The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [27]
On his left, leaves-deep, many-clustered, and green, with faint birdcalls in the distance. On his left, sky-blue and cloudless. Beneath him, soft earth with its damp smell of old leaves, decay, mushrooms, and little shoots-accompanied, somewhere under his spine, by a few very hard roots or rocks.
Hawkril groaned. His insides felt weak and empty, as if someone had slit him open and spilled all his strength away. It took three heaving, snarling attempts before he made it up onto one elbow, panting like a man who's run for miles, and looked around.
His rising had spilled the Stone onto the ground; he caught it out of habit before it could roll away, his eyes seeking but one thing: Embra.
The lady he was, gods help him, coming to love. More than his own skin, more than Craer's friendship, more than the beauties of Aglirta. For all her waspish tongue and unhesitating use of her sorcery to rule him… by the Three, but she was beautiful! When she looked at him-
She was staring at the sky right now, her unseeing eyes a cloudy gray. She lay on her back on the crest of the hill… She was lying very still. Sudden fear for her had Hawkril scooping up the Stone and trying to scramble up the hillside without even sparing time to frame an oath.
He fell on his face, the world going very dim around him. What was wrong with him?
Her magic. Her magic must have drained him as well as Craer and Sarasper. They were huddled on the hilltop too, as motionless as a couple of rocks, white and sweat-soaked faces staring at nothing.
Hawkril swallowed, set his teeth, and crawled up the hill, cradling the Stone awkwardly as he went. His arms felt like hollow things, bending like flower stalks, and he was shuddering. If she was dead…
He forced himself not to think of that, to dwell instead on the cursed pain each reaching and clawing motion brought him, each…
He'd reached her, he was looming over her now. She lay so still, not breathing, her eyes two burnt-out candles.
"Lady," he whispered, setting the Stone carefully on her breast. "Oh, lass, live!" Gently he drew one of her hands up to her throat, and curled its fingers around the stone, and then did the same with the other, not for the life of him knowing what he'd do if nothing happened.
A tiny white flicker of cold flame stirred around the Dwaer, seeming to rise from her throat beneath it. A throat that rippled as her breast slowly-oh, so slowly-began to rise and fall. Three be praised!
He held her hands cradled around the Stone, a strange creeping, prickling feeling stealing up his arms. "Oh, lass," he growled, "come back to me!"
Dark blue eyes flickered open and fastened on his. Tears welled up in them, her hands clung to his arms and a sudden shudder went through her, like a dog shaking itself, and then she was gasping, "Hawk!"
Her eyes drew him down. Hawkril's lips closed on hers before he quite thought about what he was doing. Their mouths met and melted together. Her tongue brushed his mouth in a caress, and she moaned under him. Moaned and then moved under him, eager-
–to throw him off. Hawkril's heart plunged as those slender hands shoved at him. As he sat back, world suddenly grim, he admitted it to himself; aye, he was smitten.
"Later," the Lady Embra gasped impatiently up into his forlorn face, shaking free of his grasp. "We're in danger here!"
"Lass?" he asked, looking wildly about and then back to where his sword stood.
"Help me," she hissed, climbing up him with fingers as hard as claws in her haste, until she was tottering on her feet, her pelvis against his head, clutching at his shoulders for support. "Get me to Sarasper," she moaned, trying to shake the armaragor.
She might have been the wind trying to shift a boulder, but after a moment he rose ponderously to his feet-and swayed.
Fear rose into her throat, both for him and for herself-if he fell on her and crushed her, who would come to her aid? What could save them all? Wh-
Strong