways and tucked itself under an overhanging ledge. “Here is our house,” he said and helped her out of the pod. Taking her hand, he led her up a short flight of curved white steps and laid his hand on a seemingly featureless wall. A panel slid upwards, and Kestrel drew Artemis inside. She looked about, her eyes slowly adjusting to the lower lighting after the dazzle out in the city. Everywhere was the translucent, pearly white of an eggshell. At first, she could see no furniture, and then she became aware that slight curves and humps must 164

Windsinger conceal various necessities. It was so quiet that she could hear her own breathing. She fancied she could also hear her heart beating. Mutely, she looked at Kestrel, that tall, straight, figure whose somber clothing made an emphatic statement in the ambivalent room. With his hair clubbed back, the planes of his face stood out strongly, and he looked alien and remote. “Where is everything?” she faltered. Her voice did not echo, but was swallowed by the walls. Even the door by which they had entered had been reabsorbed. “The things we need are here,” said Kestrel. “Windfolk do not make a parade of wealth in the city. Take off your tunic, Artemis. It is not the custom to go clad in a homewaking.” He sounded stiff and formal, almost as if he were speaking a different dialect. The words made sense, but the singing tone that had so attracted her had gone. Bemused, she took off her tunic, laying the crumpled garment on the floor. A slight dip became a curve, and the tunic vanished like a slip of linen dropped in milk. She removed her sandals, and they, too, vanished. Fear clutched at her stomach as she realized she was naked and defenseless in a house she could not leave without assistance. She was with a male who was demonstrably stronger than she. He could do anything to her. She looked nervously at Kestrel. “What now?” “Now is the homewaking. Rest and close your eyes,” said Kestrel. She did not wish to rest, and she did not 165

Lark Westerly understand this homewaking, yet in that featureless place she seemed to have no alternative. She sank to her knees, slid down, and curled on her side. The floor was as bland and noncommittal as the rest of the room. It was neither warm nor cold, but precisely aligned to the temperature of her skin. The silence muffled her like a blanket. “Let it come.” Kestrel's voice seemed to come from far away. She heard the rustle of his clothing as he moved about the room. “I don't understand,” she said. “You need not understand the homewaking. Let it happen.” “Is this a game? What do you mean?” She wished she had kept the diadem. The translation circuit might have made some sense out of this nonsense word. “It is the homewaking,” he said. She sat up, angry now. “I told you. I do not understand that word. You must explain.” “If I explain, it will be compromised. It must come from you and from your true desires.” She looked at him stubbornly, searching for some hint of what he expected. His face might have been molded from clay, and his body, once so wonderfully expressive, was unreadable. Uneasily, she lay down again, wishing her Wild Moon lover would send this remote stranger packing. She closed her eyes. The perfume came first, stealing into her mind with the freshness of blossoms and the sweetness of 166

Windsinger ripe fruit. Her eyes flicked open, but the light had dimmed and she could see nothing but swathes of misty shadow. The sound of birdsong startled her next, the twittering, bubbling joy that came from the throat of a jewelbird. Then came a whisper of color, a faint flush of green and blossom pink that ran over the misty walls. The colors trembled like dewdrops, shifting and swaying like the great aurora of Terra. Artemis watched them with wonder, unsure whether her eyes were closed or open. A sighing wind joined the song of the bird, and the taste of fruit was sweet on her tongue. “What is it?” she gasped “Let it happen,” said Kestrel's voice, almost inaudibly. She did not know what he meant by that, but she could still taste the fruit in her mouth and smell the fragrance of the blossoms. She could feel the warmth of sunlight on her sensitized skin, and it seemed she should have been perfectly contented. But something was missing. “Come to me, please!” she cried out, and lifted her arms in entreaty. The colors were blurring softly above her, merging into a hue of honey. Someone touched her hands and then her lips, and the world exploded in blue and green and gold. She felt herself tossed into the burst of color, caught on the breeze like a feather, and then a warm body was pressed to the length of hers. She was aching for him, but their union was slow and heartbreakingly gentle at first. She clung to him, 167

Lark Westerly twisting in his arms, wanting more and more. He gave her all she wanted, and at the height of sensation, she heard herself crying out as wildly as a bird. The air burst into a shower of sparks, and the world spun her away to land, unhurt and panting, in a grassy sunlit hollow. Spent, she closed her eyes and heard the return of silence. Only a jewelbird was singing, far away. **** Artemis stirred. She felt deliciously warm and knew she was cradled close to Kestrel's body. Almost fearfully, she opened her eyes. For a moment she saw his familiar face looking down at her, with his long hair falling over her breast to mingle with hers, and the jewelbird glory of the windcloak forming a frame for his shoulders. Brightness trembled along the walls, and then retreated, and she knew that the fleeting return of Kestrel's Wild Moon self had been an illusion. His hair was still tied back, and the earring gleamed against his jaw. But one thing had changed. His nakedness was real. “What happened?” she asked dazedly. “I thought—I almost thought we were back in the valley, the way it was before the Daemons came.” “We were there, in a way,” said Kestrel. “Our home has quickened.” He kissed her lips, and a slight tug of movement between her legs told her that her 168

Windsinger body was still embracing his. The taste of salt mingled with the phantom sweetness of fruit in her mouth, and she realized that one, or both, of them had been shedding tears. She shook her head with confusion. “What does it mean, and how did it happen?” she asked. Kestrel kissed her again. “It means, my only love, that our bond can never break.” She half sat up. “You hypnotized me.” “No. This house has circuits in its skin, which quicken to your dreams. You conjured up our valley, and then you invited me to join you and welcomed me into your beautiful body. You called my real self and it answered. You even called the wind.” She realized, dimly, that he must be talking about some kind of technology that paralleled the diadems' circuitry. The Alida Beacon boosted natural mind power until a Mercy could cross reality. This house of Kestrel's must use a different application of the same theory. It seemed to be one that allowed a mental reality to surround the user. She went cold and sat up the rest of the way. “It's dangerous,” she said, shivering at the cold that touched her sides. “What if I had thought of Daemons? Or even something worse? Isn't it dangerous to invite whatever lurks in my mind?” “What is worth having is always dangerous,” said Kestrel. “What we have is worth more than danger. It is worth my life.” She peered down at him, seeing his face shift in and out of focus as the ghostly windcloak unfurled in 169

Lark Westerly her mind and appeared behind his shoulders. “You mean that,” she said, amazed. “You really mean it. You would risk anything to have me.” “To have us,” he corrected. “You know me as I really am.” Artemis digested this. “Will that happen often?” “It happens when it happens,” he said. “You can override the program completely if you wish and focus on real things, not dreams. Otherwise, we could tune it higher so it colors with every fleeting thought.” Artemis tried, and failed to see how this sophisticated program could belong to the same man who had nothing but the things he might carry on his back. He said she knew him as he really was, but which Kestrel was the true one? “Your staff, Kestrel,” she said abruptly. “What is that made of, really?” “Windthorn wood, with bronze to bind it,” he said. “No circuitry? No tricks?” “None.” He looked mildly offended. “No Windsinger would use such toys while on Wild Moon, Artemis. Not without the most acute necessity. Wild Moon is a time to leave our city selves behind and to prove to ourselves that we can live without these walls and programs.” “You used the diadem on Wild Moon,” she reminded. He smiled, but didn't answer in words. Instead, he kissed her deeply, with acute necessity. “Which is the real you?” she persisted, when she 170

Windsinger could speak again. Kestrel turned her about so that she was leaning against him. He held her in the curve of one arm and stroked her hair. “I am never sure,” he said. “When I am on Wild Moon, I am at one with the natural world. The wind is my little brother, and the jewelbirds join my song. That is the way I would have been always, had I lived in the long ago. Since I do not, I have another self, who must be at one with the city.” “Isn't that difficult?” asked Artemis. “Not at all! The two are linked, and the places where they touch are where my real self begins.” “Where do they touch?” His arm tightened. “Guess.” Artemis thought about Kestrel. She thought of the Wild Moon man, and of the more sophisticated version that had brought her to this place. At first, she had been confused, but she thought she was beginning to grasp the truth. “They touch where things really matter,” she said. “When you love something, or someone, you love it no matter how you are dressed or where you are sleeping. If the wind met you out there in the streets, it would know you for its brother.” “You do understand,” said Kestrel. “I do,” agreed Artemis. She paused, and added slowly; “Now that I understand, I will be like the wind, except that I will always know you for my lover.”

171

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Chapter Fifteen Shuttleport.

T

he next day, they returned to the slough where Artemis fetched the diadem and her other accoutrements. Kestrel was dressed as he had been the day before, but now Artemis knew the real Kestrel was just the same as he had always been. To reach the shuttleport, they boarded a vehicle as sleek and phallic as the windwing was graceful and archaic. Artemis was uncomfortably aware of other couples seated behind and around them. The women wore trews, or robes to their ankles, but they eyed her tunic with surprise rather than censure. The men were dressed much as Kestrel was, but none, to Artemis' mind, could match her Windsinger. Their faces were less distinctive, and their eyes less bright in color. She could not imagine any of them giving a woman the intensity of pleasure that Kestrel gave to her. The men grinned at Kestrel, touched their earrings and made unmistakable signals of congratulations and fellowship. Kestrel beamed back with such pride 172

Windsinger that Artemis blushed. The heat spread down her chest, making her nipples tingle. These men knew what she and Kestrel had been doing. Embarrassment mingled with the delicious memories of every encounter. If she closed her eyes, she could feel his hands on her body, feel the delicate, lingering strokes of his tongue and the long, powerful thrusts of his rod within her. It was as if she were back in the house with the enchanted valley of their first bowering quickening around them. She found she was breathing hard at the memories and blushed still more. She wanted to be alone with Kestrel. She was sure her carnal desires were written in her face. Artemis of the Mercies would have been sickened and horrified by such desires. Artemis Windhover embraced and longed for them. Now she must slough off those Mercy attitudes forever. Today, she would send her accoutrements home to Alida. Once rid of them she would be rid of the Mercy and could feel that she was truly Artemis Windhover. The shuttleport was small since windfolk seldom went offworld. Most travelers were visitors or transit passengers. Artemis saw a cluster of shorepeople from Seabra. She had succored shoremems often. Their menfolk had unpleasant ways of enforcing subservience. There were Piscines, too, all men. Their women were not allowed to leave their planet. Asterians traveled in mixed groups, but Artemis had followed biddings when spurned Asterian women had tried to kill themselves when their males were done with breeding and returned to their 173

Lark Westerly preference for bedding one another. And so it went. The blending crowds reminded Artemis that she had seen suffering sisters of almost every race in her time as a Mercy. Males! Malediction on all of them. Except for Kestrel. “The cargo bay is that way, love,” said Kestrel in her ear. “It is closing on sunhigh—” He was interrupted by a trill of music. Artemis looked for a jewelbird, but instead saw a small, handsome male in a long robe. He was whistling, tugging suggestively at his ear, which did not, for once, sport an earring. “Robin the Liar!” said Kestrel. At least, that was what Artemis thought he said. She was not sure about the last word. Whatever the man's name, Kestrel seemed glad to see him, for he paused to whistle an answering melody. The other whistled again, twisting his ear as if he would remove it entirely. The other hand rubbed his crotch and he looked appreciatively at Artemis. Kestrel laughed, and Artemis, in a fury of blushes, left him to deal with his lewd acquaintance and headed for the cargo bay. The shuttle was phallic in shape, and the energy cells pulsed up and down its length like the play of muscles. It would carry her Mercy accoutrements safely to Parallax, where shuttles touched down irregularly on cargo runs. A sister there would alert Dia Cleo, and after a tiresome round of communications, the precious accoutrements would be dispatched by private shuttle to Alida. Artemis could go there too. She could leave this 174

Windsinger foreign place. She could beg entry at Parallax, pass their rigid entry requirements, and thence return to Alida. Her excuse for her long absence would be the glitzing diadem. She could leave this male who had stormed her barricades and shaken her world, retreat to her Amazon Mercy self and take up her maiden's life. A rueful smile twitched at Artemis' lips. Leave Kestrel? After last night's revelation, she thought she would as soon leave life. The notion of leaving was a distant, distasteful fantasy. Artemis was halfway to the cargo bay, still smiling, when an agonized scream rang out. It poured out in a throat-wrenching river of sound, as if it stole every breath in the screamer's body. Artemis spun on her heels and peered through the crowd. Her breath came quickly as adrenaline poured through her veins. Her eyes focused on an eddy in the stream of travelers, a stuttering as if it parted around a jagged rock. A shoresah was dragging his mate by her hair. The screams came from the tortured woman. Artemis reached for an arrow, but the quiver was empty. “Sister, I hear your cry!” she exclaimed, and drew the saber instead. She was running to succor the shoremem when the shimmer bloomed in the air to one side. For an instant the sky went opaque, and then a white clad maiden leapt into view. She had nocked an arrow as she ran, and she let it fly hissing at the shoresah. The shoremem's screams continued, but above 175

Lark Westerly them rang her attacker's howl as he clutched at the scored and smoking wound in one arm. The Amazon Mercy helped the shoremem to her feet. “Sister, are you in need of succor?” The woman seemed dazed. Blood tricked from her maltreated scalp, and her eyes looked crooked and unfocused. The singed man lunged, fingers extended to claw and scratch. “The crook-eyed bitch has been—” His voice broke off in a yelp as he found himself brought up short by the Mercy's saber. “Touch any sister again in anger, and I shall remove the hand that injures her!” she promised. She touched the man's hand with the point of the saber. It made him yelp again as a smoking brand appeared. The yelp became a terrified whimper as she angled the saber point towards his crotch. Her arm pulled back in a graceful line, and she prepared to thrust. “Go, before I cauterize the seat of your cruelty!” she ordered. “Male!” She spat the last word as if it were an imprecation. The shoresah backed away, beating at the smoldering cloth, and accompanied by the jeers of the crowd. The Mercy gave the onlookers a scorching look and sheathed her saber. Keeping one arm around the faltering woman, she lifted her free hand to her diadem. Her eyes flicked left and right as she sought a hidden place from which to address the Beacon, then widened abruptly as she spotted Artemis. “You!” she exclaimed. Hexes, thought Artemis, but there was no avoiding 176

Windsinger the encounter. “Hello, Jael,” she said flatly. The Mercy had recognized her in an unlucky glance. Her brown eyes were full of zealous inquiry and, perhaps, of triumph. “What are you doing here, Artemis?” she demanded. “I answered a bidding, as you did,” said Artemis. “I would have succored this shoremem, but you were ahead of me.” “You have been away a long while, Artemis. We thought you were dead and mourned a Diadem Mercy. There are only too few of us at present.” Artemis licked her lips, her mind whirling confusion. She must get away from this woman. She must find Kestrel. She must… An idea popped into her head. “My diadem is glitzing,” she said. “I made it this far by a fluke, but I was afraid to trust it going back home. The shuttle leaves from here, and I thought I might travel as far as it goes and then send a message on to Alida from Parallax.” The other Mercy nodded. “It is well I came, or you would have been away for longer yet.” She smiled at the shoremem, who was making an obvious effort to focus her misdirected eyes. “Will you come with us to Alida, sister, and live in the Sisterhood Village? No male will ever trouble you, and your flesh will never again be sullied.” The woman shook her head in a panicky motion. She said something in halting GalStan. The Mercy frowned. “I see,” she said curtly. “You will not help yourself. Then you shall have no further 177

Lark Westerly help from me.” She turned away. “Come, Artemis. You say you were going to catch the shuttle? We shall travel together and make better speed.” With the speed of a flickersnake, she seized Artemis' hands and launched them both into the path of the Alida Beacon.

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Chapter Sixteen Outcast.

K

estrel took his leave of Robin the Deceiver and, still laughing at the other's good-humored vulgarity, turned to follow Artemis to the cargo bay. There was some disturbance in the middle distance. A shoresah of Seabra was swearing sibilantly as a medic salved his arm. Kestrel wrinkled his nose at the smell of smoke-singed flesh. It reminded him of Daemons, but there could be none here. The shuttleport was protected by its own alkaligate. Not that this prevented the brutes from arriving on Gale, but it did force them to land in uninhabited spots and prowl the outer planet in search of prey. “What happened to this man?” he asked, as the medic bound up the wound. The medic glanced up. “Fell foul of a stat-beam from the shuttle, he says.” “Fell foul of the lass in white,” corrected an onlooker. “Had at him with some kind of arrow, and swore to have his balls off him if he offended again.” 179

Lark Westerly He sniffed, and tugged ostentatiously at his earring. “The Daemon-spit deserved it.” Kestrel was appalled. “What did he do to this lass?” “It was his own mate he was abusing. The squinteyed shoremem there.” Looking at the trembling woman, Kestrel thought he had never seen such badly aligned eyes. Perhaps Shorepeople did not see it as a defect. Or perhaps they did, and that was why the shoresah had been so cruel. He looked away. The medic finished his task and turned dourly to the woman who dropped to her knees before him, gabbling pleas. The shoresah, finding no sympathy and much condemnation, glowered at the woman and then slunk off without her. Kestrel looked about in growing concern. Though no longer an Amazon Mercy, his Artemis would always succor women in trouble. He understood that and would not have had it otherwise. He supposed it was lucky she had had this last encounter before giving up her weapons and translator. But where was she now? Why had she not stopped to soothe the woman after she had singed the miscreant? It was not like her to leave a task halfdone. He asked about, but many of the possible witnesses were travelers who did not understand his queries. They were speaking the tongue Artemis used, the common GalStan language of most of the settled worlds. Kestrel could communicate with his 180

Windsinger love quite easily now, but the strangers seemed disinclined to make an effort to tune to his accent. He turned to the garrulous bystander and dropped into his Wild Moon dialect. “Windbrother, where did the warrior maid go after she confounded the shoresah?” The other man lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea, brother. I didn't see her again.” “She was going to the shuttle,” said Aquilla Alular, a man with whom Kestrel was slightly acquainted. “Along with the other lass. They were summersiders, maybe, or offworlders. Outlandishly spoken and wearing short white things.” Kestrel was baffled. “There were two maids dressed in white? Are you certain, brother?” His acquaintance nodded. “They were unrobed, and untrewsed. What's your interest, Windhover?” “One of the maids is my mate,” said Kestrel. “And you are mistaken, Alular. She was going to the cargo bay, not to the shuttle.” “They were going together to the shuttle, they said.” The man's eyes narrowed. “By that ear you're new-bowered, Windhover. Rush her, did you? Fail to fill her with your rod?” Kestrel's guts seemed full of a roaring void, and his face was frozen with horror. He took three rapid paces towards the shuttle, but the faint thrum of engines had already begun. Before he could break into a run, the sound accelerated to a shriek and the vehicle launched suddenly into the sky. It pierced the roof of the heavens, traced a finger of vapor across the 181

Lark Westerly blue and was swallowed by the clouds. “It seems I failed to fill her with my love,” said Kestrel bleakly. His eyes, still straining for a sight of the departed shuttle, blurred and dimmed. The two other men exchanged embarrassed glances, then melted away without farewell. Deliberately, Kestrel Windhover tore the earring from his lobe. Had he been on Wild Moon, he might have leapt from the cliffs to his nightfall. In city mode, he could only walk away. **** Returning to Alida via the Beacon was not like flying from Alida to a bidding. Artemis clung to Jael's hand as she had clung to Kestrel when they rode the wind. She did not like Jael, but without her diadem, she would be adrift in nowhere if she lost touch with the other Mercy. Artemis wasn't sure what happened to a Mercy who fell adrift from the Beacon. Her fate might be exile on some strange planet, but it was more likely to be oblivion. What were the chances of finding landfall in the hollow depths of space, with no bidding to focus her trajectory? At present she hardly cared. She felt like a fish being dragged on a line from its lifegiving stream. They alighted on the hillside, and Jael released her grip. “Dia Maeve will be surprised when I show her what I found,” she said. “She's expecting the shoremem, not her own lost favorite.” 182

Windsinger “No,” agreed Artemis dully, not even bothering to resent the slur of favoritism. The hillside seemed pallid after the brilliance of Gale. They had landed near the place where the leechmoss grew, where her adventure had begun. “Maeve may snap less at the rest of us when you return to her bed,” said Jael. “I have never shared Maeve's bed since I was a child,” said Artemis. “Indeed?” The other Mercy lifted her brows. “Then where have you been on those nights when you are neither on shift nor at commonhall?” “Gathering leechmoss, mostly.” Artemis felt numb. Jael's insinuations were less than the sting of an aspfly beside the enormity of her loss. Kestrel Windhover. She had known him for less than a moons' span, yet he was more to her than any of the Mercies, even including Maeve. “You must report to Dia Cleo,” said Jael. She sounded almost gleeful. Artemis would rather have explained herself to Maeve, but she didn't have the chance. Jael was determined to get the praise that she felt was her due. Cleo, who kept the archives, was in the scriptorium. She looked up impatiently as Jael propelled Artemis into the room. Her gray eyes widened and she rose precipitously. “Artemis!” “Dia Cleo.” Artemis knelt in reluctant homage. “So,” said Cleo, raising her with a dry, cold grasp to her elbows, “you are alive and have finally deigned to return. Where have you been, and why haven't you 183

Lark Westerly communicated with us?” “I found Artemis when I went to the bidding I registered,” put in Jael. “She too had attended, but her diadem malfunctioned. Or so she says.” Cleo frowned. “You both attended the same bidding, Mercies?” “We met there,” said Artemis mechanically. “That bidding was registered just today,” pressed Dia Cleo. “You have been absent much longer than that.” Artemis felt dizzy, and blinked. “I—I attended an earlier cry,” she said. “It seemed desperate, so I dared not stop for registration. It was a daemonic attack.” Dia Cleo winced. “No doubt it was fatal. I trust you put the brutes down?” “I did,” said Artemis. “A cruel death for the sister,” said Cleo, “but better that death than an impaling by some brute male.” Artemis stared at the older woman. “Have you ever seen what daemonic poisoning does to its victims, Dia?” she asked. “They scream with agony.” “The shoresister I succored today screamed, too,” pointed out Jael. “The shoresah was dragging her by her hair.” “I trust you put him to the saber before he impaled and pillaged her,” said Dia Cleo. “A hex on males!” said Jael. “A hex on sisters who embrace their own degradation! The fool wouldn't accept my offer of sanctuary.” Artemis felt ill. “So,” said Dia Cleo, reverting to the topic of 184

Windsinger Artemis' absence. “You attended an unregistered bidding. Why did you not return when you dispatched the Daemons?” “My diadem was glitzing,” said Artemis. “I dared not try for the Beacon.” “Show me.” Dia Cleo stretched out a dry, pale hand. Artemis gave up the diadem. In her mind's eye she saw Kestrel's hands as he made the delicate repairs. In place of Cleo's sour gray eyes she saw his blue ones, focused thoughtfully on the diadem, lovingly on her. “What is this?” Cleo lifted something from the diadem with finger and thumb. “It looks like a hair, Dia,” said Jael. Dia Cleo held the hair to the light. It glistened like copper, and Artemis' heart gave a warning thump. “This is not from your head, Artemis,” Dia Cleo observed, ostentatiously comparing the bronze strand with Artemis' dark tresses. Artemis said nothing. The numbness of loss was fading and soon she would hurt beyond endurance. She could also be in terrible trouble. “It looks like Dia Maeve's to me,” Jael said slyly. “A keepsake, Artemis?” Dia Cleo dropped the hair with a cluck of disgust, then examined the diadem, resting it momentarily on her brow. “The circuit is sound.” She glanced at Jael. “Where did you say you discovered Artemis?” “She was at a shuttleport,” said Jael. “Though I do not see why she took so long to go there from wherever she landed. It cannot have taken long to put 185

Lark Westerly down the Daemons.” “The shuttleport was a long way from where I fought the Daemons,” said Artemis tiredly. “It took time to reach it.” Dia Cleo reached out and pinched Artemis' upper arm. “You seem well-fleshed for one who has traveled hard.” “I found fruit to eat.” Artemis reached for the diadem, desperate to escape these carping women. She must try to trace the sector from which the original bidding had come. It might lead her back to Kestrel. Dia Cleo held the diadem away. “Lilith shall make the necessary repairs,” she told Artemis. “You are planet-bound for the foreseeable future. We cannot risk losing you again.” So much for using the diadem to return to Kestrel. So much for her new life. So much for Artemis Windhover. “Did you hear me?” demanded Dia Cleo, and Artemis nodded. The lump in her throat was too big and too painful for speech. **** Back among the other Mercies, Artemis pretended gladness that Jael had rescued her. Gradually, her mysterious absence and sudden return was dropped from general conversation. Only Maeve and Dia Cleo seemed to remember; Maeve with relief at her return and Cleo with a cold gaze that lingered harshly on 186

Windsinger Artemis. Planet-bound without her diadem although she could still detect the thrust of the Beacon, Artemis spent her days working with Maeve's acolytes: girls who had never adjusted to the use of a diadem. She delivered rescued sisters to the Sisterhood Village, and helped them to settle with the other residents. Did they completely realize that Alida was a planet of women? Did they know they would never see another male? Maeve was the only Mercy whose company Artemis wanted, and she had to avoid her as much as possible. Not only would it do her standing no good if Jael repeated her false assumptions, but Maeve herself was a danger to her self-control. Maeve was warmhearted, brisk and kind, but she could be sternly implacable in matters of Mercy Lore. If she suspected that Artemis was pining for a male, she would not be sympathetic. Artemis longed hopelessly for Kestrel, but there was no way of contacting him. Alida had no communication systems beyond the diadems and the Beacon. It was said that radio waves or farcall devices could corrupt the Beacon signals. Artemis wondered ironically if the real reason was to keep Alida cut off from the worlds beyond. Even Diadem Mercies never left the planet except in response to a bidding, and were bound to return as quickly as they could. Since they had no idea of their destinations when they left Alida, they could not make and keep acquaintances on other worlds. 187

Lark Westerly To her Windsinger, the five days Artemis had promised him at the shore had apparently seemed a pittance. To a Mercy, that same short sojourn was a critical breach of law. The tenets it breached were many. Fraternization, neglect of duty, defilement. Artemis could not believe her recent temerity, yet Mercy Lore seemed quite ridiculous now. Why was the constant condemnation of males encouraged? Some males were no worse than some sisters, and some could become partners in every sense. Tears pressed constantly behind her eyes whenever she thought of Kestrel. And she found she thought of Kestrel all the time. She wanted to be in his arms again. She wanted to revel in all his passionate attentions. They had still had so much to learn from one another. One night, aching with longing, she excused herself from the commonhall. She intended to stand on the hillside and gaze at the moons, but Jael intercepted her before she could leave the Mercy quarters. “You look ill,” she said critically, and steered Artemis inexorably towards her sleeping quarters. “Are you double bleeding?” Artemis was not surprised at the question. The two moons of Alida sometimes caused rigorous cyclic bleeding that left a Mercy pale and lacking in energy. “Get some medication from Maeve,” recommended Jael. “I expect you're short of iron and good red blood.” Artemis sighed. “I wish you had shown as much 188

Windsinger concern for that shoremem as you do for me. Did you even offer her some salve?” “She refused my help,” said Jael stiffly. “No doubt the fool has gone back to her degradation and is being pierced again by that shoresah's disgusting rod of flesh. I should have burned it off him when I had the chance.” Artemis had to bite her tongue. Jael was right, in essence. The shoresah had been disgusting. When Jael had left, Artemis bent to tidy her stack of tunics, then staggered as nausea and faintness assailed her. “Malediction!” she moaned between clenched teeth. She tumbled onto her pallet. Her face felt clammy, she shivered, and there was an ache deep in her loins. Hopelessly, she longed for Kestrel to hold her and soothe her and warm her to sleep in his arms. Her bleeding was late. She supposed time spent on Gale had thrown her system out of rhythm. She felt swollen and heavy and, until the cramps began, she knew she must endure this miserable prequel. She closed her eyes, and tried not to imagine herself in Kestrel's arms. She sweated, and her nipples ached. She cupped her hands over her breasts to ease them, but that reminded her again of Kestrel. If only she had not visited the shuttleport. If only she had stayed by his side and not encountered Jael. She spent a restless night, haunted by nightmare visions of Daemons and blood. By morning, she felt better in body, though not in spirit, and went to report for duty. Maeve came in as she listlessly sorted 189

Lark Westerly mild white feverseed from the stronger red. Artemis kept her head low, but the older woman stopped and looked at her closely. “You are pale, my sweet.” Artemis grimaced. “It will pass. I'll be better when I bleed.” “Do you want something to bring it on?” Artemis shook her head. “It will come on soon enough.” “Moons be thanked, it always does,” said Maeve with a smile. But Maeve was wrong, for this time it did not. **** Kestrel Windhover did not wipe the blood from his torn ear. He thought it would be a blessed and peculiar irony if he survived daemonic poisoning and then succumbed to a minor infection, but he knew the irony would not eventuate this time. His ear, unlike his heart and spirit, would easily heal itself. His misery at Artemis' defection was extreme. Had she really left without apology or regret? Had she encountered the other Mercy at the shuttleport by design? If so, her request to visit that cursed place might have been a ruse to escape. She loved him, but she had also fought her love, just as she fought the cravings of her body. He wished he had resisted his love for her, but it was too late for wishing. He had bowered and bonded his mate, and now he had nothing. Now he 190

Windsinger was nothing. The disgrace and shame of his state were catastrophic, harming much more than his pride. His decorative work would no longer be in demand, and his name would not be spoken. Kestrel Windhover would be dead to his clan. The horror of it struck his heart and guts. He was leaving the shuttleport, senses blunted with dismay, when a shoremem sidled up and tugged his sleeve. He looked at her dully. She was unmistakable, for not only were both eyes focused on random targets, but her scalp had been bleeding. “Windmem go where?” she said. He shook his head, overwhelmed with distress to hear, even so badly mangled, the language Artemis used. “I am outcast,” he said in his own dialect and then added roughly in GalStan: “Bad to talk. Have no name.” She tugged insistently, babbling away, but he could not concentrate, and besides, her wild eyes distracted him. He tried to shake her free. “Windmem go not-there!” declared the woman, clinging. She would have continued the conversation, but Kestrel could not allow that. Since she would not correctly shun him, he must leave. “No!” he snapped, and used both hands to remove her grasp from his shirt. He put her firmly from him and strode away. It wasn't until much later that he came to himself sufficiently to wonder exactly what she had wanted to 191

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192

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Chapter Seventeen Discovery.

T

he symptoms Artemis suffered grew worse. Her breasts were tender, and she was fatigued and nauseated. It was not so bad in the mornings, but as the days wore into evenings, she retched miserably in the privy. She longed to believe her illness had to do with misery and her absence from Alida's cycles, but she had never been very good at deluding herself. Terror clenched her guts as she stared disaster in the face. She was going to bear Kestrel Windhover's child. He had planted it in her, and it had taken root. It would grow, despite her illness, and she would become distended with its alien presence in her womb. Who would help her? Maeve? She knew Maeve used abortifacients on rescued sisters who had been violated. She could ask for some of those. But to ask would lead to questions, which would lead to condemnation. Maybe she could pretend it was meant 193

Lark Westerly for one of the rescued sisters in the village. No. Cleo would know that was a lie. She had all the sisters carefully examined when they arrived to ensure no males slipped past in disguise. Babies were occasionally born in the village, but such children were always girls. Any sister who carried a male inside her was given the choice of taking an abortifacient from Maeve or leaving Alida for a distant destination. Artemis felt faint and ill, but in between bouts of nausea, she wondered if she could possibly turn this disaster to advantage. There was bound to be some point of Mercy Lore, some byway of the codes that could set her free. It was a good idea. She might have worked it out if she'd had the time. She was dressing next morning when Jael brought a message that Dia Cleo wanted to see her about her diadem malfunction. Artemis caught her breath in anguished hope. If Dia Cleo returned her diadem, she might be able to make it back to Gale. She had made her plans. The next time she answered a bidding from the right sector, she would help the sister, and then find a shuttleport. She would trade her services for a fare and head for Gale. It would be a complex and difficult journey to find her love, but any kernel of hope would be better than what she had now. Crushing her excitement out of sight, she sat on her couch to lace her sandals. She wanted to think it through, but Jael was impatient and hustled her off to 194

Windsinger the Scriptorium, where Dia Cleo waited. “Lilith examined your diadem. She found anomalies,” said Dia Cleo, without greeting. “I told you it was glitzing,” said Artemis. “Lilith believes that someone has attempted a repair.” Artemis went cold. Kestrel had done it so beautifully, how had Lilith known? Dia Cleo's gray eyes were bleak. “Was that you, Artemis?” “No, Dia,” murmured Artemis. “This repair was done during your absence from Alida, but it was not done by you. Apart from other Mercies, you are the only person authorized to touch the diadem. And there were no other Mercies in that sector until Jael arrived. Is this all correct?” “Well—yes,” stammered Artemis. “But I needed it mended. I asked—I mean—” “You asked a sister for help,” said Dia Cleo sourly. “How could you be so wicked, Artemis? You know none but the Mercies may touch a diadem.” “I had to have it mended to get back here.” “And yet you did not get back, until Jael fetched you,” said Dia Cleo. “He mended—” Artemis stopped, but it was too late. The truth had escaped. “He?” rapped Dia Cleo. “Sh-she…” “Enough!” Dia Cleo crashed her fist on the desk. “You defied the laws of the Amazon Mercies, Artemis. You let a male handle your diadem! Not 195

Lark Westerly only that, but the brute has made a crude attempt at repair—what if he guessed its purpose? He saw the hidden circuits, he probed its mysteries…” Dia Cleo's voice was shaking with disgust. “And that is not all he has probed, is it Artemis? You have allowed the brute to force his member into your private parts. Your tissues have been probed, your flesh touched by his filth. You have been brutally defiled!” Artemis flushed hot and cold. Dia Cleo's crude words made her want to vomit. “There was no force.” she flashed. “And he was not brutal.” Dia Cleo's face reddened and her eyes glazed with something that looked like sexual excitement. “You have been defiled,” repeated Dia Cleo. “You carry the evidence within you. Maeve must perform the necessary test.” Artemis opened her mouth to protest, but spots danced and crowded before her eyes. She took a step forward and pitched into darkness. **** She woke to find herself sprawled on a padded surface. Her arms were fastened and her legs were strapped so her thighs gaped apart. Her gasp ended in a gurgle of horror as something cold eased into her body. Her muscles clenched at the intrusion. “Try to relax, Artemis,” said Maeve's voice briskly. “This should not hurt unduly.” “No!” Artemis struggled to get her knees together, to expel the foreign thing from within her. That it was 196

Windsinger Maeve who was doing this terrible thing made it even worse. “Well?” demanded a cold, familiar voice. Dia Cleo was watching. Artemis writhed with humiliation. How could Maeve allow her longtime rival to force her into such cruelty? “She has been violated,” said Maeve. “There is no remaining damage, but the embryo is already implanted.” There was silence, and then Dia Cleo drew a harsh breath. “Take a sample and test it,” she ordered, “and then bring the results to the isocell.”

197

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Chapter Eighteen Isolations.

A

rtemis stared at the ceiling of the isocell. It was a whitewashed room with a small grille high in one wall and was used for isolating Mercies who were ill with some unusual contagion or who were suspected of committing a transgression against Mercy Lore. There was a white couch covered with a single white linen cloth on which Artemis was lying. There was a similar cloth for covering. That was all. She had no idea how long she had been there, because there was no difference between day and night. She was roused every few hours, given food and water and allowed to use a privy. Then she was left again. The only person she ever saw was Dia Cleo. Artemis knew why she was being punished. Her defilement was not a crime in itself, although Mercy Lore considered a still-living defiler good evidence that the violated Mercy had not fought hard enough against her attacker. Her crimes lay in concealing the defilement and in refusing to name the responsible 198

Windsinger male. “You knew you could not address the Beacon when you ceased to be a virgin,” said Dia Cleo repeatedly. “Yet you admit you intended to continue as before.” Artemis said nothing. “Do you really think you are allowed to flout Mercy Lore?” persisted Dia Cleo. “Why not?” said Artemis, goaded into speech. “According to the Mercy Lore, I am no longer an active Diadem Mercy. Therefore I cannot be subject any longer to the Mercy Lore.” “The evil thing inside you twists you already!” spat Dia Cleo. “A Mercy you have lived and will die, but you will neither carry accoutrements nor leave Alida again.” Artemis clasped her slightly rounded abdomen protectively. Maeve's tests had proved that her baby was a boy. “You must have it aborted,” said Dia Cleo, as she said at every encounter. Artemis shook her head. “We could take it from you by force.” “You cannot,” said Artemis. “If I cannot be an active Mercy, then I am a sister, and sisters may not be violated on Alida, even by the Mercies. To force any implement into my body against my will or to cut into my body without my permission is a violation.” She stared at Dia Cleo. “Why not send me away, since my presence offends you? Offer me the choice you give sisters who carry male children inside them. If I 199

Lark Westerly cannot work as a Mercy, what use am I to you?” “You are not a sister. Sisters suffer defilement but are not obliged to be virgin. You are a fallen Mercy, and so will be held as an example,” said Dia Cleo coldly. “New Mercies-elect will hear your story and learn the penalty of defying Mercy Lore.” “The penalty is to lose my accoutrements and be bound to Alida,” said Artemis mechanically. She wanted to tell Dia Cleo she had been going to give up the accoutrements in any case, so all this drama was needless. With all her being, she regretted her impulse to deceive Jael. Had she simply handed over the accoutrements and stayed clear of the other Mercy, she could never have been forcibly returned to Alida. She bit her lip, hard. “That is part of the penalty,” corrected Dia Cleo. “What?” Artemis looked up. “What else?” Dia Cleo did not answer her directly. She frowned. “Tell me the name of your defiler, Artemis. When he has been gelded and put down, you will be released and may live in the Sisterhood Village. His name?” Artemis shook her head. She thought she could bear her exile if Kestrel was free and well. The confrontation ended the way it always did, in a stalemate. Dia Cleo lost her temper and left the isocell. Artemis wept hopelessly. It was all so foolish, she thought wearily. She could not restore her virginity, and allowing the Mercies to punish Kestrel would do nobody any good. If she lived in the Village, she would be a drain on Alida's 200

Windsinger resources. Why wouldn't they let her go? Dia Cleo wanted her as an example, but her story could be told by others. Yet if her story were allowed to end happily, what would Mercies-elect learn then? That one could defy Mercy Lore and prosper? If she gave up the baby, would Dia Cleo relent? Dia Cleo was as tenacious as leechmoss. She had only to wait and to bide her time. If Artemis carried the child to term, then Dia Cleo could have it taken away without causing violation. It could not even be classed as theft, since Mercy Lore decreed that no person could own another. If only Maeve had been her keeper instead. Maeve was disgusted, but she had been fond of Artemis. Surely Maeve would see that the baby must not be harmed? Surely she would see he was fostered after his birth by some kind sister offworld? Artemis sat up abruptly. The white room seemed to sway around her. Dots swarmed across her vision but she was thinking hard, even while she blinked them away. If she could only see Maeve… but she would see Maeve, eventually. Maeve would come and help to bring the child into the world. It seemed curiously appropriate that the two people she loved best should be the ones to put the child into her and then to help it out. Artemis told herself how it might be. Maeve would take the baby for fostering, but not to an anonymous sister. She would take it to Gale and lay it in Kestrel Windhover's arms. In her imagination, Artemis saw the child held close to that broad chest. She saw his 201

Lark Westerly strong-boned face made gentle by wondering tenderness, and his blue eyes reflected in his son's bland baby gaze. The vision was so real and so immediate that she almost smiled. In her imagination, she stepped into that warmly magical picture. She held out her arms for her son, and then Kestrel embraced them both. Her breasts quickened with milk, her womanly parts turned soft, and her body rejoiced in the joy it could bring to child and mate and self. That was how it must be. She knew it and longed for it with every fiber of her will. It must happen that way, and the only one who could set the sequence in motion was Maeve. She mustn't wait for her labor to beg Maeve's help. As a suffering sister, she would probably be offered a narcotic, but what if the dose was heavy enough to render her unconscious? She would never have a chance to beg help from her friend and mentor, and would wake with an empty womb and empty arms. She must speak with Maeve right now. And she must be calm and persuasive and reasonable, so Maeve wouldn't think she was deranged from carrying a boy. Did Dia Cleo really think an unborn infant could exert an evil influence on its mother? How could the woman be so foolishly superstitious? It came to Artemis that in their way, the Mercies might do as much damage to sisters as males did. That was a thought to be filed away in her mental databank, but now she must make plans to speak with Maeve. 202

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**** The next time Cleo came to the isocell with her meal, Artemis wanly refused it. “I feel ill,” she said. “I have pains that come and go.” It sickened her to see how eagerly Dia Cleo pounced on the hope of an immediate miscarriage. “Send for Maeve,” pleaded Artemis. “Tell her to stop the pain.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking and moaning. The anguish was real, but the pain was in her spirit, not in her body. Dia Cleo, on the verge of refusing, agreed, abruptly, that Maeve should attend Artemis. “You must give permission for proper treatment,” she reminded. Artemis groaned something that might have been taken for assent. She knew exactly what Dia Cleo was thinking, and the knowledge was enough to prevent any feeling of guilt at her deception. She was fighting for life; a life for herself, Kestrel and the baby, far from this place of female sterility and sidelined lives. The duty of truth existed only when truth would bring more good than harm. “Mercy!” she moaned, a single plea that could have meant anything or nothing. “Name your defiler,” said Dia Cleo, low and cold. “Who despoiled your body and warped your sense of duty?” Artemis wailed and writhed. “I want Maeve!” 203

Lark Westerly “You shall tell us both,” said Dia Cleo. “Maeve will do what is best.” **** Kestrel Windhover had left Gale shortly after Artemis vanished. Outside the city, death would have been come by easily. Within the gates, city laws bound him. To die by his own hand was forbidden. A body inside the city would need proper disposal and proper records made. This would keep Kestrel Windhover's memory alive. A body outside the gates, over a cliff or moldering in a crevice, could be ignored, with the polite fiction that the disgraced Windsinger had properly gone into exile. He had considered leaving the city and hurling himself from the cliff, but to die in such a manner would be to throw Artemis' gift of life back in her face. His love would never know, but he could not bring himself to reject her as she had rejected him. And so he went into exile, riding the shuttle free of charge, for he was no longer real to any of his fellows, and carrying only what he could manage on his shoulders. He became, as exiles often did, a Daemonhunter, hiring his strength and cunning to the many worlds that refused to admit weapons of remote destruction. These pacifist worlds, while keeping their citizens' hands bloodfree, often suffered the depredations of those, like Daemons, with no taboo against killing. Slaughtering Daemons was Kestrel's way of 204

Windsinger courting the death that should have been his if Artemis had not intervened, and in the sweat and stink of his battles he could almost forget the pain and loss he endured. Almost, but not quite. Every bout with the foul creatures might be his last, but his life, now that he valued it so little, seemed charmed. He shrank from the terrible pain he would suffer if the Daemons struck him down, but he knew that pain would burn away his grief. Four moons went by, as well as he could judge, and he found himself on Seabra. The shorepeople could be violent, especially sahs towards their women, but they allowed no weapons on their world beyond the primitive staves and blades. Armed with these, they could not match Daemons in battle, so Daemon-hunters like Kestrel were always welcome. He had run off a quartet of the brutes that menaced a settlement and was trudging back to the camp, exhausted, befouled, and sickened by what they had done, when a voice hailed him from a roadside shelter. “Windcryer!” His feet stuttered, and he schooled himself to continue, but the voice hailed him again. “Windcaller!” He half-turned about, squinting towards the gaudy shelter. Its entrance was unlaced, and a hooded shoremem stepped out and beckoned him closer. “Windcaller, come to me.” “That is not my name,” he said roughly, using the Galactic Standard spoken as common tongue among 205

Lark Westerly the Daemon-hunters. The shoremem put back her hood to reveal a scarred and battered face. “Who did that to you, mem?” he demanded, shocked. “My shoresah,” said the shoremem. “Mercymem tell I leave him, but I listen not.” The woman's speech was scrambled, but whether by mental anguish or lack of proper teaching, Kestrel did not know. Mercymem. He winced, understanding the hybrid term. He had heard the Amazon Mercies mentioned occasionally since leaving Gale; sometimes hailed as almost ethereal saviors and champions of women, and at other times castigated as interfering, deceitful bitches that poisoned mated unions and snatched mothers from their children. He would have passed on now, leaving the shoremem to her private hell, but something about her distorted features jolted his memory. He was looking straight at her, willing himself not to show revulsion, when he realized she probably wouldn't have read his expression anyway. He recognized this woman. She was the squinting shoremem whose man had abused her at the shuttleport on Gale. She had, he recalled, clawed at his arm later that day as he departed. And he, with his life so shattered, had brushed her aside. Remorse smote him, for she looked even worse today. “May I help you, shoremem?” he asked, as if she were a high caste windwoman. She nodded with terrible eagerness, and dropped to her knees, clutching at the leather breeches he wore 206

Windsinger into battle. “Take me Gale, Windcaller.” Kestrel felt his face harden. “I am not returning there.” “Windcaller, home is Gale?” He said harshly: “No world claims me now.” “Take me Gale,” begged the shoremem. “I am a Daemon-hunter,” said Kestrel. He showed her the heavy slingclub, the most powerful weapon officially allowed on Seabra. “I fight for money to live. Blood for money. I am no longer fit for Gale.” His kind was often despised by the folk who paid them. Shoresahs would not soil their blades with Daemon blood, but did not honor those who did it for them. “I am paid to kill,” he added. He made a feinting blow as if at a Daemon, stabbed it down, then held out his hand as if for his reward. She nodded in comprehension, and then rose unsteadily to her feet, using his legs as a support. With an oddly graceful movement, she indicated the shelter, then tugged at his arm. “Windcaller, I pay.” For a few moments, he thought she was inviting him to kill or disable her violent man for payment. He would have to refuse, he knew, but when he bent to enter the shelter, he discovered his mistake. The shoremem closed the entrance with a tweak of the laces, then thrust her drab shawls back from her chest, exposing firm breasts that were mottled with old bruising. “Your shoresah did this?” His fingers curled about the weapon. The brute that could so harm his mate was as worthy of death as any Daemon. 207

Lark Westerly The shoremem gave a terrible smile and cupped her breasts in her hands, clearly offering them for his inspection. Gripped by angry pity, Kestrel stared. Apparently the mem was encouraged by his lack of objection, for she knelt once more and tugged open the closure of his breeches. She plunged in one hand and her fingers tightened on his rod, which drew back in its sheath like an offended slug. “No!” he said firmly and stepped back, expecting to twitch himself free. The shoremem hung on, bringing the second hand to bear. It was surprisingly painful, Kestrel found, to be tethered in such a way. Another tug drew a warning sensation as his rod woke from its outrage and began to expand. The woman's hands were busy, tugging and smoothing, and all the while she babbled pleas to be taken to Gale. Kestrel felt ridiculous, but he was unable to force her away. His erection grew, swift and almost painful, and he considered letting this happen. He could have the woman relieve him manually, or he might press her to the floor and bury his urgent rod in her cleft. He was sure she was no virgin, and he would take care not to cause her any pain. After all, persuaded his throbbing blood, she would be hurt if he turned her down. She might believe her injuries and odd looks repulsed him. Blindly, he gripped her shoulders and braced his legs, but instead of leaning into her ministrations as flesh dictated, he found he was pressing her away. “I said no!” he gasped. His distaste for the situation almost stilled the clamor of 208

Windsinger his blood. The shoremem looked up with wounded eyes, one focused on his swollen rod, the other peering randomly at the wall of the tented shelter. “No!” Kestrel let go of her shoulders and put his hands over hers, prying her fingers loose, then pushing her away. He turned and crouched protectively, then tucked himself into his breeches, grimacing as the discomfort. “I told you I cannot go to Gale,” he said firmly. “I can't take you there, and I won't take payment for something I cannot do.” The woman drooped, one eye fixed despairingly on her empty hands. She cupped her breasts again, then rose and touched his mouth. Clearly, she was offering another version of the only currency she had. Kestrel concealed the shudder that ran over him at the thought. He felt great pity for this broken woman, and he thought he might have pleasured her out of that pity, but a vision of his only love's high, proud breasts intruded. He knew that, even if the shoremem had been comely and unbruised, he could not have faced such a betrayal. “Why do you want to go to Gale?” he asked. “You cannot live there without a windfolk mate.” “Mercymem on Gale,” said the woman earnestly. “Said take me safe.” “Then why did you not go?” snapped Kestrel. The erection had subsided, but he was shamed that it had happened at all in such circumstances. The shoremem shrugged one shoulder, hissing with pain and cradling one arm. Kestrel frowned, 209

Lark Westerly then gestured for her to remove her shawls completely. When she made no move to do so, he took hold of them himself, lifting them clear. There were marks down the woman's shoulders and red stripes licked the sides of her breasts. A blackened wound showed on one upper arm. It was obviously a burn. “That shoresah—the one the lass in white punished for harming you,” said Kestrel. He spoke slowly and with gestures, and the woman nodded. “Did he do this?” “Punish me. I scream, he hurt, he give back to me.” The shoremem indicated a burn on her other arm, and then a third above the elbow. One was almost healed, another pink and scabbing over, while the fresh one seemed recently done. Kestrel had a sudden memory flash of the wound the medic had been salving on the shoresah's arm. An unwelcome picture of systematic cruelty came into his mind. The brute had made the shoremem scream by dragging her by her hair. The sound had attracted the Mercy, who had chastised the sah with her saber. Now the sah was making his mate pay by inflicting the same burning punishment on her again and again. “You changed your mind,” he said. “You wish to go with the Mercy, now?” She nodded. It seemed that she understood GalStan better than she spoke it. “You should not go to Gale,” he said. “The woman is not there. The Mercies live on a place called Alida.” The woman clasped her hands, wincing again at 210

Windsinger the movement of her brutalized shoulders. “Windmem go there with Mercymem?” “She—they—left in the shuttle that same day,” said Kestrel harshly. “No, no.” The shoremem shook her head. “Windmem, Mercymem there.” Kneeling, she drew two figures with one finger in the dust on the floor of the shelter. Kestrel recalled how Artemis had done something similar when she had tried to explain her origin. His eyes blurred for a moment, and when they cleared he saw the woman pointing at the figures. “Mems there,” she repeated, nodding. She drew another figure, apart from the others, then indicated herself. She pointed to her eyes, and indicated the first two figures, then held her hands above them, animating them in mime. She snatched one hand in the other. “Mems not there!” she declared, and dragged the trapped hand through the dust figures and away. Kestrel stared. “One woman seized the other? One dragged the other away?” The woman looked doubtful, so he resorted to pantomime again. First, he gave her a slight smile of reassurance, then gestured to ask permission to touch her. She nodded, so he took her hands and raised her to stand facing him. He pointed to her and said, “Mercymem”, and then to himself. “Windmem.” Then he waited. She closed her eyes, perhaps to focus better on a memory. Then she spoke, slowly, obviously quoting. “We travel together and make better speed.” She 211

Lark Westerly snatched at his hands and sprang sideways, then let go, spread her own hands in a gesture of bewilderment and said simply, “Gone.” Kestrel regarded her with a frown. “Gone? You mean they ran to the shuttle?” The shoremem shook her head. “Gone.” She brushed her hands together. She meant the two Mercies had vanished into thin air? Such a concept smacked of three things: trickery, collusion, and either magic or teleportation. Trickery could not be discounted, but the shoremem had no reason to lie to him. She must be used to her distorted vision, so she would not be so easily fooled. He considered the windsinging powers he had employed before his exile. Some folk termed that magic, but he had never done so. It was more of a communication, or a tuning in with the natural scheme of things. The winds of Gale could carry him far on their wings, making him so much their brother that he could call them to his aid. He wondered briefly if he could call the wind to him here on this saltscoured planet, but put away the thought. He was an outcast, a Windsinger no longer. He did not even have the right to the name he had used. Teleportation. Did it exist? He supposed it might. Sophisticated as the citytechs of Gale might be, there were things they did not know. The penalty of Gale's aloofness was a certain lag in sharing galaxial breakthroughs. His former world's talents had developed in idiosyncratic directions. If teleportation had been perfected somewhere, 212

Windsinger perhaps the Mercies used it. His interest quickened. Had Artemis used it herself? That would explain her eruption into his pain-filled world. She had made a false landing, perhaps. She had never intended to come to Gale in the first place. He realized with dawning certainty that she had never explained the exact mode of her arrival, and if she had misused the intricate technology or made an error in calculation or judgment, then that would explain why she had been unable or unwilling to risk the same mode of departure. “The diadem,” he said aloud. The shoremem made a questioning sound. “The women you saw. The Mercies,” he said. “Did they wear crowns on their heads?” He pulled free the thong that bound his hair and fashioned it quickly into a coronet, which he lowered into place. “Metal,” he said. “Silver.” The woman nodded, and raised one finger. Dropping once more to her knees, she pointed to the stick figures she had drawn before. “Mercymem, Windmem,” she said, pointing to each in turn. Then, with a deliberate forefinger, she inscribed a circle around the head of one. She tapped that figure emphatically, then made the snatching gesture she had used before. So, thought Kestrel, the woman wearing the diadem had snatched the other and then both of them had vanished. He was willing to lay good odds that the one wearing the diadem had been the other Mercy, the one who was not his Artemis. If the stranger had just arrived 213

Lark Westerly on Gale by teleportation, she would still be wearing the device, while Artemis had been carrying hers in a pouch. Artemis had been snatched away by the other Mercy. He knew that now, as well as he knew his love for her. His spirits lifted, and the cold stone of his heart began to warm a little. His love had not voluntarily abandoned him. She had not told him the whole truth about the diadem and its functions, but she had not gone willingly. He surprised himself, and the shoremem, by enfolding the woman in a generous embrace. She returned it doubtfully. “My lady,” he said, gently tucking her shawls around her, “gather your belongings and come with me. I shall take you to Alida.”

214

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Chapter Nineteen Seafrith.

A

rtemis lay bleakly in the isocell. Her plan to win Maeve's help had failed. Maeve had come, but her first action had been to inject a narcotic. Artemis had been unable to protest, but the medicine had clouded her attention as it forced her muscles to relax. “You have recurring cramps?” asked Maeve, running her hands over Artemis' abdomen. Her tone was cool and impersonal. “Maeve… I—” Maeve glanced over her shoulder. “I can feel no abnormality, Dia Cleo.” Artemis wondered hazily if this was a warning to her to be discreet, but Maeve gave nothing away. “Artemis;” she said firmly. “Tell me the name of your despoiler.” “Help me!” gasped Artemis. She writhed, as if in the grip of contractions. Maeve lifted the coverlet. “Lie still,” she said firmly. “I must examine you.” 215

Lark Westerly “No!” Artemis tried to curl away. “You asked for help,” said Maeve. “If I cannot tell how far this process has gone, then I cannot help you.” She peered at the sheet on which Artemis lay. “There is no bleeding yet, but I can speed the process. A simple poultice will do.” She removed a wad of fiber from her pouch. Artemis gasped. It was leechmoss, which Maeve had once told her was used now and again to halt a male-bearing pregnancy. If Maeve inserted that into her body, her womb would be sucked dry in minutes. “No!” She sat up, pushing Maeve so violently that the medic fell back against the wall, apparently stunned. Dia Cleo gave an outraged scream and rushed to raise Maeve's head. The Medic's eyes were closed. “You will pay for this,” said Dia Cleo, glaring at Artemis. She swept out of the isocell, bolting the door behind her. As soon as she had gone, Maeve sat up. “Quickly!” she said. “There isn't much time. Who is he, Artemis? Tell me and this can be done with.” “I will not—” Maeve slapped her face. “Don't be a fool, girl! Do you realize what will happen if you don't speak?” Artemis shrugged. “It's happened already. Listen, Maeve. I want you to take my child when he's born. Tell Cleo he's to be fostered offworld, then catch the shuttle and take him to Gale. Have you got that? Take my baby to Gale. You must give him to his—” Her voice broke off in confusion, as she realized she had 216

Windsinger been about to reveal the information Dia Cleo wanted. Could she trust Maeve? “Forget the child!” snapped Maeve. “It will never be born alive, if you are having pains already. Save yourself, Artemis, I beg you!” “I have been punished,” said Artemis. “I have lost my love and am bound to live in the Sisterhood Village.” “You fool!” said Maeve. “That is the best that will happen, after you have gelded and put down the male who defiled you. If you do not do this, you will become an example. Do you understand?” “I just said—” “Do you understand?” Maeve gripped her shoulders and shook her. “If you do not uphold Mercy Lore in this, you will never leave this cell!” Artemis gaped at her. “You will lie here for the rest of your life,” said Maeve. “Let me get that thing out of you, then tell me this male's name. His blood cannot buy back your chastity, but it can buy back your dignity and your life.” Artemis felt her face blanch as she realized what Maeve was saying. Life in the Sisterhood Village would be bad enough, but to never leave this cell— she would go mad. “You are a Mercy!” she whispered. “You are sworn to help sisters in distress!” “I am helping. I am doing the best I can.” “Then let me go to K—to my love! I must see him—” 217

Lark Westerly “You will see him,” said Maeve. “The day you use his blood to buy your future.” She put her hands over her face for a moment. “Artemis, how could you be such a fool? You owe this male nothing. He doesn't care for you. He has forgotten you in the joys of defiling other virgins.” They both stiffened at the sound of the bolt being drawn. Maeve swung round as Dia Cleo entered, accompanied by three other Mercies. One was Jael, whose eyes widened with horror as she saw Artemis. “You took your time,” said Maeve coolly to Dia Cleo. “Did you hope she might finish me? That would have rid you of two thorns in your desiccated flesh.” “How dare you—” Maeve waved her hand scornfully. “I am unharmed, and you must not punish Artemis. Sisters in pain make sudden movements, and carrying a male cannot fail to warp the vessel. I should have taken more care.” Dia Cleo dismissed the other Mercies with a jerk of her head. “What of her?” “I have decided to let matters take their natural course,” said Maeve. “Why not apply the poultice?” “It would speed the affair, but she might die afterwards. Leechmoss is a very effective remedy for poisons and parasitic growths, but it is also a danger to the patient.” “Leave her, then,” said Dia Cleo. To Artemis; “When the pain gets too bad, you may ask for help, which you can have after you have given us the 218

Windsinger name. When this is over, and you have regained your strength, we shall find your despoiler. You will punish him, and after that you may live in the Sisterhood Village and find some menial employment.” Artemis curled up to hide her dismay. She was not in labor, and her ruse had all but failed. If Maeve had insisted on that poultice…Artemis shivered. She would have fought, but she was weak from nausea, inactivity and despair, and a larger dose of narcotic would have rendered her helpless. The Mercy Lore prohibition against violation had kept them from forcibly aborting her child, but it was that same prohibition that had caused her hideous position in the first place. Maeve laid a cool hand on her brow. “Call when you are ready to accept our mercy,” she said. Never, thought Artemis, but she feared it was her last spark of defiance. She closed her eyes as Dia Cleo bolted her in. **** Kestrel helped the shoremem pack her few garments and provisions. He would have dealt with her cruel sah, but judged it better to be gone as quickly as possible. It would be a great irony if he fell victim to a sadistic bully just as he had regained his self-esteem. Besides, the sah would be punished very soon. Losing his mate would rob him of name and identity, just as Kestrel had been robbed. 219

Lark Westerly Kestrel frowned, catching himself in another logical but possibly false assumption. The Windsinger way was not the only one, and perhaps it was only on Gale that this custom of shunning inadequate men prevailed. “What is your name?” he asked abruptly. The shoremem looked puzzled. Kestrel hesitated, then touched his chest. “Kestrel Windhover,” he said. It was the only name he had to give, and he felt he was regaining his right to bear it. He pointed to the shoremem. “You?” “Seafrith,” she said. Kestrel nodded. Seafrith was a common plant that thrived in the heavy salt soil of Seabra. It had cheerful pink flowers, so perhaps somebody had loved the shoremem once. “Seafrith,” he said and smiled. He picked up her meager bundle and his own money pouch and slingclub, and they set out for the nearest shuttleport. It would, he thought, take some time, but what was time when a man had regained his hope and his identity? Over the next few days, Kestrel often wished he had the translation device he had used with Artemis. Without it, he could not be sure if Seafrith were scrambled in her wits or simply unpracticed at speaking GalStan. It was their only common tongue, for she had no knowledge of the Windsinger dialects, and he knew no more than a few scraps of Seabra trade speech. Enough, he thought grimly, to buy food and ask payment for his work, but not enough for the 220

Windsinger discussion of personal history, plans or suppositions. What, for example, did Seafrith know of the Amazon Mercies? She had not seemed to realize they lived on Alida, but she was willing to ask them for aid. Or— what was it Artemis called it? Succor. Artemis had not left him willingly. With this thought held close, Kestrel felt free to hope. He would land on Alida and give Seafrith into the hands of these white clad women. In exchange, he would ask for Artemis' freedom. If he had understood her properly, she had broken a vow of chastity when she had bowered with him, and so had forfeited her position as a Mercy. Surely these women would not be as harsh as she feared. They offered help to the helpless, did they not? And he felt helpless without her. He would reason with them, he decided, and if they refused to release her to him for love, he would offer his services in payment. He had repaired Artemis' diadem, even without knowing what it was. He could do a better job if he had schematics and proper tools. He could learn of the teleportation theory, and see how it worked in practice. He could offer to help against the Daemon scourge. The future beckoned, but first he had to get himself and Seafrith to Alida. And that proved unexpectedly difficult. He discovered when they reached the Seabra shuttleport that there was no shuttle bound directly for Alida. “When is the next one?” he asked. 221

Lark Westerly The shoresah porter looked at him with distaste. “Never.” He spat. “The bitches won't allow it, so I hear.” He sniggered and continued in crude but fluent GalStan; “They're sah-haters there. Show 'em a cock and balls and they'd faint with excitement. You could have at them while they were out, of course, but to my mind it's no fun when they don't squeal.” He switched his attention to Seafrith. “What are you doing with this crook-eye? Can't you find none better than a leaky hulk to take your mast and cargo? Or is her channel as skewed as her eyes? You'll never get your load in her hold, if so. You'll be splatting about in the bilges.” He sniggered again, and Kestrel frowned. He hoped Seafrith had not understood too much of that. “The mem and I are friends and traveling companions,” he said stiffly. “She is bound for Alida, and I have offered to act as her escort.” “Ah!” The porter nodded knowingly. “A good ruse, that, Daemon-hunter. You get yourself to the planet and then have your pick of tight young channels. Reckon you'd be disappointed, though. They're probably puckered up like desiccated seadates. And if one of 'em woke up while you were on your voyage, they'd have the fenders off you and the mast as well. Stick a hotspike right up your aft and grill you inside out.” “How do we get there?” asked Kestrel. He was holding in his rage with difficulty, knowing that if he hit this sewer-mouthed sah his departure would be delayed. 222

Windsinger “You can't,” said the porter. “The shuttle don't make landfall there. Not ever.” Kestrel clenched his teeth. “I know cargo must be delivered to Alida. How? Is it teleported?” The porter laughed. “Teleportation is a dream, Daemon-hunter. Won't never happen. As for cargo to Alida, it goes this way. First, we load it for Gale. From Gale, it goes to Parallax. The soddies unload it there, and pass it along to the dykies, and they have it sent to Alida.” “What are soddies?” asked Kestrel, praying for patience. “Asterians, mostly. They're never much for trawling the proper channels, and a few of 'em can't steer that way at all, even to plant a sprat. Brown voyagers, all the way.” He grinned. “The dykies don't mind having soddies on Parallax. They've got the harpoons, but not the fire to use 'em, except on each other. “Course, a soddie can't get landing rights on Parallax by just saying he's a soddie. He has to prove it by putting on a display or running a gauntlet.” Kestrel nodded. He had had enough of this conversation. “We'll take the shuttle to Gale,” he said and handed over his savings. It was sufficient for two passages, for folk paid well to be rid of Daemons. “You could save her passage,” said the porter, staring at Seafrith. “Let her earn it on her back. Better yet, on her hands and knees, so the voyager don't have to look at the figurehead while he launches his harpoon.” Kestrel continued to offer the money, and after a 223

Lark Westerly moment, the sah shrugged and took it. “Suit yourself. She probably couldn't find any takers anyway. Not even an octie's that hard up for a channel.” “For that insult, disgusting Daemon-spit, I should slit thy cruel tongue,” said Kestrel, reverting suddenly to his Wild Moon speech. The sah stared. “Hey! You're one of them Windsingers, right? Touched in the head? Bet you reckon you can talk to the wind. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeoooo!” “And may the blast of the seagales pluck you from your stinking feet and land you in a cesspit,” said Kestrel cordially. “It may sweeten you.” He lifted his arms and sang a small phrase of suggestion. It was not enough to reap the wind, not even on his native Gale, but to his fascination, the Seabra breeze freshened and ripped the porter's hat from his head with a mocking skirl. “I thank thee, little foster brother,” said Kestrel. His spirits lifted another notch. The porter had been foulmouthed and foulminded, but he had given some useful information. And the wind had heard his song.

224

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Chapter Twenty Robin Deceiver.

L

anding on Gale was painful. Kestrel retained his Daemon-hunter's garb, but inevitably there were those at the shuttleport who knew him. Their faces flickered into smiles of recognition, then the shutters fell as they recalled his status. Some turned away, flushed with embarrassment, while others believed even this was too much acknowledgment. They continued on their way as if he were invisible, forcing him to step aside. He wished he could have boarded the shuttle to Parallax immediately, but it did not leave for another day, and besides, there was something he needed to do beforehand. Thinking sadly of all the friends and kin he had once had on Gale, he put out a hand to Seafrith. “I will take you somewhere safe until tomorrow.” She followed him obediently along the white ways to his house. He was not surprised to find the place unchanged and untenanted. To the windfolk, he no longer existed, and so, by extension, his house did not exist either. It would not be permanently ignored. The 225

Lark Westerly windfolk were too pragmatic for that, but nothing would be done with it until he had been expunged for seven years. He stepped through the portal and looked about uncomfortably. He had never expected to enter it again, and so it was just the way he and Artemis had left it. They had had their one honeymoon night together, and the warmth of the homewaking ceremony still lingered in the air. “Wait here,” he said abruptly to Seafrith, and turned the adaptive program right down. Seafrith's memories would be risky things to waken. He had no wish to see her cowering before a phantom of her unpleasant mate. “You may sleep here, if you wish,” he said, as the program faded. The blank canvas mode lifted and revealed padded couches and coverlets in subdued but tasteful color and design. “You will find food in the stasdrawer in the next room. “I'll be back tomorrow, and if you still wish to go to Alida, I'll do my best to take you there. If not, I'll take you somewhere else before I go on to Alida by myself.” Seafrith's strange eyes swiveled wildly, and she knelt before him. “No,” said Kestrel. “You must not thank me. And you should not mention me to the Mercies on Alida.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I hear they are not pleased to welcome males.” Leaving the shoremem to rest, he braved the gleaming streets. The man whose help he sought 226

Windsinger might be anywhere in the city or even offworld. The folk of Gale seldom left their planet, but Robin the Deceiver was unconventional in many ways. Kestrel hoped he might set aside custom and respond to his request for practical help. He found his old friend in the slough, preparing for his Wild Moon. “I bid you greeting, Robin Deceiver,” he said formally in the Wild Moon dialect. The man's eyes went blank for an instant, then he nodded and laid aside the long bronze knife he was edging. “Daemon sticker,” he said in explanation. “The vile things never grow fewer, do they, Daemonhunter?” “I have been ridding the near worlds of them,” said Kestrel. He smiled, but did not offer his hand. Robin had not addressed him by name, and he must not cause offense by forcing a greeting. “Parallax is my next challenge,” he added, as if it followed logically. Robin frowned. “You are a manlover, brother? I would never have thought it, but a grave disappointment might turn a man, and you, I know, have suffered a grave disappointment.” “It is more than that,” said Kestrel. “I loved and bowered with one who was not a windwoman, and she has been snatched from my arms by one of her former colleagues.” “She left you,” said Robin bluntly. His mantle of Wild Moon courtesy fell visibly from his shoulders, and he raised a hand as if to stem Kestrel's protest. “That day at the shuttleport when we met. I thought 227

Lark Westerly right then that she seemed ill at ease.” Kestrel's certainty wavered, then settled once more. “She wasn't uneasy for want of a loving bond between us,” he said decidedly. “The house had wakened for her, and we had gone to the shuttleport to ship off some things she didn't need any more. Then, while you and I were talking, she was snatched away offworld by someone who knew her. She had no chance to refuse or resist, and so I am about to follow and try to find her.” Robin looked blank, then laughed a little unkindly. “If your mate came from Parallax, she'd have no use for your rod in her cleft. That world welcomes only those who bower with their own sex.” “She is not from Parallax,” said Kestrel impatiently, “but the shuttle to her home planet leaves from there, and, as far as I can tell, only from there. So I have to get there myself. A windwing won't carry me through space, and without coordinates, I could never even use a private shuttle.” He held out his hands in supplication. “I hope you can help me, Robin, for the sake of a grand deception, if not from old friendship.” Robin Deceiver's handsome face creased into a rueful grin. “How well you know me, Kestrel. A grand deception will always interest me. But what is it to be? You want me to twist your taste so you can bower a man and seem to like it?” Kestrel recoiled, but caught a deep breath. “If that is what I must do, I shall do it. I'll do anything to have her back.” 228

Windsinger Robin smiled. His stance, which was usually that of a small jewelbird cock, shifted and became fluid. One hand descended to his hip, and he raised the other to touch Kestrel's cheek. Still smiling, he embraced his old friend, gave him a lingering kiss on the lips, and dropped one hand to caress his thigh. Kestrel jerked away as the questing hand sought and stroked his genitals through the leather breeches. “Impossible, I'd say,” said Robin, laughing. “If you can't suffer my hand on your rod, how will you run the Parallax gauntlet of willing boys? One flinch and they'll know your bent, and if you're very lucky, send you packing.” “You startled me,” said Kestrel. “I never thought you—” Robin's face grew grave. “I don't. They don't call me Deceiver for nothing, Kestrel. I have no more natural taste for stags like you than you have for jewelcocks like me, but the difference is that I can dissemble. If you were to thrust your tongue in my mouth and fondle my rod I could moan and spill whenever I chose. You, my friend, are too honest and too proud.” He cocked his head on one side. “Maybe you could play the other role. Try to seduce me if you can.” “I was hoping you could help me pass as a woman,” said Kestrel quickly. Robin eyed him doubtfully. “Too tall,” he said. “Give me a binder and some hormone therapy and I could pass, in time.” He grimaced. “What a thing to contemplate on the eve of my Wild Moon. I should be 229

Lark Westerly full of the call of nature, not trying to pervert it.” “I suppose I could try that way,” said Kestrel without much hope, but his friend shook his head. “You'd grow breasts and lose your beard, all right, but the proportions would be all wrong. Your shoulders are much too broad and your hips are too narrow and that beak of yours would never pass on a woman. Face it, Kestrel. You'd be an object of pity, not desire. Better go the other route. I could always come with you, and you could do your display on me instead of opting for the gauntlet.” “Display?” Robin sighed. “You seem set to go to Parallax, but you know nothing about it,” he complained. “Typical traddie, aren't you?” Kestrel repeated the little he had learnt from the shoresah porter on Seabra. “There are homolovers of both kinds. They cooperate in sending cargo on to Alida, but have—” “Alida!” Robin's face registered amazement. “Never say that mate of yours is an Amazon Mercy from Alida?” “Artemis was a Mercy,” admitted Kestrel. “She came to me when the Daemons attacked me and she healed me of daemonic poison.” “That's impossible.” Kestrel removed his breeches and showed his friend the faint scar that was all that remained of his ordeal. “I was out of my mind with pain, Robin. I was trying to crawl to the cliff so I could throw myself off into nightfall. The she came.” 230

Windsinger “And healed you.” “And brought me life,” said Kestrel. “I was dying, and all I could think was I'd never get to hold her…” “You bowered a Mercy? Great gales, Windhover, how could you be so stupid?” “I thought she was a summersider who had fallen from her kite.” Robin closed his eyes. “Ye gales of wind! She leaps out of nowhere, as they do, and heals you of an unhealable wound, and you thought she was a summersider! You even stuck your rod in her. Didn't she object?” “We bowered together,” said Kestrel. He felt the singing in his blood as he relived the enchantment of that time. “She was unsure at first, but I thought she'd fallen from her kite. I thought it was the windride she feared. I never expected… I comforted her, and she held me and—” His voice shook. Robin opened his eyes. “Don't go on,” he said. “I can see you were totally windsmitten. But this is madness, Kestrel. Do you have any idea what those furies do to males who offend them? You were lucky to escape with your rod and rocks in place! She could have blinded you, or killed you in seconds with that saber of hers.” “I know. She fought off Daemons for me and with me.” “There you are.” Robin shook his head. “You're a mighty pair and no mistake. And she just a little jewelwren of a thing…she didn't object at all? She didn't hear what you thought and poke you with that 231

Lark Westerly hotstick they use when you told her your intentions?” “We couldn't understand one another,” said Kestrel bleakly. “She was gabbling GalStan, and I—” “You were in fullblown Wild Moon mode. Of course you were. Traddie to your tailfeathers.” Robin sounded disgusted. “I sometimes think,” he said reflectively, “we should drop this Wild Moon nonsense. It's nothing but primitive superstition. I mean, venturing forth with nothing but a staff and breeches? Floating round the cliffs like a blessed eagle? It leads to all kinds of madness. Zeph Faireye never came back from Wild Moon, and they found Dove Favor's body—what was left of it—just two moons ago.” He sighed. “I was sorry about Dove. I would have bowered and bonded with her if she'd wanted it. But no. She had grand notions about finding a handsome stranger and enacting some kind of archaic ritual. You and she would have made a good pair.” “You are going on Wild Moon yourself,” pointed out Kestrel. “So I am. Just shows what a hold the notion has on us. Maybe I'll find me a summersider lass and woo her into my bower with my tongue of honey. I've done it before.” “You—” “I can make them believe anything,” Robin continued restlessly. “And the sad thing is, I can make myself believe it too. Unfortunately, it doesn't last beyond the bower so the bond doesn't take. I could have made you believe I was hot for your 232

Windsinger tongue in my mouth, and I could have milked you with good cheer, but you said your Mercy was gabbing GalStan. Didn't she think to say, 'No bowers for me, I'm a sworn virgin?'“ “I didn't speak it then.” Robin cast up his eyes and clasped his hands. “Kestrel, Kestrel! Traddie, as I said. She'd have caught your meaning, though, if you'd told her what you wanted. They always do catch your meaning.” “Her translator was broken.” “And so it all fell into place,” said Robin. “You bowered her out of objecting. And now you think your Mercy has been dragged home to Alida by one of her fellows and you want to follow her.” “I will do anything to have her back,” said Kestrel. “What if she doesn't want to come? What if she's recovered from the bower-madness and wants to forget you? Would you still have her back against her objections?” “Not then. No. Then I would beg her pardon and keep on fighting Daemons until they kill me.” “Never mind the Daemons, the Mercies will kill you. After doing various unpleasant things to make you wish you were dead already.” Kestrel's jaw hardened. “I have to try. And to get to Alida I have to pass through the port at Parallax.” “And to do that, you have to pass as a homolover. So come on, seduce me now.” Kestrel swallowed. He had said he'd do anything for Artemis, and he had meant it. But this was against his nature. It was as foreign to him as—as losing his 233

Lark Westerly Windsinger identity and turning wandering assassin. Grimly, he stepped up and took his old friend by the shoulders, then folded him into an embrace and planted a kiss on his cheek. A vision of his love bloomed in his mind, of her soft cheek, and the silky texture of her breasts against his face. The taste of her, mingled with bridal fruit. Confused, he drew back, and Robin looked up at him with affection. “It won't do, will it, my friend? You could no more make love to me than you could help from loving her. You'd never manage a public display, far less a gauntlet of eager young stags. It will have to be the other.” “You said I couldn't pass as a woman.” “Certainly not with that.” Robin stepped back. “Put on your breeches.” Kestrel looked down at himself in horror. He was half erect. “I was thinking of her,” he said, his face flaming. “I know.” Robin patted his cheek. “You've been missing her and missing friendship, too. This shunning of unfortunates who lose their mates is barbaric. A pity, because there's a lot of good in the Windsinger tradition.” He smiled wistfully. “I can't see why we don't pick and choose, discarding the old cruelties and holding onto the strengths. It's hard to let go of parts of traditions, though. You're either Traddie through to your tailfeathers or else you observe Wild Moon and shunning and leave it at that.” “You have let go a part of tradition. You're 234

Windsinger speaking to me as a friend.” “I'd have done more than speak, if you'd wanted.” Robin gave him a straight look. “We all need something, Kes, and we don't always love wisely. Maybe I'll find a Mercy for myself.” He grinned, breaking the solemn moment. “You can't get that rod of yours to hoist its standards when you ask it, but can you lie still and quiet no matter what the provocation?” Kestrel scowled. “I can pretend to be stone if it gets me to Artemis.” “Good. Then when you go to Parallax, I travel as a manlover and you travel as luggage.” “What?” “Cargo, if you prefer. I have a suitable container at home already.”

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Chapter Twenty-One Parallax.

R

obin accompanied Kestrel back to his house. Their companionship raised eyebrows all the way, but Robin, who had resumed his city-mode wear, ignored them magnificently. He was intrigued when he saw Seafrith, but, dissembler that he was, bowed with graceful greeting when Kestrel introduced them. “Shoremem Seafrith, I am honored to meet a friend of my windbrother,” he said in fluent Seabraese. Seafrith's stronger eye focused on him. “You no shoresah,” she said in her halting GalStan. “I am no shoresah,” he agreed, “but I give honor where it is deserved.” Seafrith said nothing, but Kestrel thought her bowed shoulders straightened a little. He glanced warningly at Robin. “Seafrith wishes to make her home on Alida,” he said. “She has no more use for men.” “You have been treated badly by one who owed you affection,” said Robin, still focused on the woman. “It is the shoresah way, alas.” He smiled at Seafrith. “Better you take a windbrother to your bed, 236

Windsinger shoremem, before you give up on males entirely. You might change your mind.” Kestrel gave him a doubtful look. “I don't understand Seabraese too well,” he said, “but please be careful of what you say. I don't want to see her made any more unhappy.” “I offered a suggestion for her consideration,” said Robin. He turned back to Seafrith, who was looking doubtfully at Kestrel. “Not that windbrother, shoremem. He is bowersick for his mate. I am matefree and am utterly at your service.” “Robin…” said Kestrel warningly, but his friend shook his head. “You have no claim on Seafrith, Kes. It's up to her to choose whether she chooses to sleep alone or wishes to share time with me.” “I told you, she is finished with males.” “Then she'll say so, and that will be an end to it. I would never press a woman if she has no interest. It's a waste of time and besides, it isn't courteous.” Kestrel sighed, wishing he had never thought of asking Robin's help. He glanced at Seafrith, ready to reassure her if necessary, but the shoremem had apparently come to some conclusion. She offered her hand to Robin and spoke a single phrase in her own tongue. Robin smiled and bowed, grasped her hand and looked genuinely delighted. “The assignation is made,” he said to Kestrel. “May we make use of your house, or would you prefer we went elsewhere?” Kestrel spread his hands. “You are always 237

Lark Westerly welcome here.” “Thank you. And now you had better go to your own couch and get some sleep. Tomorrow for action, tonight for dreams, eh, brother?” **** Kestrel slept on a couch and dreamed of Artemis, trying to picture his love's current occupation. Had she gone back to her duties as a Mercy? Was she, even now, helping women like Seafrith out of perilous situations or violent relationships and into the peace of the Sisterhood Village on Alida? How could he bear it if she repudiated him when they met again? And how would he manage if she agreed to come home, but the Mercies refused to let her go? Surely they must release her. The Mercies' autonomy and independence of males was worth nothing if it was not freely chosen. Restlessly, he turned on his side, half-listening for a cry of pain from Seafrith or a snap of impatience from his friend. He did not desire the shoremem himself. The most he felt for her was a kind of protective pity, but he was uneasy because he had brought her to Robin's notice. What was the man up to, bedding an ill favoured and emotionally damaged woman in someone else's house? He could have found another temporary mate with ease, for handsome Robin was a favorite with the windwomen. None of them took him seriously, but Kestrel knew he had pleasured many in a strictly playful manner. He was a self238

Windsinger confessed performer and could play his chosen role with consummate ease. What if Seafrith believed the bedding constituted some kind of permanent promise? **** “Well?” he said curtly in the morning, when Robin emerged from the other room. “How did you two fare?” He expected either a grin and a lewd detailing of the bedding or a sly remark about minding his own rod's business, and was disconcerted to get neither. Robin was silent for so long Kestrel thought he was not going to answer, but at last the man said simply; “I love her.” “What?” “I love her,” repeated Robin. “You mean, you bedded her kindly. I hope you didn't—” “I love her,” said Robin for a third time. “She is very loveable. She knows how to give, and with me she has learnt how to receive. Aside from that, she's a sensible woman, and she has a lot of courage. In you, she saw a chance to get away from a brute. In me, she saw a chance to regain some self-respect. She has no illusions about you and none about me.” “I hope you didn't practice your glamours on her.” Now Robin did grin. “Oh, I did. I wooed her and bowered her most effectively. I was utterly inspired and brilliant until I forgot myself in her. I have no 239

Lark Westerly idea what I did and said then, except that it was poetic. I think I was under a spell. She no longer wants to go to Alida, which is just as well. It's a poor life she'd have there with all those barren women.” “I hope you didn't tell her she can stay on Gale?” “Of course I did.” “You know the law as well as I do.” said Kestrel, exasperated. “No alien can stay on Gale unless she has a windfolk mate.” Robin grinned again. “She has taken a windfolk mate. I'm windfolk.” “You can't register with her. It's unsuitable. She is a shoremem and her wretch of a sah is probably seeking her. You met her yesterday.” Robin ticked off the points on his fingers. “I can register with whom I please. She is every bit as suitable as your Amazon Mercy. If the sah turns up here, I shall threaten to spit him with my Daemonsticker or pay him a lavish dowry—whichever is most effective. Probably both. And how long did it take you to fall in love with your little Mercy?” Kestrel stared, wordlessly. “I love her,” said Robin. “She is the first who has ever made me forget myself in her. She likes me well enough and will come to like me better. She can stay with me for as long as she wants, and if we ever part, it will be her choice.” “And if she does leave you? She has left one mate already.” “He deserved to be left, but if I fail to please her, I shall bear the disgrace with dignity. I might go into 240

Windsinger exile as you have. Or not.” That was all he would say, and Kestrel wondered, ruefully, if there was a chance that Robin might be seriously in love. But probably no one ever knew for sure what Robin felt and thought. “Time for work,” said Robin, shaking off his dazzled mood. “There is plenty to do before we catch the Parallax shuttle.” “You don't need to come,” protested Kestrel. “Just get me loaded into the shuttle as cargo as you suggested.” “You won't get to Parallax without me, and you won't get to Alida without both of us,” said Robin shortly. “You do realize this trip might kill you?” “I'll risk it,” said Kestrel. “And if you make it, the Mercies will probably kill you anyway, without even giving you a hearing?” “I'll risk it,” said Kestrel again. He could feel his heart beating heavily. Soon he would see Artemis again and would hear from her own mouth whether she wanted her new life with him or her old one with the Mercies. Robin went home, and fetched a huge crate, which he took to the markets and filled with expensive cloth goods. “There's no room in that for me,” said Kestrel on his return. He was awed at the cost of the goods Robin had bought. “But there is.” Secure in Kestrel's house, Robin showed him a flap hidden close to the bottom of the crate. “The side comes out and you can slide into the 241

Lark Westerly aperture. You'll need to lie on your back, facing upwards.” He looked at Kestrel's feet. “No boots, and I hope your toes don't jam against the ceiling. That would be uncomfortable.” Kestrel regarded the dark space with horror. “I can't fit in there.” “You probably can.” “How do you come to have such a thing?” “I use it for smuggling slaves,” said Robin, straight faced. “Or I stuff it with dead Daemons. Or even my baggage for Wild Moon. I never stint myself.” Kestrel gave up. He stripped down to a breechcloth and was wriggling feet first into the compartment when Seafrith came in from the other room where she had been resting. The shoremem looked almost magically better. Her face was still scarred and ill favoured, but her mouth had softened. She walked with a more confident stride and a better set to her shoulders. She looked, Kestrel thought, like a woman released from a dungeon into the sun. Robin's face lit with welcome, and he embraced his mate elect with such tenderness that Kestrel felt like an intruder. He grimaced and squirmed the rest of the way into the base of the chest. When he emerged, sweating, Robin had undressed Seafrith and was draping her in jewel-colored silk. The two were chattering together in Seabraease. ****

242

Windsinger By sunhigh, Robin and Seafrith were boarding the shuttle for Parallax. Seafrith wore the silk, and Robin had transformed himself into the semblance of a manlover. With much fuss and flourish, he had the porters install the crate of good cloth in his and Seafrith's cabin. “For shipment to Alida,” he said firmly. “The Mercies are to succor my poor sister here, and this is her dower. Our caste is high, and it will not do for her to seem impoverished.” Kestrel, now muffled inside the false base, was only marginally grateful that the crate was not stowed in the hold. That might have killed him outright, while his position in the cabin merely made him wish he were dead. At intervals during the flight, Robin or Seafrith would open the hidden portal in the side of the chest to give him food or water, but there was too much risk of discovery to let him out for more than an hour at night. “This is impossible!” he gasped, trying to flex his strained and cramping muscles as he returned to the meager space. “I warned you it would be difficult,” said Robin. “Shall we have you out for good? You'll be fined and deported to Gale, but you'll be alive and whole.” Kestrel shook his head. Before being allowed to land on Parallax, all passengers had to strip naked and declare their qualification for entry into a restricted society. Robin reported that a medic had examined Seafrith's stillbruised body, and, after a considerable and troubling 243

Lark Westerly delay, had stamped her passage for the next Alida shuttle. “They took their time,” he said. “I swear the dykie was all set to turn her away, but then she changed her mind and signed her through.” “What about you?” asked Kestrel. “They don't want me to leave the shuttle, but I'll manage something. Hush, now.” Some porters came in and carefully unpacked the crate right down to the wooden base. During this inspection, Kestrel breathed as shallowly as possible. He was so uncomfortable that, he felt no more than a pinprick of relief as the goods were replaced. Discovery would have seen him returned to Gale, but it would have relieved his present pain. He had hoped to leave the crate at night and steal aboard the Alida shuttle without detection, but that proved impossible. Robin made a fuss, demanding to attend his 'poor sister' until she boarded the Alida shuttle, and agreeing to run the gauntlet to be allowed to land on the planet. This idea found favor, and soon Robin was prancing down a double line of rod-ready boys and men. Kestrel grimaced as the cheers and encouragement began to ring out, penetrating even his muffled prison. Had the Windsinger code accepted social and moral debts, he would have felt deeply in debt to Robin the Deceiver. He tried to say as much when Robin crept into the cabin that night. “Never think of it,” said Robin. He sounded weary. 244

Windsinger “Did they hurt you?” “They were all too enthusiastic, but I'm not— ouch—actually damaged. They used plenty of oil for their games, and I think I was a hit. I found out from one fond lad how these matters are run. One of the dykies is his sister, and she helps load the shuttle for Alida. The shuttle is a private one and launches from a guarded port. It's attended only by dykies. My lad has never seen it himself, but he reports that the shuttle is an autorun. It's loaded by dykies on Parallax, unloaded by the Mercies themselves, and then touched off back to base. This is dangerous, Kes. Worse than I imagined. If you're discovered after you reach the guarded port, even pretending to be a manlover won't save you. The dykies would have your rod and balls off you in an instant, and send what was left on a one-way trip to somewhere hot and nasty. And as for the Mercies…” “If the Mercies unload me, they'll carry me straight to their quarters?” “My lad didn't say, and I don't suppose he knows. I couldn't press for more information. He was looking at me funny as it was. Better you leave the chest at once after you land. If they catch you lying down…” Kestrel moved incautiously and groaned. In his mind's eye, he saw the smoking wounds Mercy weapons left in those they battled or punished. “Are you all right?” Robin asked. “No,” said Kestrel. “Want to call it off? Seafrith is going to withdraw her application for Alida at the very last moment, and 245

Lark Westerly it would seem quite natural if she demanded the dower be sent back to Gale with her. You can go back the way you came. I really wish you would.” “No,” said Kestrel. “Either way, I'm stuck in this coffin for a lot longer. If I back out now, I'll never get to Artemis.” He bit his lip. “All this time, I've been aggrieved because she left me, while she has probably been waiting for me to come for her. If Seafrith hadn't enlightened me, I would still be wasting time in ruinous self-pity.” Robin cocked his head as if listening. “I have to go,” he said abruptly. “The dykies from the other port will load you before morning. It would be much better for you if Frith were really going through with her flight to Alida. She could shield any noise you make.” “She won't change her mind again? She's sure she prefers to stay with you?” “Yes.” Robin crouched by the portal. “I wish I could say I'm sorry I offered her an alternative, Kes, but I can't. You do understand?” “Of course,” said Kestrel. “You can't resist the chance to give her a chance to heal and find happiness.” “Nothing so altruistic,” said Robin wryly. “I can't resist the chance for me. She believes I'm trustworthy.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “What was this coffin really built for?” Kestrel asked. “Tell me straight. If you're right about the dangers, I'll not have a chance to spread your secret.” 246

Windsinger “I use it for smuggling Karvallian shoulder bottles full of that tongue-loosening liquor they brew,” said Robin in a lighter tone. “A score bundle of them is about your size and fits neatly in the cavity. By the way, there's one bottle left, stowed in the slot by your feet. If the Mercies won't tell you what you need to know, use it to make them. Mix it with water according to the strength of effect you want. If the Mercy is young and comely, you might need just a drop to loosen her tongue and lift her tunic—” “Robin!” Kestrel was outraged. “I can't bower with a woman who is not my love. And certainly not for guile.” “You may have to,” said Robin bleakly. “If you befriend a Mercy and loose her tongue and her cleft, you could probably win her cooperation. She might help you for pleasure, or perhaps for fear of what you might tell.” “That is dishonorable.” “You love your honor better than your mate?” Kestrel shook his head stubbornly. “Without honor, I wouldn't be worthy of her.” “If you want her enough, you will do anything,” said Robin. “You said so. Believe it. Now, I must go. Frith will try hard to get them to stow you in the cabin before she withdraws her passage.” Kestrel nodded. “Wide winds, brother,” he said. Robin's face twisted. He patted Kestrel's cheek, the only part of him he could reach, and then he closed the portal.

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Lark Westerly **** Kestrel was only dimly aware of the next hours. He felt lurching movement as the crate was loaded into a shuttle, and a complaint from female voices about the weight. He registered with dismay that the pinprick airholes were jammed against a wall, and then the shuttle hit hyperdrive. The burring began in his teeth, built until it seemed set to shake his bones apart, and he realized that Seafrith's instructions must have been misunderstood or ignored. He was not in the cabin, but somewhere in the hold. And then he blacked out.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Tongue-Loose.

A

rtemis lay on the couch in the isocell, gazing at the whiteness until her eyes blurred and provided shadows of imagination. She thought constantly of Kestrel, longing and loving, desperate in case she lost the image in her mind. It was so long since they had parted precipitately at the shuttleport. If only she had stayed by him and never allowed his lewd friend—Robin, was it?—to send her blushing away. Why should she care if he thought her desirable, and if he knew what she and Kestrel had done? He hadn't seemed disgusted by the knowledge. She shifted uncomfortably. If it had not been for the increasing bulk of her pregnancy, she would have thought her time on Gale was all a fever dream. The oiled click of the hatch-bolt roused her from her doze. She had no desire to eat or drink and did not need to use the privy. She tried to say so, and realized with a slow wonder that it had been days since she had spoken. Dia Cleo seldom spoke to her either, and never entered the isocell any more. 249

Lark Westerly Cleo must have been so disappointed when the feigned miscarriage had not eventuated, thought Artemis vaguely. She closed her eyes, hoping Maeve had not suffered over her handling of that incident. If Maeve had insisted on the leechmoss poultice, the pretended miscarriage would soon have been real. But what was she thinking? Maeve was no better than Cleo. She was worse in a way, since Cleo had never pretended friendship. Artemis felt curiously divorced from boredom and discomfort. Time was sluggish, punctuated by food that tasted bland or foul, water that was never cold enough, long gray dozes and odd sounds that seemed to come from the wall behind her head. She thought, without much interest, that someone was rearranging panels to create a new isocell. It must be inconvenient to have this one occupied by a long-term prisoner. She wondered why they were leaving her so much alone. Soon, it would be too late to abort the child, and soon after that it would be born. She supposed it would hurt her terribly. Her unused muscles ached. Would she cry out for the mercy of Maeve's narcotic? That would mean naming Kestrel, and so she must not cry out. No matter how it hurt, she would never give them the satisfaction of using narcotic as an inducement. Her love had borne the agony of daemonic poisoning. She could bear the pain of bringing forth his son, who would then be sent offworld as quickly as possible. Surely she might hold him first and suckle him a while. Not if they had their way. 250

Windsinger Then she would bear him in silence. She would not make a sound and would quiet his first cries against her breast. She would hold him close and murmur lovewords to last him throughout his childhood. If she could speak by then. At that point, she became aware of a real sound that was different from the ones behind the panel. It was not the snick of the hatch-bolt that heralded delivery or removal of her unappetizing meals, but the creak of a stealthily opening door. Cleo? She wanted to sit up, to give herself some semblance of dignity, but the laxity of her muscles was getting worse. She blinked, turning her head, trying to glare at Cleo, but found herself staring at Maeve instead. Maeve? Her lips shaped the word, but no sound came out. Maeve's cool professional gaze assessed her, and then her face dissolved into appalled anxiety. “Artemis, what has she done to you?” Left me in here to rot, just as you predicted, thought Artemis. Maeve snapped; “Tell me at once!” Wordlessly, Artemis shook her head. “I can't,” she mouthed. Maeve lifted her unresisting arm and let it fall. “Laxity of muscle, lassitude, bloodless—have you been taking those pills I sent? They are meant to give back the iron and good blood this wretched child is leeching from your body.” Artemis' bewilderment must have shown in her 251

Lark Westerly eyes, for Maeve clicked her tongue in disgust. “She withheld them, I suppose. Fool. How can she expect cooperation if you can barely stand?” No need to wonder who she might be. “Have you been eating properly? Don't try to answer. I can see you haven't.” She slapped Artemis lightly on the cheek, then pressed the younger woman's lower eyelid. Hissing with disapproval at whatever she saw, she took a vial from her pouch and mixed a little of the contents with water. “Will you at least drink this, Artemis? It will strengthen you a little, make you feel better and loosen your tongue.” Artemis nodded, and Maeve tilted the vessel to her lips. Artemis choked as the fiery stuff went down, but a glow spread through her as the stimulant took hold. She lay there gasping, and then strength crept into her limbs. She felt better, almost well. She felt— “Listen to me.” said Maeve. “This male—the one you refuse to name. We have just had word on him.” No! thought Artemis. Impossible. “The sisters from Parallax have sent a message, saying they believe your despoiler has landed there from Gale. I have the description, and I want you to attend to me carefully. Once and for all, Artemis, will you make an effort to save yourself?” “Where is he, this male?” The words hurt in Artemis' throat, but at least the noxious medicine had loosened her voice. “The shuttle bore cargo and two passengers from Gale,” continued Maeve. “One is the male in question. He is traveling with a woman of Seabra who 252

Windsinger pretended to be the male's blood-sister. Like most of her kind, she is in a sad state. She has been beaten and burned and recently violated, according to the sisters. Violated by him, Artemis. This male you refuse to name. She carried his spill inside her, so there is no mistake. Do you understand? He has taken another unfortunate woman and is using her as he used you. He is forcing himself into her body and whipping her when she dares to reject his cruelty.” No. “It seems certain,” said Maeve coolly, “that he was using the woman as cover to penetrate Alida”s defenses. Why else would he allow her to take the shuttle, and why else would he accompany her? He even brought a chest of cloth, meaning to use it as a bribe. The Parallax sisters saw through his game, despite his guile. They were about to reject the woman's passage here, but when Jael caught the message from Parallax she had the wit to demand she was passed and sent on. We should have caught him fairly—” “How?” croaked Artemis. “We assume he intended to swap garments with the deluded sister and travel here using her name and identity while she returned to Gale or was abandoned on Parallax.” Artemis smiled bitterly. “Then it isn't K- him,” she said. “The circumstances fit,” said Maeve. “We would have had him, but something scared him off.” “What do you mean, scared him off? I don't 253

Lark Westerly understand. You said he wanted to come.” “At the very last minute, the sister rebelled. She withdrew her application for refuge on Alida and has reboarded the shuttle for Gale. The shuttle is on its way back right now. If the male escapes, he will beat the woman again and use her shamefully. What was his name, again?” Artemis shook her head. You don't catch me that way, Maeve. She raised a shaking hand and blotted the side of her mouth where blood was oozing from a crack. Maeve cursed, and handed her some salve. “It can't be him,” said Artemis precisely. She licked the blood from her mouth. It tasted strange, and there seemed to be light patterns playing on the ceiling. They reminded her of the dreampictures she had seen in Kestrel's house. “He could never, never pass as a sister.” “With his small stature, he could,” said Maeve. “His fair hair and narrow shoulders fit the mold, and his brown eyes are heavily lashed. The blood test would be faked somehow, or else he'd have used the woman's.” “It's not him.” Artemis fought to keep the emotion from her voice. Clearly, this male could not be Kestrel, but must be some other man trying to bluff his way onto Alida. It was not Kestrel. She couldn't have borne it to be, but if only it was. The tangle of fear and longing must have shown on her drawn face, for Maeve sighed. “Artemis, I wish you would not be so willful,” she said tiredly. “Why 254

Windsinger do you insist it could not be the male we seek?” “K- he would not give up so easily. Besides, he is tall,” said Artemis. “Taller than any sister would be. He has broad shoulders, and his hair is dark like bronze. His face—” She broke off, painfully remembering his strong and beloved features. “His eyes—” “His eyes?” prompted Maeve. “They are skewed, perhaps? He came to you in the guise of a sister and defiled you by stealth?” “No, no, they are blue—skewed eyes? I don't—ah! That is—was—the shoremem—hexes, Maeve, what have you done to me?” Artemis laced her fingers over her mouth, terrified by what might come out next. “I gave you a tincture to strengthen you and to loosen your tongue,” said Maeve. “You agreed to the treatment.” “You fed me tongue-loose! You weren't helping me at all, just trying to make me talk. You wanted me to give you Kestrel's name. How could you be so deceitful, Maeve, and so cruel? I trusted you!” There was a silence while Artemis fought down the desire to keep on babbling. She knew too well what tongue-loose could do. It was a stimulant brewed by the Karvallian lionfolk, who liked to pit their mighty wills against others in physical contests. They scorned to take it themselves, but preferred to dose their adversaries to even the odds a little. Hopped up on tongue-loose, a man believed himself invincible while women—Artemis shuddered as she recalled a woman she had succored once. The sister had been ravished 255

Lark Westerly by a pride of Karvallians for days. Her desperate bidding had come only after the tongue-loose had begun to wear off. “Until then,” she had told Artemis dazedly, “I was urging them on.” The woman had been undamaged, apart from soft tissue chafing and the quivering of overstrained muscles, but so exhausted she had slept for three days. The Karvallians, Artemis recalled with flaring satisfaction, had found outlet for their energy in roaring with pain after she had singed their stilleager rods with her saber. She had really spoiled their sport, at least for that day. No doubt they had healed with their race's usual resilience. She might have killed them, but they were such children. The woman had admitted she had known what she was swallowing and had sought out the experience in a burst of pique after finding her lover inadequate to her appetites. She had refused to come to Alida after her rescue. With a gasp, Artemis dragged her focus back to Maeve. Had she accused her mentor of treachery a breath ago, or was it longer? “Well?” she demanded, trying to sound as if she knew what she was talking about. “There's no use standing there, Maeve. I won't tell you his name, and I won't describe him.” “Then he is not the fair-haired male with the skeweyed sister on the shuttle?” “I told you he is not. I don't know the male you mentioned, but the sister might be the shoremem whose bidding Jael fumbled when she dragged me back here. The sister was bleeding where her sah had 256

Windsinger dragged out her hair, but Jael didn't offer her any salve. She tried to fetch the shoremem here, but the mem refused and Jael grabbed me and leapt the Beacon right there before the mem and if anyone has violated the mem it is the sah who—” Artemis bit hard on her already bleeding lip. It seemed that whenever she spoke, the words would spew forth without check until her ears finally heard what her tongue was doing and forced it to a halt. The recklessness was dangerous yet somehow satisfying. “I won't tell you what you want me to spill, Maeve,” she said, “but I might tell you some other things you ought to know. Like how it feels to have a male cradle your breasts in his hands while he presses his rod between your legs and rocks you in his arms.” “Rod?” burst out Maeve. “Member to us, but he calls it a rod and I like that better. At first it just feels good, but then it makes you burn and throb and his rod gets so wet and slippery from your juices that you grind yourself down against it and try to catch your breath enough to scream. And then he pushes it in and brings it out and you can't control yourself and you just sag in his arms and let him do what he wants. And sometimes he puts his tongue right up inside, and you'd fall if he didn't hold you. Then you do scream and while it's all still happening for you, he lays you on the bower and comes down and pushes himself slooooowwwwly inside and it's your turn to take every bit he can give…and the flowers make the air smell so good. Did you know Windsingers have things they do with 257

Lark Westerly bridal fruit? They squeeze it over your breasts and then suck it off so gently you sometimes peak without anything else even touching you. It isn't so intense, but it leaves you with the energy to suck them.” She exhaled a sigh and ran her fingers over her swelling breasts. “I can never get the feeling for myself, can you? Or do you push some pillow under your hips and rub your hand—ouch!” She snatched her hands away from her breasts as Maeve slapped her face. “Artemis!” Maeve's face was dully flushed. “Stop! This male has twisted you until you don't know what you're saying.” Artemis clutched her cheek. “You hurt me, Maeve. He never hurt me. Only that first time, just a little, and that was my fault because I pulled him into me. He'd been teasing me, making me wet and I was so excited I didn't know what I was doing. All I wanted was for him to stop pressing against me and to fill me up instead. And he did and spilled right away, but then he showed me how to make him ready again and then he helped me.” Her breath came faster and she stared at Maeve, wide-eyed. “Why didn't you ever tell me it feels so good to be filled by a male, Maeve? Why did you pretend it was painful and disgusting? You cannot speak from experience, so why not admit you don't know? And why is it such a secret that males—good males—do these things for you and not just to you? My Windsinger—” She stopped, suddenly confused. “What was I saying, Maeve?” Maeve was holding her hands, her nails digging 258

Windsinger into Artemis' palms. “You were speaking of this Windsinger of yours, what do you call him? He made you feel good. He is too tall to pass as a sister, and he has blue eyes and bronze-colored hair. His body is perfect.” “No, no, that's not right,” corrected Artemis. “He has a scar on his thigh where I salved his wound. I used the sealant and before that I had to—oh, and he has his earring, of course. That says to other windfolk that we are bowered and bonded.” She sighed deeply. “I would do anything to have him with me again. I want to tell him so much and I picture him holding his son and I was thinking, Maeve, how my love put this baby into me, and you would help it be born, but now I know you won't help it because I can't let you. It's going to hurt and I might beg for narcotic and Dia Cleo won't let me have it until I tell you Kestrel's name.” She stopped speaking, and licked her cracked lips. “I'm so thirsty, Maeve, and I feel dizzy. I think that tincture you gave me was a little too strong.” “It was just strong enough,” corrected Maeve. She gave Artemis a sip of water, frowning as she did so. Then, hearing the whoop of the shuttle through the half-open portal, she closed the isocell securely and left. Her frown deepened. If this male was as Artemis insisted, he could never have hoped to pass as a sister. And he could not have been the fair-haired male on the shuttle. Was it a coincidence, then? Maeve felt in her gut that it had not. Had the fair male and his skew-eyed sister been accomplices of this 259

Lark Westerly Kestrel? What, then, had been the plan? And why had it never been carried through? Or maybe it had. Maeve strode off towards the shuttle landing, but her interview with Artemis had delayed her, and when she arrived, Cleo was there already.

260

Windsinger

Chapter Twenty-Three Visitations.

K

estrel awoke in the darkness. His head pounded, and he hurt all over. He groaned. At least the abominable shuddering of the shuttle had stopped. Memory surfaced, and he drew a quick breath of near panic. If the shuttle had grounded, he must get out before the women came to unpack the cargo. He moved his cramped legs, and it came to him with a jolt that he was already free of the chest. Had he woken before, then? Had he escaped and crawled into this dark place to rest and wait for it to be safe to move? He frowned, unable to remember. The terrible journey must have addled his brain. He moved again, and became aware of a light cloth that covered him to the waist. He thrust it aside and sat up, making his head spin and the surface on which he lay creak in protest. Cold light flooded over him, making his eyes water and burn. He closed them instinctively, then shivered as a heavy wad of something hit his groin. 261

Lark Westerly “Hide that disgusting display.” The voice was flat and soft, speaking GalStan in a slightly halting manner. The accent was achingly familiar, and he opened his eyes with caution. His heart dropped as he realized the woman, whose torso was outlined by an open hatch in the otherwise blank white wall, was one of the Amazon Mercies. There was no mercy in her eyes, which were gray and peculiarly expressionless. They seemed to be fixed on his groin, where his rod lay shriveled and depressed against his balls. “I assure you, sister, the display is not always so poor,” he said, screwing up his eyes against the brightening glare. “It is well said on my world that a man's spirits and health are well reflected in his cods and cock, especially when they have just been hit by a wad of inferior cloth.” He spoke with deliberate coarseness, annoyed by the cold regard he sensed from behind the illumination. “If the sight of me offends you, then dim the light and give back my breechcloth. It will cover the offense.” The woman snorted. “Prisoners do not wear clothing. As for your genitals, you'll not crow so loudly when you've lost them to a knife or gelding band. Nor when you are violated by a cold steel rod and suffer at last the pain you have inflicted on others.” Kestrel stared, digesting three equally unwelcome revelations. He was a prisoner in this featureless room. 262

Windsinger The Mercy was enormously hostile and probably sadistic. She had threatened to geld him. “Are you the one called Maeve?” he asked, knowing she was not. Artemis could never have held so cold a woman in affection. “My name is of no consequence. You may not use it to address me, and you will meet no one with whom to discuss me. I will not allow your evil tongue to twist anyone else on Alida. All you need know is that I am the vessel of vengeance for the evil you have done our community.” Kestrel frowned. This must be the one Artemis feared. The one she called Dia Cleo. He almost said so, but restrained himself in time. He must find his way to Artemis, so it wouldn't do to antagonize this woman further. He turned his attention to the diadem she was wearing half concealed in her gray hair. “You have a translation device. No need. I can manage GalStan now.” “It is no use fishing for information, “ she spat. “Your ruse is discovered, your purpose known, and your fate will be fittingly painful.” Kestrel's skin crawled. “I have done you no harm,” he said. “You have violated a Mercy and twisted her mind against her sisters. You have planted your filth within her and she will not allow the contagion to be cut out.” Kestrel felt anger welling inside him. This woman was mad. How could anyone cut out love, and how 263

Lark Westerly could it be a contagion? “You do not deny the charge?” “I harmed no one!” he snapped, losing patience. “Let me out of this room.” “Soon enough, Windsinger. You deny the charge? You say you did not violate and defile Artemis of the Mercies?” “Certainly I say it.” Kestrel tried to conceal the leap of emotion he felt at hearing his love's name. “You are a male. You forced yourself into a woman's body. You sowed your vile seed, and now you seek to deny your crime!” Kestrel's eyes hurt from the light, and his head spun from the ceaseless beat of her words. “I forced and violated no one,” he said. “It is against the Windsinger tradition to take a gift unwillingly given.” “She has stated your name,” said Cleo. “She has revealed the extent of her degradation.” He would not believe it. Artemis loved him and had not harmed him even when she'd had the means. “By the laws and customs of my world, Artemis and I are bonded in lifelong union,” he said with dignity. “That is not degrading.” “By the Mercy Lore of her world, you are a brute beast who has ruined her. You will be put down. She, however, may be granted mercy if you admit your guilt.” Kestrel wanted to tell the ridiculous woman exactly what he thought of this tangle of idiocy. Mentors and guardians on many a world would have been proud to see their wards matched with high caste 264

Windsinger Windsingers of Gale, but the Windsingers' preference for their own planet and their own kind meant the chance was seldom offered. His pride in his identity, restored since learning that Artemis' defection had been involuntary, reared up in anger. “Where is she?” He rose from the couch and stood foursquare, arms folded across his chest. The woman responded by stepping back and snapping a panel into place between them, hiding the grille through which she had been speaking. He waited, first expectantly and then impatiently, for his inquisitor to return. Nothing happened, except that the cell became uncomfortably warm and stuffy. He sought water and sustenance, but there was none. Except for the cloth and the couch, and the silent panels that made up the inner walls, the place was pale and featureless. He prowled restlessly, his legs aching from cramps, his head stuffed full of pain. His position was frightening, but there was a ridiculous quality behind the horror. He never doubted that Dia Cleo meant what she had said in all particulars, yet the notion of a Windsinger and Daemon-hunter stripped naked, incarcerated and maimed by a community of women was laughable. He slapped the panels with the flats of his hands a few times, but the material swallowed the sound. The echoes that should have been beat against his inner ears. Perhaps the room was soundproof. His flesh crept again at the thought of the possible reasons for this, as Dia Cleo's threats resurfaced in his mind. Did the Mercies practice torture, then? If so, 265

Lark Westerly that made them no better than the Daemons he despised. Much later, a panel slid open, revealing another woman. This one was younger than Cleo, with speckled auburn hair, and a fresh, sensual face weathered a little about the cheeks and brow. He nodded to her in greeting. “Dia Maeve, I presume,” he said, and waited expectantly. Cleo had said no one else would visit his cell, so this call was probably clandestine. “I begin to see,” she said, after a long and silent inspection of his face and physique. He raised a brow, heartened by her moderate tone. “What do you see, Dia?” “I begin to see how Artemis allowed herself to be turned. You are an impressive physical specimen, Windsinger.” He waited. Maeve looked him over again, so deliberately that he wondered what she might want. Not, he trusted, to cut him up for experimentation. He smiled and sauntered closer to the open panel, taking care to look non-threatening. “Artemis has told me something of your way with women,” said Maeve. “It sounds grotesque, but she was under the touch of tongue-loose as she spoke, so I assume she told the truth when she said she did not find her defilement painful or degrading.” Kestrel inclined his head. The ways of the bower were private, but he could not blame his love for blurting their secrets if someone had given her 266

Windsinger tongue-loose. “I did not know the Mercies used such substances,” he said gravely. “A Mercy uses the best there is to reach a desired conclusion, and if that is not available, she uses the best she has,” said Maeve. “And these methods include coercion, Dia?” “If necessary. No need to look outraged, Windsinger. Did you not use coercion when you ruined Artemis for the Mercies?” “I did not ruin Artemis,” he said. Maeve frowned. “Not knowingly, perhaps, but you did ruin her. An Amazon Mercy must be chaste and utterly firm to her cause. Your carnal attentions took both these attributes from her. And you did coerce her. She told me so.” “I—” “She told me that you had been teasing her, making her wet and she was so excited she didn't know what she was doing.” Maeve's voice was cool and distasteful. Kestrel stared with hauteur. “I did what was necessary to ease the primary bowering. There is no pleasure in another's pain. That is not the Windsinger way. I did what I could to bring most pleasure to us both. That was not coercion. That was love.” “You present me with a considerable problem, Windsinger,” said Maeve. “You have done enormous harm, but I am inclined to believe you did not intend it. Your lust overcame her will and her caution, but she cannot be held blameless, for she allowed it to happen.” 267

Lark Westerly “But she is blameless,” he insisted. “There is no blame for either of us.” She looked at him directly. “No. Had she resisted as she should, you would have been gelded—or dead—before you did the damage. Unless you had her tied down and handbound while you teased her?” Kestrel was tiring of this conversation. “I want to see Artemis,” he said. “Whatever is done is done, and if she can no longer be a Mercy, I'll pay whatever dower you ask to buy her freedom.” Maeve regarded him through half-closed eyes. “No dower is acceptable to Cleo. You cannot buy a Mercy. I believe you are a good man, Windsinger, according to your codes. I almost wish things were different.” She gave a small, mirthless laugh. “Unfortunately, it is not up to me. Dia Cleo is the keeper and arbiter of the Mercy Lore, and she is never inclined to take a lenient view. Even I would hardly dare speak with you so frankly if she were not shut away in the scriptorium. She is examining records, hoping to find a fitting precedent for your punishments. If she were not such a rigid traditionalist, you would never have woken from the state you were in at the port. She could have had you put down immediately, but no— she must drag things out.” She was silent for the space of half a dozen breaths. Then, deliberately, she slid the panel from its moorings, stepped through, and clicked it back into place. Kestrel eyed her uncertainly. Seen up close, Maeve of the Mercies was a woman of considerable presence. 268

Windsinger She was taller than Artemis, erect and collected from the heels of her flat sandals to the attractively gray and copper flecked hair beneath her diadem. She was old enough to have mothered him, but there was no hint of the mother in her mien. She was holding a short dagger, which he supposed was a small version of the saber Artemis had. “Well, Dia?” he said. “Are you going to let me out? Or will you kill me now?” “They say your kind can command the winds,” she said abruptly, sheathing the dagger in her belt. He shook his head. “Windsingers request and befriend. We command no one and nothing, and admit no obligation.” “Then you have no obligation to Artemis.” “None,” he agreed readily. “I fail to see why you came here at such risk. You don't want to reclaim her as a possession, and you do not feel obliged to save her from her fate.” Kestrel's anger stirred again, but he answered honestly. “I love her. I want her. Loving and wanting have nothing to do with ownership or with obligation.” “I too have loved Artemis,” said Maeve. “She was the child I never had. I loved her spirit and her beauty, her innocence, and her intense loyalty to her sisters. She was the best Diadem Mercy I have ever trained, scarcely needing to wear one to sense the Beacon. She was to me all that is good in our world. The antithesis of Cleo.” “Was?” His fear leapt. “Please! Artemis isn't 269

Lark Westerly dead?” “She is alive, but you have destroyed the person I loved. You with your handsome face and handsome body.” She stepped forward so no more than an arm's span separated them. “I can almost forgive her,” she said softly, “for even I—” She broke off, then delved into the pouch that hung from the waistband of her tunic. “You must be thirsty,” she said, in an altered tone, and offered a small silver canteen. He took it and sniffed the contents. “Is that tongueloose?” he asked. “It does contain some tongue-loose, since you ask. But most of it is fruit juice, plain and square. It has nothing harmful added. Will you drink it?” “Why not?” He tilted the silver vessel and swallowed the contents slowly, feeling the tart juice easing the dehydrated tissues of his mouth and throat. “You are a brave man, Windsinger,” said Maeve. “You know the truth will spill forth.” He shrugged. “There is nothing I could or would say under the influence of this that I would not say otherwise. Everything I have told you is the truth.” “We'll see.” She waited. Kestrel closed his eyes with relief as the headache began to lift. His limbs uncramped, and his heartbeat lifted a little. “Now,” said Maeve. “What would it take to make you leave this place without Artemis?” “Death,” he said. “Or possibly a strong narcotic. But in that case I would try to come back. Somehow.” 270

Windsinger “Why did you not come before?” “Until I met Seafrith again, I believed Artemis had left me willingly. Seafrith told me the other Mercy had snatched her away, which gave me the right to come for her.” “So,” said Maeve, “if Artemis repudiated you to your face, you would leave Alida without her.” He smiled faintly. “Only if I believed her, Dia.” He was aware of an urge to add more and knew the tongue-loose was taking hold. She was silent for a little longer, and he fought the urge to break the quiet. “What would you offer to have her with you?” she asked. “Whatever I thought you would accept. But didn't you say no dower would be acceptable to your superior?” “Cleo is not my superior,” snapped Maeve. “She is my equal, but we hold jurisdiction over different matters. Health and growth are my concern, lore and rule are hers.” He bowed slightly, admitting the distinction. “Then what would you give?” she persisted. “Your life?” He smiled. “Of course not.” He heard her quick, triumphant catch of breath, and added; “If I were dead, we could be together only if Artemis were also dead, and I would never want that.” “Your health? Your honor? This?” Before he had time to react, she had seized his genitals. His immediate reaction was to pull away, but he forced himself to stand fast. The thought crossed his mind 271

Lark Westerly that this was the second time he had been so tethered by the hands of a woman who was not his love. Seafrith had been trying to win her passage to Gale. What was Maeve after? “What do you want?” he asked, directly. “Are you asking if I would give up my rod to have Artemis safe? Or are you asking me to use it to pleasure you?” Her hands explored. “This is the first time I've had the opportunity to examine a live set so closely,” she said. “It's not as big as I expected.” She looked at him hard. “Not offended, Windsinger?” “No.” “Why not? Aren't you males full of pride in the size of your appendages?” “Too much size would lead to comparisons with a Daemon,” he said with distaste. “Would you use this—” She squeezed her hands “—to pleasure me, as you put it?” “No.” Again, he was tempted to enlarge on the reply, and again he stifled the urge. “Why not?” “You are a Mercy, Dia Maeve, and this time I know what that means. If I pleasured you, I'd be charged with a second crime, and this time I'd deserve it. You'd be in worse trouble than Artemis, since you would have understood what was happening, and it would gain us nothing, except for a brief pleasure and satisfaction.” He shook his head. “The price would be far too great for both of us.” “Are you sure it would be pleasure?” “It wouldn't be the sublime delight I feel in loving 272

Windsinger Artemis, but it would probably be enjoyable. I have been celibate since I lost my love, and I would also take satisfaction in your release.” He bit his tongue, trying to step the flow of explanation, but found himself bound to continue. “It would be pleasurable for you because you are a sensual woman, and because I would make sure you were pleased.” “It seems a matter of pride with you that you bring pleasure and not pain,” she said. “If other males were more like you, there would be much less need for us Mercies.” She smiled grimly and let him go. “A pity I cannot test your assumption that you could bring me gratification. I would, as you say, be in more trouble than Artemis.” “You can test it up to a point,” he said. “There are many ways to give you pleasure, besides penetration. That is what you Mercies object to, isn't it? The actual coupling? As a woman, you can experience most of the sensations without that.” She took a deep breath. “And you could demonstrate these other ways, without the actual violation?” “With you I could. With Artemis, I want all of her, and she wants all of me. She is so sweetly giving I can forget control and let loving take us where it will…” He brought himself back to focus with difficulty. “If I did this, Dia, you would be putting yourself in my hands. I assume I am stronger than you, so you would have to trust me not to force you. And I would have to trust you not to use your dagger to geld or kill me for doing what you asked.” 273

Lark Westerly She nodded. “We will be trusting one another, Windsinger, and risking a great deal if our trust is misplaced. My risk will be greater than yours, since you are already imprisoned and condemned.” He caught the wording. “You really want to do this? Why is that, since you think it so disgusting and degrading?” “Call it medical curiosity,” she said, after a brief hesitation. “I feel a need to understand the sisters who allow this thing to happen.” She perched on the couch and looked up at him. “Are you ready?” “Now?” He felt a prickle of dismay. He had assumed she would back out if she thought about it again, and that even if she didn't, he would have a chance to regain his true strength and ease his stillstiff muscles before being called upon to perform. The tongue-loose had given him spurious well-being, but that was not to be trusted. “It must be now,” she said firmly. “Cleo is occupied in the scriptorium, and besides, it may be the only chance I have before—” She shook her head. “What is your objection?” “I haven't recovered from being shut in Robin's cursed coffin,” he said, “and I expected more time to prepare and another drink and a chance to eat and to see…” He blinked. The tongue-loose was wreaking confusion with his speech. Maeve tapped him sharply on the head. “Windsinger!” “Yes?” He focused on her face with an effort. “Are you willing or not? Are you able?” 274

Windsinger “I'm willing, and will be able, if it will help me to Artemis.” His hands went to her tunic, remembering the way of the fastenings Artemis used. Maeve resisted for a few seconds, and then gave way. “Remember, Windsinger, I am trusting you,” she said in a muffled voice. “I shall even put aside my dagger.” “No need, since I'll not be able to put aside my strength. But I'll not do you any harm.” He let the tunic fall to her waist, exposing her breasts. They were high and rounded for a woman of her age. But of course, she had never had a child. He moved behind and cupped them gently in his hands, trying to gauge her reaction. Some women enjoyed this, but some did not. She had gone still, but soon he was aware that she was leaning into his hands, her nipples hard as unripe hayberries. He nodded. “I knew you were a sensual woman,” he said. “Celibacy must be difficult for you.” He bent to kiss her shoulder. The flesh was firm, and her skin smelled agreeably of green and growing things. “You tend the gardens,” he said, “so you know the charm of leaf and bloom and fruit in natural cycle. How can you reject it for yourself?” “Easily,” she said, in a dry voice. Her hands came up and removed his. “It is pleasant enough, but by no means irresistible. I can feel such sensations whenever I please in my bath.” Kestrel felt a stir of interest he had not been aware of before. This woman was a challenge he might have enjoyed in other circumstances. “Do you want to 275

Lark Westerly continue?” he asked. “Why not?” It was a rhetorical question, but under the influence of tongue-loose, Kestrel felt obliged to answer it. “I thought you might have made up your mind already,” he said. He kissed her neck again, noticing the faint slackening of the skin around her jaw, and then came round to face her. “Lie down,” he said, and pressed her gently back on the couch. He sat by her, then kissed her breasts, drawing the taut nipples between his lips. She moved uneasily, so he swung up his legs and lay beside her, gathering her into a light embrace. She felt stiff but was not actually resisting, so he supposed she wanted to carry on. He stroked one hand down to her hip, pressing aside the bunched tunic, then gently rubbed her belly and outer thigh before working his hand between her legs. He stroked her slowly, feeling the tissues soften and begin to grow damp. “Are you enjoying this?” she asked. Her voice sounded stifled, and he realized she was holding herself rigid. “It is no hardship,” he said, transferring his stroking fingers to her inner thigh. “But are you enjoying it?” “You feel good, but this is too mechanical for real pleasure,” he said. “If we were really lovers we would be pleasuring one another. We would not be conducting what amounts to an experiment.” Her hand brushed his groin, and she stroked him with one finger. “Like that?” 276

Windsinger Well, it was better than her earlier attempt, he thought. He wondered if he dared to let himself be fondled. He could not afford to lose his tight control. Wryly, he remembered Robin's advice about using tongue-loose to make a young Mercy his ally. Maeve was hardly a young Mercy, and he was the one who had swallowed tongue-loose. “You should have waited until this dose wore off,” he said. “I can't concentrate properly and if I forget who you are and let myself go…I…what was it you asked?” The drug was making clouds in his brain, and he could scarcely remember whether he had said some things aloud or merely thought them. Maeve wasn't answering, in any case. Her fingers were gently exploring his balls, tugging the hairs, giving tiny pricks of pain. Her taut legs had relaxed a trifle, and he was glad, for the clamp of her thighs had been squeezing his hand. He flexed his fingers, bringing his knuckles gently against her. A faint moan escaped her lips, and he heard her swallow. Encouraged, he rocked his fist, using his thumb to stroke her with every movement. She shifted her buttocks and bent her knees, lifting her hips from the couch, rearing to meet him. “Maeve,” he said softly, “is it a violation if I slip my fingers inside you?” She rolled her head on the couch. “I—oh—” Her voice broke on a gasp, as his thumb slid gently in her wetness. Better not, he thought, although he believed her distinctions were probably artificial. Fingers, rods or 277

Lark Westerly other gentle implements—what could make the difference? “Please—” She was breathing hard, and he paused, waiting for her to finish the request. Instead, she pressed against his hand, parting her thighs still farther. He stroked the exposed lips, spreading the wetness. His rod ached suddenly, wanting to bury itself in her tight cleft. He could lie back and sit her on its length instead… but that way was danger, so he forced his wandering attention to her. With one arm, he pulled her closer, while he moved down the couch, taking his indignant rod out of harm's way. He pressed his face against her breasts, and his hand against her thighs. Two fingers slipped gently into her cleft, and she moaned again and reared up. “Better not,” he said softly, and using the flat of his hand he rubbed and pressed until she gave a sharp cry and collapsed, panting, against the couch. There was a silence, while Kestrel willed his erection to subside and waited for her verdict. Her breathing slowed, and she closed her eyes, fumbling shakily with the fastenings of her tunic. He helped her put herself to rights, almost with affection. “Why are you smiling?” she asked. He hadn't been aware of it, but now he realized his mouth had turned up at the corners. “I suppose it's because you trusted me,” he said. “And you see, I did you no harm.” “I don't know about that,” said Maeve rather gloomily. She looked at him, hard. “It's bigger now.” He shrugged, still smiling. 278

Windsinger “I see now that Artemis was not to blame,” said Maeve. “If you had wanted… if you had tried to couple with me, I don't think I could have resisted.” “I would never use force,” he reminded. “You wouldn't have to.” She sighed deeply. “You made me want you, to want to lose control. That makes you more dangerous, not less. Did you want to?” He frowned. The tongue-loose still coursed in his veins and brain, but could not provide him with an answer. “Well?” said Maeve sharply. “Did you want to violate me? Or to couple with me?” Confused, he nodded, then shook his head. She prodded his rod, which still looked hopeful. “That looks as if it wanted something it didn't get.” “Oh!” Enlightened, he smiled. “It did. It does. But that isn't me, exactly. If you were walking to see your love, your feet might want to rest. You—the rest of you—would want to continue.” Maeve looked troubled. “I hope you can hold onto that notion, Windsinger. And I wish I could save you from what's coming. I really do.” “What do you mean?” He shook his head. “Gales! I feel as if my mind is going six ways at once! If you want to help me, take me to Artemis. Let us leave this place together.” “I can't,” said Maeve. She stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Windsinger. I understand things better now, but I won't be visiting you again. I hope you'll forget I came to you at all.” She went to the 279

Lark Westerly panel by which she had entered and slipped an invisible catch. “I will leave you now. And please— do not try to open this panel. It won't work for you because I shall bolt it from outside. You will be safer by far if you stay in this cell. For now.” Abruptly, she snapped the panel shut, slotting it neatly into place and leaving Kestrel to ponder her meaning. Had there really been a stress on the word 'this'? If so, what was the implication? Do not try to open this panel. Did that imply that he might open another? Even to his scrambled mind, it scarcely seemed to make sense. Had it been an offer, a clue, or a warning? Had it been all three? Deciding Maeve of the Mercies was not one to speak frivolously, Kestrel applied his mind and his hands to the panels that made up the walls. They seemed identical and fixed, but he pressed each one up and down, and was soon rewarded by a faint movement as one of them slid a little. He paused, knowing it was possibly—no, probably—a trap. Maeve seemed slightly sympathetic, but she would not hesitate to be rid of him and his dangerous knowledge. The risks of their interaction, as she had said, were higher for her than for him. Then he shrugged. Waiting patiently in this cell was not going to get him to Artemis, but seemed likely to lead to a painful ending. Maeve had hinted as much when she expressed her regret. And why couldn't she help him? Wasn't she Cleo's equal? His situation could scarcely be worse, and, 280

Windsinger Windsinger that he was, he preferred to go down through action rather than through doing nothing. Tense with anticipation, he forced the panel all the way down, then bent and slipped neatly through the portal—and stopped short. He was in another cell, identical to the one he had just left, but he was not alone in it. On the couch lay a woman, covered with a thin cloth, but otherwise as naked as he was. Smudges under her eyes provided the only color in her pallid face. Her shoulders were bony, her arms lay lax by her side. Her abdomen was distended with starvation. Artemis. Despite Maeve's assurance, he thought, for a heart wrenching moment, that she was dead. Then she moved, restlessly, crying out as if in pain. Tears seeped from beneath her closed lids, scalding the already roughened skin. Hatred for the women who had reduced his vibrantly beautiful love to this husk seared through Kestrel, rank as daemonic acid. He felt the power of it stiffen his limbs and lift the weariness from his muscles. To think he had spoken courteously to one of the hags and actually pleasured another. He couldn't dwell on that, or else he'd vomit. He crossed the cell in three hasty strides and bent to take Artemis in a close embrace. “My love, my love, what have they done to you?” he murmured, half raising her in his arms. He kissed her eyelids and her dry lips, his heart beating thickly, his rod 281

Lark Westerly straining high against his belly. He drew her beloved body closer, every nerve reacting wildly and his breathing out of control. He wanted her so badly. Surely if he were gentle it would do no harm? If she touched him with her fingertips, he would spill in an instant. The coverlet slid down as he raised her, revealing her beautiful breasts. It also revealed something else, another reason for her altered shape. Artemis was carrying his child.

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Chapter Twenty-Four Bowering With the Wind.

A

rtemis woke abruptly from a nightmare. She opened heavy eyes and gazed straight into blue ones filled with anguish, rage and blazing joy. She blinked. Her dreams had been strange and uneasily powerful since her incarceration, but it seemed doubly cruel that she should dream of Kestrel so soon after betraying him to Maeve. “No,” she said. “My love.” His voice was quiet and calm, at variance with expression in his eyes, and his mouth— his mouth was all she had remembered as it slid out of focus and came gently down on hers. She lifted her arms with an effort and held him close, her hands telling her what her eyes had not believed. “I never meant to leave you,” she said brokenly, when she could speak. “I would never have gone with Jael, but she—” “I know what happened,” he said, and his thumbs were gentle on her cheeks. He had always been loving 283

Lark Westerly with her, but his tenderness now was all the more touching for the strength of desire she sensed behind it. Her body began to quicken, and she drew in a gasp of wonder that such a thing was still possible in her weakened state. “Kestrel…” She struggled upright, pressing herself into his arms. “You really came to find me?” “You are having my child,” he said, and his voice broke on the words. “I love you, love you, love you, but Artemis, we are in terrible trouble. The witches holding you have kept me in a cell and there is something planned, some punishment. They kept asking me to confess to violating you, but I couldn't do it. I have told you what we did was never a violation, and now Maeve accepts that because I pleasured her, but she says she cannot prevent Dia Cleo from whatever she intends. That one is as cruel as any Daemon.” “Kestrel?” Artemis was frightened, not only by his words, but by his feverish manner. “What have they done to you?” “Nothing so bad,” he said, and she saw the effort the brief words cost him. “Maeve gave me a drink laced with tongue-loose.” “And you took it?” “I have nothing I need to hide, and it was the only way I could get a drink.” Fear gripped harder. “Oh Kestrel—what did you tell them?” “Nothing but the truth, my only love.” He smoothed back the coverlet and traced the heavy lines 284

Windsinger that showed in her breasts. Then he ran his fingers over her belly. “Don't.” She bit her lip. “I'm ugly now.” “To me, you're as beautiful as you ever were.” She looked at him doubtfully. If he had swallowed tongue-loose, she had to believe him. She cast her gaze over his body, seeing changes. There was a hollowness in his belly, and new lines under his blue eyes. “Are you ill?” she asked. “Not ill,” he said with a quick smile. “Just slightly starved, and of course I've been heartsick for you. And I have missed all this…” His fingers outlined the swell of her womb. “All the moons when I should have been watching you ripen, and holding you both to forge a triple bond.” Holding them both. Just as she had daydreamed. “Your earring,” she said slowly. “Where is it? Did she—Cleo—take it away?” “I tore it out when I thought you had left me.” He gathered her closer, his fingers and lips and voice waking her body from its long unhappy sleep. She tried to focus on his words, tried to say again that she was sorry, but the loving attention was beginning to overwhelm her. She swallowed, knowing she looked dreadful, but longing to believe the kindly lies his voice was telling. They couldn't be lies, she reminded herself, not if he'd taken tongue-loose. She touched his ear, seeing the scar where the earring had been wrenched free, then she touched the scar on his thigh. She would have kissed it, but her body was too awkward to 285

Lark Westerly bend. Her fingers found his erection, firm and velvet, eager for her. He gasped and seemed to lose track of whatever he was saying. “I can't hold off much longer,” he said, “but I won't ask you to—you could just touch it—” Artemis felt a surge of power. He wanted her that much? She pressed him down on the couch and straddled him awkwardly, giving him what he wouldn't ask of her. The look on his face shook her to her foundations, even as she adjusted herself to ease her inevitable discomfort. Biting her lip, she slid off and settled down beside him, and let him stroke her gently to fulfillment. Then she fell suddenly into sleep. **** They were woken by an outraged scream, and a pail of cold water flung over them. Kestrel was on his feet before he was completely conscious, crouched for defense or attack. “Enough!” Dia Cleo stood before them, framed by a portal. Her face was cold, but utter distaste showed in her eyes. “You!” she said to Kestrel. “You have violated this woman again?” “I have not,” said Kestrel. He glanced at Artemis, seeing the terror in her face as she struggled to stand. Cleo's gaze swung to the young woman, then she gestured to someone behind her. “Bring it in, put it down and then leave us.” The portal opened fully and several white-clad 286

Windsinger Mercies filed into the room. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity, horror and self-righteousness, but they said nothing to either Kestrel or Artemis as they set down trays of food, pitchers, and a steaming tub. At the door two Mercies stood with arrows nocked to their bows and aimed at Kestrel. The bearers left the room, and Kestrel stared at Cleo. “What's this?” “It is just what it appears to be,” said Cleo. “Food and drink, and water for washing.” “Is it poisoned?” Contemptuously, Cleo dipped her hand in the tub, and took a sip from each pitcher. “What would you like me to eat?” she asked. Kestrel frowned. “You are letting us go? We may return to Gale?” Cleo left the isocell, drawing the bolts ostentatiously behind her. Kestrel turned to Artemis, expecting her to show relief, but to his dismay she was crouched like a wounded animal. “What is this, love?” he asked, drawing her into his arms. “We're together, and it seems our jailer has decided to make us more comfortable. Unless it really is poison and the old witch was bluffing?” “No,” she said faintly. “It's safe to eat, but this is not for our comfort, Kestrel. Hexes, can't you see? She wants us strong and well.” “That's good, surely?” Artemis shook her head. “You don't know Dia Cleo…” 287

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**** A moon passed, spent in captivity, although they were allowed movement between the cells and provided with food, drink, and warm water and soap for washing. The supplies were brought in daily by the same Mercies, and always the guards stood at the portal with arrows nocked. Now they were aimed at Artemis, forcing Kestrel to stand passively by instead of making any break for freedom. He detested his impotence, but delighted in Artemis' company and in the growth of their baby. As far as he could detect, there was no tongue-loose in the food or drink, but he and Artemis talked by the hour, holding nothing back. Perhaps there were listeners about, but what had they left to hide? “If this is all we have, we might as well use it,” said Artemis. She seemed pensive, almost fatalistic, and had told him frankly that she was afraid they would soon be dead. She didn't know exactly what Dia Cleo had in mind, but it was bound to be unpleasant. “She hasn't left us together for nothing,” she said grimly. “I wish—” “What do you wish?” asked Kestrel. “I wish we had that program you use in your house on Gale. If we had, we could be back in our valley just for a little while.” “You were unhappy there much of the time,” he reminded. “I know.” She smiled faintly. “I was fighting 288

Windsinger against myself. That's never pleasant.” “Better than fighting one another,” he said. He whistled a snatch of the jewelbird's song, and she trilled the answer. They had no bridal fruit, but he touched his heart and his lips and offered them silently to her. She did the same then, brought both hands to her rounded stomach. “This is a gift, too,” she said. He sighed. “You must find it a curse, love, since it told tales on you.” She was silent, perhaps thinking how it would have been if she had remained undetected. “You would still have arrived and been caught,” she said. “Under tongue-loose you would still have told what we did.” “But they wouldn't have been looking out for me if they hadn't known. I might have escaped and wooed me a Mercy again.” “Even so, we could never have got off Alida.” He was surprised. “Why not? We could have traveled back in the shuttle, with me as your luggage.” “No.” She shook her head decidedly. “Mercies never travel from Alida by shuttle, although they do, very occasionally, come back that way, if their diadems are glitzing. We leave—if we leave—by using a diadem to tune to the Alida Beacon.” “Can others use these diadems? As I used it as a translation device?” “No,” she said. “We train for years, and some will never achieve the proper skill. They don't have the…” 289

Lark Westerly She tapped her brow, apparently trying to come up with the right word. “Intelligence? Natural ability?” “Brainwaves,” she said. “Alpha rhythms, Lilith calls them. They tune to the Beacon through the diadem and then we go.” “Teleportation,” he said. “You know? I thought—” “You thought it was a secret. It is. But Seafrith saw you being snatched away by the other Mercy.” “Jael.” Artemis spat out the name as if it were a bad piece of fruit. “Jael? If I understood Seafrith correctly, you two just vanished, and teleportation seemed the only explanation. If it were widely used—” “Daemons would be here,” said Artemis. “They'd be everywhere,” corrected Kestrel, “if they could use the diadems. Not that they aren't already infesting half the civilized worlds.” “Not everywhere, even if they did have the training and the diadems. Diadems need the Beacon for boost. They can take a Mercy from Alida to a bidding, and back again. That's all.” “Then you could not have used your diadem to travel from—say—Gale to Seabra? Or to Parallax?” “Not unless a sister bid me. That is the only way.” “Not quite,” said Kestrel. “Have you forgotten you came to me?” “My diadem was glitzing,” she said defensively. “It was all I could do to land anywhere at all.” “Thank all the winds for that. I would be dead if 290

Windsinger your diadem hadn't glitzed.” “You might soon be dead anyway.” “That's true. But I have had you.” “I wish we were back in the valley. I want the bower you made and your beautiful windcloak. And the wind. The air is so close in here.” He looked at her, troubled. With food and physical comforts, she had regained some of her bloom. Her skin had cleared, and her hair had regained its gloss. But today she was pale, and he saw the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. She looked tired. He had an inspiration. “Lie down,” he said. She smiled wearily. “Of course, but Kestrel I'm not really—oh, but you'll make me ready, won't you? Even if it takes a little while?” “Hush,” he said. “Just close your eyes. Think of our bowering valley.” He waited until she had settled, and then sat crosslegged on the floor. The breathless air was slightly stale, but outside this place perhaps a wind was blowing. Kestrel raised his hands. “Little foster brother,” he whispered, the words soundless, but clear inside his mind. “This is a place of women. Thou and I and my son-to-be are the only males on the planet. I would like to sing with thee. Come, if thou may, through the smallest crack, come to me and cool and please my love.” His fingers beckoned gently and soon he thought he felt a breath on his cheek, soft as a kiss, and a breeze sighed into the cell. Kestrel opened his lips and sang a welcoming note, bidding the 291

Lark Westerly breeze to explore the place it had never entered before. He felt it finger his hair and feather his eyelids, and goosebumps bloomed on his thighs as it touched his groin. It reminded him suddenly of Robin Deceiver. It was as capricious as he was, full of mischief, but sound underneath the trappings. “Comfort my love for me,” he breathed. The breeze tugged his hair again, and he rose slowly and stood with arms lifted, allowing it to whisk about his body. The affinity was not as strong, or as immediate, as it was on Gale, but he was surprised at the lucid way it made its explorations. He moved gently to Artemis and encouraged the breeze to touch her body, pressing down a surge of jealousy as he saw how she relaxed under its cooling ministrations. Her cloudy hair lifted as the breeze played with its strands, and the beads of perspiration were tidied away. She sighed, but when she spoke she sounded faintly alarmed. “Kestrel? What's happening?” “Just a little singing,” he said. “My Alidan brother is curious. Let him do what he wants.” Her eyes were still closed, but he saw the shift of expressions on her face as the breeze touched her here and there. Her nipples darkened and grew hard, and then the fleece at her thighs stirred and parted. This was rather too much, thought Kestrel, aware of an angry amusement as the breeze played lover to his love. Artemis stretched out her arms, and parted her legs as she should do only for him. 292

Windsinger Artemis! he objected soundlessly. And then, with a rush, he realized it was for him. She was calling his name, begging him to come to her. The breeze skiffled playfully in his hair as he bent his head and kissed the place that was longing for his attention. He tasted the flood of her desire, and grew hard as he kissed her again. He drew back and the busy breeze puffed the damp curls, making her draw a sharp breath that caught in a moan. With his tongue he warmed her again, and felt his invisible companion blowing against his balls. Gales! he thought, as they crinkled in response, and he hardened even more. He wanted to tell the wind to go, but it seemed to be growing in strength. Artemis' long hair was whirling now, and she writhed on the couch. Gasping, Kestrel drew back, and lifted her into his arms. Her breasts were cool against his chest, and the bulk of her belly was hard and firm. Her arms came around his neck, and he held her thighs as he guided her onto his ready rod. The tight tissues gripped him, and he had never been so hard before. She had never contracted so fiercely nor wet him so much. He felt her spin out and his own release came hard and strong and he submerged in a tangle of sensation not knowing whose he felt. He thought he could smell the candlesweet on the wind. **** “Wh-wh-” Artemis licked her lips and tried again. “What was that, Kestrel? What did you do?” 293

Lark Westerly She opened her eyes and met his gaze. His eyes were so fiercely blue she had to look away. His bronze hair gleamed like summer and his mouth… “Kestrel?” He laughed. “The breeze decided to bower you. I joined in to get my share.” “The breeze…decided…to bower me?” she said slowly, and felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “But the breeze…Kestrel, we're not on Gale!” “No, but it seems my little brother is at home here as well. And he knows me.” “Your brother?” Her flush was mounting, as she recalled the exquisite feathering touches that had roused her to such a pitch. The powerful sensation of two explosive releases. “How could a wind want to bower me?” “Well—” he allowed, “maybe it wanted to watch me instead. Were you afraid?” “Should I be?” He didn't answer immediately. “The wind is in love with you,” he said at last. “It plays with your hair and it was very willing to help me to keep you on Gale. Even here…I am a Windsinger, but it was you it wanted to love.” “But it wouldn't harm me.” “I don't think so. I hope not.” His voice was calm, but his face was still lit with a kind of fierce triumph. “What?” she asked. “You must have felt it, too,” he said. He slid one hand between her thighs and she winced, feeling 294

Windsinger swollen and tender. “Our total bond,” he said. “You called me to you.” “I didn't. I couldn't get any words out. It was you who called me, when the wind was teasing me.” Had he called? Surely it had been only in his mind that he had spoken her name? “Whether I called or not, I felt what you felt, waves like breakers crashing onto a shore. And I heard you cry out as I spurted, so I know you felt that with me.” She closed her eyes. “Is that what it was? I thought—” But she couldn't formulate exactly what she had thought. She opened her eyes and glanced suspiciously about the cell, almost seeing the green, flower-starred turf and reed-fringed pools of their valley. A jewelbird trilled above them, and the wind, sated now, kissed her cheek and faded out of the cell.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Arena.

K

estrel and Artemis had been lying together on the couch; Artemis sleeping from the demands the pregnancy was making on her body, and Kestrel thinking of the wind. He had summoned his playful friend twice more since the first time, both because Artemis was wilting in the heat and lack of ventilation. He had overcome his feeling of jealousy as the wind played with his love. It gave her what he could not and had come at his invitation. It brought more than cooling air and flirtatious touches, carrying with it the scents it had collected as it ranged about the planet. Flowers and hay and the scent of baking bread came with it, and once a bitter astringent smell that caught at his memory. “What's that?” he'd asked. Artemis had wrinkled her nose. “Leechmoss, green and growing.” He had mixed feelings about the substance that Artemis had used to save his life. It had threatened his baby's existence. “Doesn't it kill the vegetation 296

Windsinger around it?” he wanted to know. Artemis shrugged. “Not really. It absorbs what it can touch, but then stays dormant until more liquid or nutrients come its way. A leechmoss plant will have a small clear space around it, but no more than two fingersbreadth. Just as well, or it would take over Alida.” He'd nodded his understanding. Leechmoss was like the wind, affecting only what it could touch directly. His thoughts broke off now as the door came suddenly open. There was never any warning of Cleo's visitations, but since she never spoke to them or looked at them now, they were no more than minor flurries in the trudge of days. This time was different. Cleo was accompanied, not only by the inevitable armed guards, but by Maeve. The medic didn't look well, and did not acknowledge Kestrel's surprised glance. She came over to the couch and motioned for him to get up, then, when he had done so, she turned her attention to Artemis. Her examination was thorough and clinical, as she tested muscle tone and reflexes, and peered at Artemis' eyelids and inside her mouth. “Any pain?” she asked. “No,” said Artemis. “Maeve—” “Breathlessness? Bleeding? Lassitude? Irregular heartbeat?” “I'm not as fit as I was, but I'm better than when 297

Lark Westerly you came to me before.” Maeve turned her attention to Kestrel. “You?” He could hardly bring himself to speak to this woman, but he forced a nod. “I'm not fit, but not ill either.” “Well?” said Cleo. Maeve frowned. “Another moon of good food and some exercise would be advisable to get them into condition.” “In another moon she'll waddle,” said Cleo coarsely. “As it is, they're unequal. This male is bigger, just as they always are. He should have been starved.” “Artemis is a trained Mercy,” reminded Maeve. Just as if neither of us was here, thought Kestrel angrily. “Very well,” said Cleo, indicating Artemis' belly. “We cannot allow that to come to term here.” She glanced about discontentedly. “This place is too small. Is the training hall secure?” “The young ones are using it.” “Good. They shall see what comes of defying Mercy Lore. Bring her.” The two guards exchanged glances, and Kestrel noticed that they were tough-looking women in middle age, clad not in the traditional white tunics, but in heavy padded leather. Dykies? he wondered. And what did they need with gauntlets? “What of the male, Dia?” one of them asked. “He'll follow. Keep your weapons aimed at her.” She looked hard at Kestrel. “If you break for it or try 298

Windsinger to touch her or any of us, she'll be shot.” “At least let her put some clothes on,” said Kestrel, through his teeth. He loved Artemis' body, but he had no wish for gaping girls to see it. “She'll be appropriately clad,” said Cleo. She turned and left the cell, leaving the others to follow. “What's going on?” Artemis sounded frightened. Maeve's face was haggard. “You know what is to happen, Artemis. You were warned.” “I won't hurt him. I won't!” “You will do what you must do. Come! You've given the ultimate mercy before.” “When a sister begged for it. Kestrel will never do that.” “When he's bleeding and violated by steel, he will,” said Maeve brutally. “I won't do that! I—Kestrel, run!” He shrugged, feeling cold with horror. “Where would I go, love? This is a place of women. And your beloved Mercies will hurt you if I try to run.” He caught Maeve's eye. “Right?” She nodded. “Go,” she said to Artemis. “I'll follow with him.” Kestrel sensed she wanted to talk to him; wanted, perhaps, to ask for absolution, but he felt there was nothing left to say. She might not be the prime mover in whatever hideousness was coming, but she was allowing it to happen. She had used him to gain experience, and now she was letting Artemis face condemnation for almost the same experience. “I have done what I could,” she said. 299

Lark Westerly “Arranged for a shuttle to take us away?” “No. If Artemis—” She swallowed. “If Artemis punishes you according to tradition, then she will be free to live in the Sisterhood Village.” “Cleo will allow that?” “She says so.” “What of the baby?” he asked. “She said it could not be born here.” Maeve bit her lip. “It might be possible to have it fostered elsewhere.” “She'll have it killed,” said Kestrel. “Put down like me. What if Artemis refuses to harm me?” “Then she'll go back to the cell and stay there alone until she dies.” Maeve caught his arm and looked at him squarely. “No water, except for drinking. She must punish you. At least your pain will be soon ended.” He thought about what was coming. Artemis would never hurt him, but if the alternative was perpetual, degrading incarceration then she must be persuaded. “You could kill me now,” he said. “You have the narcotic Artemis uses.” “She must punish you herself.” “I pleasured you. You could punish me for that.” She was shaking her head, so Kestrel seized her arms. “What if I violate you now? Hard and fast? You could take her place and punish me.” She shook him off. “Stop it! You know what happens to Artemis if you touch one of us like this! No. You must make her punish you, and then beg her for the mercy. It will be over soon.” 300

Windsinger For him, perhaps. Not for Artemis. And how could he face a blade in his flesh or cold steel forced into his body? And how could she do it? He walked on, caught between cold rage and a creeping, filthy fear. “I could give you narcotic now,” said Maeve. “A triple dose to take the bite from the pain. But not too much. You have to be fit to fight back.” Kestrel drew himself up. He would not fight back, and he would stay clear-headed. He would die was as much dignity as he could. But his flesh crawled with the manner of it. He'd far rather face a horde of ravening Daemons. **** The training hall was large and airy, supplied with ropes and staffs and other training equipment. A padded chair with a bracket for the head and straps for wrists and ankles was used for diadem training. Artemis had told him the Mercies-elect suffered convulsions and violent headaches when they first put on the silver device and had to be restrained from harming themselves. There were several young women in white tunics and sandals in the hall, idle now, and conversing in a nervous fashion. Cleo was standing grimly before them, and as Kestrel entered with Maeve, she waved them into silence. An older woman was bent over some intricate work at a table. As Kestrel watched, he realized she 301

Lark Westerly was working on a diadem. Her face was set and angry. And then he saw Artemis. His love was clad in a tunic and sandals and, except for her silhouette, looked much as she had done when he had seen her first. The guards stood at her elbows, but she made no move to escape. She looked up as Kestrel entered, and the other young Mercies turned to stare as well. There were a few shocked titters at the sight of a naked male, but Kestrel ignored them. “Lilith?” said Cleo expectantly. “Have you dealt with that diadem?” “I have.” The older woman still looked angry. “But under protest, Dia. I am happy to repair these devices, but I've never had to disable one before.” “Is it disabled?” The woman stalked up to Cleo and set the ornament on her head. “Dead as a twelve-day corpse,” she said. “Agreed?” Cleo nodded. “Take it to her.” “What's the point? It's useless.” “She must act and punish as a Mercy. Let her be clad and accoutered as one.” “What if she turns the weapons on us?” “She won't,” said Cleo. “If she does, she knows what will happen next. Today the arrows are tipped with daemonic acid, and the guards will be standing behind her. No one sane will risk daemonic acid.” There was a sharp intake of breath around the hall and Kestrel, sickened, realized why the guards were 302

Windsinger armored in leathers. One drop, one scratch, one tiny accident and the ugly death would begin. “Up there,” said Cleo, indicating a raised dais beyond the padded chair. Kestrel hesitated, but one of guards nocked an arrow. He climbed the steps to the dais and stood with his legs apart and his arms folded. Naked he was, but he refused to cringe. Artemis was marched onto the dais as well. The guards took their places, and the stair was rolled away. There was a long, uneasy silence. Kestrel tried to go to Artemis, but one of the guards raised her bow. “This Mercy,” said Cleo to the assembly, “has been violated by the male. His guilt is obvious from his words and her condition. He came upon Artemis in a wild place and, by a ruse, carried her to a valley where her diadem could not focus to the Beacon. He then forced her down, dragged off her tunic and violated her repeatedly. “What is the penalty for violation of a woman?” “Gelding,” said one of the younger Mercies. “Or burning with a saber.” “There is more,” said Cleo. “The woman so despoiled was one of our sister Mercies. Once ruined, she is no longer able to address the Beacon, and so this male's actions have deprived our community, and the wider sisterhood of the worlds, of an active and effective Mercy. How many biddings will go unanswered because Artemis is lost to the Beacon? To 303

Lark Westerly replace her is time-consuming and by no means simple. Candidates are rare, and of every score of Mercies-elect, no more than two will ever learn to use the diadem. “And there is more. Artemis failed to defend herself effectively. When apprehended, this male had two scars, neither made by Mercy accoutrements. He has no burns, no arrow-pocks, and his member is unmarked by scars or brands. Maeve has verified this. “Artemis has not only failed to save herself, but also tried to conceal her violated status. No doubt she was shamed by her inadequate defense, but her deliberate falsity leaves us no choice but to punish her as well. “She has a choice. She may punish the male as she should have done before, and then live quietly in the Sisterhood Village. If she refuses, or fails, she will face perpetual imprisonment in an isocell.” She held up a short, thick steel rod, and an extravagantly curved knife. “These are the proper weapons of punishment. And this—” she picked up a polished staff— “is the weapon allowed to the male.” There was a silence, and then a low babble broke out. Artemis stood silently, her hair gleaming in the light and her eyes cast down. “Let the punishment begin,” said Cleo, and tossed the assortment of weapons onto the dais. Kestrel raised his head. “Why give me a weapon, Dia? You know I will never use it to harm Artemis.” “You will defend yourself,” said Cleo coldly. “Just as Artemis should have done before. Should you 304

Windsinger maim her or render her unconscious, her punishment will be lightened, since it will be obvious her defense could not have succeeded anyway. You will still be put down, but your end may be quicker.” Kestrel bit his lip. He glanced about, wondering if he could snatch Artemis and leap from the platform. But the guards had daemonic acid on their arrows and he knew they would be excellent shots. He could kill himself, but the staff he was allowed was not a suitable weapon for self-harm. Hurling himself from the dais would break a limb at worst. His gaze fell on the wicked knife, which Artemis had not yet touched. It was not a stabbing weapon, but he might use it to cut his throat. Artemis, he thought with longing. There was so much still to say. She was still standing passively, and the crowd was beginning to hiss and whisper. Cleo had a spot of red burning in each cheek. “Punish him!” she snapped. “If you do not, I will…” She jerked her hand in a gesture to the steps. “Bring him down,” she said to the guards. “Put him in the Diadem Chair and make sure the straps are tight. And bring me that gelding knife and the bar as well.” “No!” Artemis gave a choked moan of distress. “Then do what you must!” said Cleo. “And you— male—pick up that staff and defend yourself. You were willing enough to risk her weapons when you ruined her!” “Artemis.” Kestrel spoke too low for Cleo to hear. “You have to do this. I'm dead anyway, and better at 305

Lark Westerly your hands than hers. You will be doing us a favor.” “I can't.” Her voice was utterly despairing, but her eyes, when she looked at him, were bright and commanding. Please…He was not sure if he heard her voice, or if he had read her lips. He picked up the staff and spun it in his hand. It was not as well-weighted as his own windthorn staff, but it would do. “I could knock you out,” he said, stepping up as if to address an opponent. “She'll hurt you horribly if you do.” “Then cut my throat,” he said, low. “It will be over in an instant.” Her face was mutinous, and he said. “I love you so much. I would never have missed knowing you and loving you, even now.” He spun the staff again, feinting at Artemis, then struck her lightly on the forearm. “Kill me, please. It is better than what she will do.” “The curve is too narrow for your throat,” she said. She picked up the knife and showed him under guise of a feinting attack. “It's made for gelding, not killing.” “My wrist, then?” He struck her shoulder a solid buffet as she made a low sweep with the knife. “No.” Ducking under the staff, she snatched his rod with her left hand, bringing the knife into play with the right. The cut was shallow, but he recoiled as blood trickled down his thigh. He seized her arm and wrenched away the knife. “I love you so much,” he said. “Can you kill me with a blow of that bar? Behind the ear is best.” 306

Windsinger “It's hollow. Not heavy enough.” She twisted in his grasp. “Can you call up a wind? Distract them a bit?” He almost laughed. “I can't reap a wind in stillness. A small breeze is all I can do, if that.” “Do it!” she said tensely. “I have an idea. It probably won't work, but trust me?” “Always.” He thrust her away with a solid blow to the shoulder. Artemis struck him a chin punch that made him stagger, then disengaged and spun across towards the guards. She looked down at Cleo, her breast heaving and sweat pouring down her sides. “He won't fight, and I want to go for a knock-down. Can I use another weapon?” Cleo shook her head. “It must be done now.” “A bow,” said Artemis. “I can have it from a guard in an instant, and I have a right to use it, since it is properly a Mercy accoutrement.” She beckoned to the guard. “No bow!” snapped Cleo. “You are not to be trusted with distance weapons, Artemis. Geld him now.” “An arrow, then! That is something worse than gelding,” said Artemis. “When it's tipped with pure daemonic acid.”

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Chapter Twenty-Six Reaping the Wind.

A

rtemis held out her hand for an arrow, willing the guard to respond. “I can harm no one else with it from here,” she said. “Only him.” She spat on the dais. “He was fighting off Daemons when I first saw him,” she added. “He's asked to die without gelding. Let him go the way he would have done then.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Kestrel. He had raised his arms, and his eyes were closed. Beads of sweat stood on his face and she read in his posture the effort he was making. How could he sing down a wind, when there was none? It seemed impossible, but he had done it for her in the isocell. Her own face was clammy with perspiration, and her back had begun to ache. She jerked her hand a little, willing the guard to hand her an arrow. Suddenly, the woman did, holding it gingerly by the shaft in her gauntleted hand. “You should violate him with this,” she said. “Let him die while trying to tear out his guts.” 308

Windsinger “No…” Artemis thought the faint murmur came from Maeve. Better than any Mercy present, the medic would know the cost of what she proposed to do. Praying silently that Maeve would not try to stop her, Artemis took the arrow, feeling the faint stir of a breeze on her cheek. Kestrel's little brother was with her again. She held the arrow by the shaft and examined the hollowed point. A gleaming drop of acid winked at her. For a moment her spirit quailed. How could she take such an appalling risk? She could use it to kill herself, but that would not save Kestrel. Thoughts and hopes and dreads boiled in her mind. Her plan depended on so many faint perhapses. If it went wrong, she could never put things right. The breeze tossed her hair on her shoulders, molding the tunic against her burgeoning breasts. She felt the child move within her, and heard again Cleo's cold comment that it must never come to term on Alida. Her little son. Kestrel's child. Such a wellspring of tenderness flooded her that it spun away her doubts. She turned towards the Windsinger. He had dropped his arms and his hair was blown back from his brow. “Punish him now!” ordered Cleo, tiring of the delay. Artemis tightened her grip on the arrow and then advanced on Kestrel. If she was right, if their bond was as firm as he thought, if she made this fearful move and left no way back… She looked urgently 309

Lark Westerly into his eyes, and, drawing back her arm, she thrust the arrow home and pierced his thigh. He let the staff fall, and she saw him set his teeth. His face drained pale as the agony began. “Reap the wind!” she said urgently. “It isn't completely still—you have a breeze. Sing us down a whirlwind to blow us away!” Both shock and pain were screaming from his eyes, but from his distorted mouth there came not a shriek of pain, but a long, sustained musical note. Up spun the breeze in a flurry, sweeping the crowd in the hall. Hair blew into eyes, tunics strained and light objects began to patter across the floor. “Don't go down,” said Artemis urgently, holding Kestrel's eyes with hers. She raised her hands to her brow, where the diadem was inert. She knew it was disabled, but Lilith would have done as little damage as possible. Concentrating fiercely, she spun to address the Beacon, using the power of her mind to find the beam. The diadem helps to focus the waves, but the ability has to be there. Artemis knew she had the ability. More than anyone else. And Kestrel had it, too. Now she felt the Beacon, saw it streaming down the wind like a silver beam. Kestrel's wind was whirling into a tempest. She held out her hands to him and caught him in her arms as his legs gave way. “Jump!” she gasped. “Jump for our lives! We have to reach our valley!” The wind exploded through the hall and, clinging 310

Windsinger to her lover, Artemis sprang directly into the Beacon.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Lovewords.

T

hey landed, stumbling, in the darkened valley. The moon of Gale was showing a tiny rim of gold above the cliffs. Artemis overbalanced and fell with Kestrel into a painful heap. “Malediction!” she snapped, and disentangled herself. He groaned, and she knew she must somehow make this right. She hadn't bargained for darkness; hadn't bargained for total disorientation. Where the hex were they? And where the hex was… She steadied herself with an effort. Think, she commanded. Feel the right direction. Ask the wind. A light breeze wandered through the grass, and Artemis addressed it. “Blow me the leechmoss, please.” “Not like that.” Kestrel's voice was tight with pain. “You need to sing it down.” Artemis looked about. The breeze was sweet with the scent of bridal-fruit and flowers. “Yes, yes,” she 312

Windsinger said, but she needed bitterness. She could address a scientific Beacon, but could she address the natural, willful wind? She closed her eyes in terror at what she had done. And then she began to sing. The wind blew up in a frenzy, hurling twigs and leaves on its wings. Feathers and grass and a live, bewildered jewelbird poured across the valley. “Don't reap it, sing it!” gasped Kestrel, and then Artemis gave a glad shriek as a dry, familiar substance struck her bare leg. “Thank you!” she cried to the wind, and, heedless of the continuing tempest, she thrust the leechmoss pad against Kestrel's oozing wound. It grew sodden straight away, and she clutched his hand as it drew away the poison. After a while, Kestrel sighed with relief. “I do love you,” he said in an almost normal voice, “but why did you poison me?” “We had to get away.” “I assume your diadem's working after all?” She removed it. “No. It's dead as a Daemon at present.” “Then how… yes, yes,” he added in an aside to the wind. “I thank thee brother, and bid thee rest a while…” The hail of twigs ceased, and his attention came back to Artemis. “I thought you needed a diadem and a bidding to leave Alida?” “You do,” she said. She felt oddly lightheaded. “But I decided to bid myself. Why not? I am a sister, and a male was causing me pain. And the diadem is 313

Lark Westerly only a focus for alpha waves. With your wind behind us, I thought it might work. It threw us up at the Beacon just as I told it to.” “You never tell the wind. You have to ask it!” “I didn't have time for courtesies,” she snapped. “But why did you poison me?” he asked again. “Why not just do whatever you did instead of sticking me with the arrow?” “I had to make it matter enough to use the leechmoss as a point of reference. This valley is the only place beyond Alida that it grows. If it hadn't mattered enough, we could have been lost for good.” Her iron control was giving way, and she felt tears pour down her face. She was tired to death, but they were alive and Kestrel was being awkward. “Malediction!” she cried. “We've got to get that off you!” She fumbled for the leechmoss pad, which resisted her attempts at removal. Kestrel stilled her hands in his, then peeled the thing away and laid it aside. “Thank you,” he said, but by then she was sobbing. “You told me to kill you,” she wailed. “I didn't think you'd mind a bit of poison!” Kestrel's face was suddenly illuminated as a long finger of moonlight came arrowing down the valley. She saw through her tears that he was about to laugh. The love she felt for him was spilling over, but she could find no words that were strong enough to express it. And she couldn't bower him here and now. They were much too tired for that. She looked into his eyes and read the lovewords there. 314

Windsinger Artemis Windhover you are, and shall be forever. Yes, forever and ever, she told him, and then she rose unsteadily to her feet. “The wind says there is bridal fruit over there.” She offered him her hands. “Time to go, Windsinger.” “Time to go where?” “It is time to find a bower for tonight. This way, I think.” Slowly, they began to walk, limping a bit, with the wind of Gale gentle at their backs. “Kestrel—” “Artemis?” The words were soft in the silence. “Do you think our son will be able to sing the wind?”

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About the Author

L

ark Westerly lives in the island state of Tasmania, a place of wind and rivers, wild places and hidden delights. She enjoys walking over the hills, gardening, collecting china dogs, listening to music and wallowing decadently in a hot bath. Lark has been married for some years, and has two grown children. She writes under a variety of names, and lives in many worlds- most of which don't bear much resemblance to the 21st Century.