1

Rpiere—On the High Plains

Cheyna sat near the edge of the stark plateau. Before her, the desert floor spread out in waves of multi-hued sands. In daylight, it was a surging sea of restless color, but at night? At night the green-tinged light of Vradin, Rpiere’s moon, tamed the ever-changing kaleidoscope, turning it into a glittering midnight expanse that never failed to thrill her senses.

Tonight, however, a deep-seated unease made it impossible to enjoy the view. Lifting her head, she let the sting of the night wind whip the hood back, away from her face.

What was wrong with her? She’d wanted to be a healer since almost before she could walk. Even as a small child, the smell of herbs, the puzzle of diagnosis and cure, had fascinated her. With single-minded purpose, she’d pursued her goal.

Now she had it. A fact made sweeter and richer because it allowed her to repay, in part, her foster parents. Oh, not that they’d ever suggested repayment, far from it, but she knew the risk they’d taken in saving her when chaos engulfed her birthworld. It would have been more expedient, not to mention safer, to ignore the small, squalling human child as they raced for their ship.

Her life was going exactly as she’d planned it. So why did she feel—she searched for the right word—disturbed?

Lost in thought, Cheyna started as a distinctly feline head slid over her shoulder to rest against her cheek.

I thought this is where I might find you.

The thoughts stroking Cheyna’s mind were disapproving.

Do not scold, Mother. I kept a wary eye for predators. Cheyna pressed back, returning the greeting. She inhaled deeply, comforted by the feral, yet feminine scent.

Slia settled on her haunches, twining her tail around Cheyna’s waist in a familiar gesture. In the moonlight, her mottled fur took on the hue of aged bronze.

You always did have an affinity for the High Plains. The bright light of the full moon caught and gave an eerie green-gold glow to her mother’s sidelong glance. I blame your father for that.

Cheyna laughed. He says my senses are as sharp as a Raipierian’s.

But your teeth are not.

The banter was old and familiar, but the worry lacing her mother’s thoughts was not. Cheyna sobered. You didn’t come all the way up here to chastise me, did you?

No. We have need to speak.

The restlessness, the sense of disquiet plaguing Cheyna all evening coalesced into sudden, sure knowledge. You are sending me away.

Yes. You must return to Scimtar.

My place is here, on Rpiere. Her heart began thumping in her ears, too fast, too hard. If she no longer had Slia and Sbraithe, no longer had the Clan, she had nothing. Her birth parents were dead, killed in the Guild War that decimated her birthworld twenty-eight years ago.

Slia stared straight ahead. The Asegai Council has voted to task you with the recovery of the Crystal Sheathe. You are to retrieve it from the Agora naturpaths.

Cheyna reached for the pendant around her neck. But tonight not even the gentle psi waves emanating from the unusual stone could soothe her. She struggled to sound normal instead of as if solid ground had just collapsed beneath her feet. Once I have it, what does Council wish me to do with it?

Your answers lie in the Stronghold. Wind ruffled Slia’s thick fur, bringing with it a haunting hint of a desert flower. Overhead, the sound of huge wings beating the air sent smaller animals scurrying for their burrows.

Slia’s tail wrapped around Cheyna’s wrist, gripped hard. You must go. It is your duty.

Carefully, Cheyna unwrapped the tail from around her wrist and gained her feet. At the edge of the plateau she pulled the deep cowl of the burnoose over her head and stared out over the landscape that suddenly seemed desolate.

2

Scimtar

Flat on his belly at the top of the knoll, the stamp of mechanical feet reverberated through Drakthe, making his head pound and his bones ache. Little puffs of dust marked the progress of each steam-piston limb as the travel-train inched off the floor of the jungle and onto the winding trail that led right past him.

Drakthe grimaced. The multi-sectioned passenger trains reminded him of metallic insects as they crawled their way between cities.

He hated insects.

Drakthe raised the telescopic glasses and peered through them. He adjusted the right eyepiece a fraction and the travel-train jumped into minute focus. According to his source, his quarry was in one of the smaller, private berths.

He counted until he reached the seventeenth car. She’d damn well better be behind the mirrored surface of its one small window. Already this asinine plan had taken on the aspect of a farce, and he was in no mood for any more inconveniences.

Not that he’d been in a good mood when he set out from Culass. As he’d told Krethe, his employer, this whole notion was a crock of taiger shit. Arriving in Port Skabre only to discover his target had booked passage to Culass the day before, had only solidified his ill humor.

Drakthe lowered the glasses and rubbed his eyes as tiredness settled into his bones. The sun burned down, heating his tunic and the skin beneath, tempting him to sink into sleep for a few moments.

Behind him, hidden from view by a dip in the land, his taiger snorted and pawed the ground. Several feet further down the hill, a smaller female mount gave that odd, braying growl that was characteristic of a taiger call. Settle down, you two, or I’ll make you ride in the baggage car.

The snap of teeth sounded by Drakthe’s heels. He ignored it and lifted the glasses to his eyes again just as the first of the four engines lumbered over the rise.

Drakthe slid back until he could stand without being seen.

Cheyna shifted on the minuscule stretch of floor that comprised her cabin, trying to get comfortable so she could meditate. Almost from the moment she’d stepped foot on Scimtar, matters had gone awry.

Port Skabre, one of the few ports specifically adapted for Rapierian space ships, was also a key port for the human sailing ships. It was the reason her parents had chosen it as the bustling port would make it easier to slip into the stream of humanity without notice. They’d also drilled into her that she was to go directly to the first flower vendor’s stall outside the port’s gates. There she was to meet Lord LeCrier, the man with whom her parents had arranged a temporary trade-marriage.

Overwhelmed by the mass of humanity, all of them seeming to push and shove in an effort to get on with their business, she’d paid little attention when one man, a boy really, bumped into her. He mumbled an apology and hurried away. It wasn’t until she found the flower vendor stall that she discovered her purse gone and no Lord LeCrier.

Pure panic had hit her then. She was alone on a world and among a people no longer her own.

Reacting to Cheyna’s obvious distress, the flower seller had turned motherly. Despite Cheyna’s protests, she’d badgered her husband into taking Cheyna to a cousin’s inn. Cheyna had insisted on selling one of her healing crystals in order to pay for the room.

It’d hurt her heart to part with it, but until she could find LeCrier, she’d need something to live on.

Only one day turned into another, and then another without the first sign of Lord LeCrier. Finally, unable to wait any longer, she’d taken the last of her precious money and bought a ticket on the first travel-train traveling to Culass.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Cheyna’s head echoed the relentless rhythm of the train until she couldn’t think, couldn’t plan. She massaged her temples, desperately needing to center herself. Slowly, the incessant rumble and creak faded away, replaced by one inescapable fact—she needed a husband.

Isolated in the middle of a vast wasteland, the Stronghold was home to the naturpath guild, as well as a source of many of their medicines.

Only female traders were allowed entry.

Married female traders.

To get to the Agora without raising suspicions, she needed to pose as a trader and to pose as a trader, she needed a husband.

She needed the man her parents had arranged as her mate. A merchant master, he had the connections she required. The bargain was not unequal; he needed her to reestablish the lucrative trade route that’d been shut down since the naturpaths had abruptly cut all ties with the outside world.

Which brought her back to needing a husband. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the first clue as to how to go about getting one.

Saints, she missed Rpiere, wanted nothing more than to be back there, puttering with herbs in her beloved workshop. Or out on the windswept plateau as night fell with a shocking suddenness over the desert world.

Most of all, she wished—

A small sound, more sensed than heard over the noise of the travel-train. Cheyna shot to her feet, instinctively flowing into the fluid motions of Sai and Kai.

A quick impression of height and dark hair approaching in a rush. Balancing on one leg, she kicked out sideways. The intruder jerked his head back, and her heel brushed his jaw in a delicate kiss instead of the solid blow she’d intended.

Momentum carried her a step past him. Before she could swing back around in the cramped quarters, an arm slid around her throat and, with incredible swiftness, she was hauled back against a hard chest.

Don’t fight me. The words were whispered against her temple.

Cheyna didn’t waste her breath arguing, she opened her mouth to scream for a guard.

A shock of cold touched her neck, just below her ear, and sharp pain exploded in her skull.

3

Finally.

Hidden in the shadows of the small room, Drakthe watched the woman stir. Leave it to a house-daughter to screw up a plan. He rarely made mistakes and instinct told him this entire scheme was a mistake of colossal proportions. A tradewife was bad enough, but a prim naturpath from a proper house?

Just the thought left a sour taste in Drakthe’s mouth.

He glared at the woman on the low-slung pallet. She turned on her side, muttering. The flickering light of the fire caught in the unabashed red of her hair. Such a bold color, it tempted touch just to see if he’d singe his fingers.

May the Shade take your soul for taiger droppings.

At the unexpected curse, a small grin tugged at Drakthe’s mouth. Curious, he waited to see how she’d react when she realized she was bound.

She pushed herself halfway up. There she hovered, eyes closed and breathing in small, quick pants. He’d been stunned before and knew she was fighting the nausea induced by the wicked aftereffect of the baton.

She sat the rest of the way up, curled her legs to one side as she settled her back against the wall. She tugged at her burnoose, attempting to release the fold of the rich material trapped beneath her thigh. Hands on the cloak, she froze, her spine going rigid.

He found the myriad expressions—surprise, bewilderment, disbelief—flashing across her face, fascinating. She lifted her wrists, staring at them. A wave of color swept up her face, warming the ivory skin, before her jaw firmed. He grimaced.

Not that he feared a house-daughter’s temper, he could brush it off the way one would a pesky sandfly, but the inescapable truth was he needed her.

Stunning and kidnapping the woman whose cooperation he required wasn’t his most brilliant move. A house-daughter needed to be treated with deference and care or they made life intolerable.

Too late now. All he could do was go forward or risk losing everything he wanted.

He stepped out of the shadows.

Her head whipped around in his direction. We had a contract. I should have known better than to trust a merchant master.

He opened his saddle pack and began rooting inside it. Then why agree to bond with one?

Silence met his taunt. He turned, a small bottle of anodynes in his hand.

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

Had the stun baton actually damaged her? Drakthe crossed to her in the swift, soundless glide he’d perfected years ago and placed one hand on her shoulder. Beneath his palm, her bones felt no more substantial than a flitterbird’s. Are you unwell?

Her eyes snapped open. Am I unwell? Just because I was rendered unconscious, kidnaped, and trussed like an animal bound for market—she displayed delicate wrists connected by a thin strip of hide—why should I be unwell? She winced, her hands half-lifting toward her temples before she let them drop back into her lap.

Drakthe eased his hand under her hair, massaging the tense muscles he found there. I have some ‘dynes. They’ll reduce the discomfort. She shivered and moved from beneath his touch.

No, thank you.

Haughty, stubborn house-daughter. He hunkered down and, hand on the side of her neck, tipped her chin up with his thumb. You will swallow the ‘dynes. He met her stare, determined to win this battle. After a long, tense moment, she inclined her head in regal acceptance.

Opening the bottle, he shook out two tiny pills and held the orange tablets to her mouth. Her mouth parted and she held his gaze as warm, moist air heated his fingers right before her lips closed over the tips.

Jkael! Blood rushed through his veins in a hard, heavy beat. She kept lips, full and lush and not at all prim and proper, wrapped around his fingers. She didn’t look away as she curled the tip of her tongue around his fingers and slid the pills free.

He jerked his hand way, closing it into a fist on his thigh. Was she playing with him? If so, she was playing with fire. He was this close to shocking her out of her proper little skull.

She yawned, a dainty opening of her mouth that she covered with her hands. He narrowed his eyes in sudden suspicion. Let me see.

Dismay flitted through those blue eyes. What do you mean?

Open your hand. He caught her wrist when she went to hide it in her burnoose. He pulled it forward, squeezing until her fist uncurled, revealing the ‘dynes. An obstinate expression settled over her face as he once again held the pills to her lips.

Cheyna stared at the man crouched before her. He returned her gaze, his fingers remaining at her lips, just brushing them, as he waited with infinite patience for her compliance. A shiver feathered the ends of her nerves.

He looked nothing like she expected.

This man looked too hard, too rough to be of such a well-respected house.

And why in the name of the Saints had he kidnaped her instead of meeting her in Port Skabre as stipulated in the bonding contract?

The stories she’d read about traders, and merchant masters in particular, during the long weeks of travel between Rpiere and Scimtar, suddenly became very real.

Were the pills not an anodyne at all, but something to gain her agreement to changes in the contract?

Small needles of pain lanced into Cheyna’s head, making it impossible to reason through her situation. If only she had her medicines, but she’d packed them in a small case for travel. A case probably still on the travel-train. Regret spiked through her. Many of her herbs and medicines were irreplaceable as they were not native to Scimtar.

Without warning, his form undulated. Her stomach lurched. Cheyna squeezed her eyes shut, hoping desperately she wouldn’t vomit all over him.

A tap on her bottom lip startled her, making her flinch. She bit back a groan as another nausea-inducing shaft of pain shot through her head. Saints, even her eyebrows hurt. She cracked open an eyelid and glared. It was all his fault. If he had not used that, that thing on her, she would not feel as if a snake coiled around her head, squeezing.

He waited, solid and immovable. Hair black as Scimtarian volcanic ice was caught back in a plain, utilitarian tie. Sleek, heavy muscles and the breadth of his shoulders proclaimed him a man unafraid of work. But what riveted her attention was the intense gold of his eyes. Startling in the rough-hewn planes of his face, they reflected hard intelligence and an even harsher experience.

Dare she take a chance he was telling the truth?

More to the point, did she even care if he wasn’t??

No, she thought, shamed, she didn’t. She opened her mouth.

Within minutes, the pain in her head eased. Amazed at the quick efficacy, she started to ask for the ingredients, only to shut her mouth with a snap. This was not another healer. He was her captor.

Are you going to untie me or must I stay trussed like an animal? she asked as he turned away and grabbed a sleeprug. A part of her was appalled at the deterioration of her manners. Another, stronger, part wanted to crack his icy self-control. Wanted to see what lay behind the shuttered gaze.

Sbraithe would be disappointed.

First chance, she promised herself, she’d meditate and center her soul back in the Raipierian way of restraint.

Sleeprug dangling from one large hand, he regarded her. If I release you, will you give me your word not to attempt escape?

She shot him a disgusted glance. As if she had a choice. On the honor of the House of Flowing Water, I give my word. She fought down the guilty blush that threatened to heat her face. Technically, she was of the House of Flowing Water.

A cynical smile twisted his mouth. I want more than the promise of a house.

You question the honor of my house? Cheyna took the insult personally. It did not matter that she had never met any of the members of the house, the very fact they’d adopted her at Slia’s request meant she’d guard their honor as she would her own.

"House honor has been betrayed for less reason. I want you to pledge on your honor."

And how do you know I have any?

He smiled, a flash of white teeth that held true humor. The transformation was shocking. Oh, it did not make him handsome, nothing could totally erase the edge and experience from his features, but it made him compelling in a way that called to everything that was female in her. She swallowed, hoping he could not see his effect on her.

You’ll keep your word. He touched her cheek with the tip of a finger. It was like being touched by a sandeel. A current of electricity went through her, making her breasts tingle even though he had come nowhere near them.

I won’t have to chase you down, will I. It wasn’t a question.

Mutely, she shook her head. He untied her wrists. Picking up the sleeprug, he placed the soft fur around her shoulders. His hands lingered under her chin for a moment.

Cheyna rubbed her cheek against the cover, entranced by the soft, sensual sensation against her skin. A muffled sound caused her to look up. Her face went hot when she noticed her captor watching her unguarded movements. He turned away abruptly, leaving a strange, restless sensation in the pit of her stomach.

She forgot her embarrassment when he bedded down in front of the only door.

So much for trust. How in the world had Slia come to choose the House of Twin Traces and its contrary head? You did not answer my question.

What question was that?

Why kidnap me? Why not meet me in Port Skabre as arranged? I would have formalized the contract.

He turned his head in her direction. In the muted light of the fire, his eyes gleamed like ancient gold. "We don’t have a contract."

It took a full minute for the impact of his statement to sink in. When it did, Cheyna felt sick to her stomach. You are not Lord LeCrier.

No, he confirmed, an odd gentleness in his voice, I am not.

Fear skittered over her nerve endings. Maybe it was the fact pain no longer ruled her life, but the sheer recklessness of her assumption hit with a near physical impact.

The guards from the travel-train will search for me. Weak though the threat was, it was the best she could do as she breathed through a sense of acute vulnerability.

Not before the morn, when you fail to break fast.

She bit her lip. Actually, it might be days before anyone on the travel-train missed her. Afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing and exposing her mission, she’d kept mostly to her cubicle.

Someone may have seen you leave with me.

No.

His certainty irritated her. But, as much as she hated to admit it, he had reason for his confidence. The strike had been both swift and silent. Despite her exceptional hearing, he’d entered her cubicle on silent feet. If not for her training in Sai and Kai, a mental and physical discipline intrinsic to the Raipierian way of life, she would not have sensed him at all.

That meant rescue was out. At least from the travel-train. Which left Lord LeCrier. Once he realized she was missing, he’d search, she assured herself. They had a contract.

Almost immediately, doubt crept in. Would he? After all, he hadn’t bothered to show up in Port Skabre despite the proviso in the contract. Maybe he had decided that taking a chance on an unknown naturpath was just too risky.

Or, her gaze slid to her captor, had LeCrier’s mind been changed for him?

Seeing her kidnapper was asleep, Cheyna studied him openly. Even with those striking eyes closed, he still managed to appear formidable. His clothes were practical rather than stylish, the shirt designed for ease of movement, his breeches of supple silti hide. On his feet were a pair of unworked leather boots.

She squinted. In the flickering flames of the hearth, she could just make out a ridged scar running the entire width of the back of his right hand. Another scar snaked raggedly in the open throat of his shirt, only to disappear under its edge.

She shuddered, disturbed by the implicit violence behind the old wounds. Why had she not seen it before? The evidence was there in the way he moved, swift and without sound despite his size. As it was there in his aura of competence. Since arriving on Scimtar, she’d seen several such men—warriors.

Knowledge slammed into her; come morn, with or without her bound word, she would still have awakened here, his prisoner.

Shaken, Cheyna sought balance in the familiar demands of Sai and Kai, hoping to clear her mind so she could formulate a plan.

Crossing her legs, she stared at the glowing embers of the fire and listened to the even tenor of her breath as it echoed in her ears. She let her mind fill with images of Rpiere, images of a high, windswept desert, hauntingly beautiful under the verdant glow of Rpiere’s single moon; of the shrill mewling cry of a hunting bat, its delicate, furred wing rustling as it hovered on air currents and of the reptilian scurry of geekts retreating to the warmth of communal burrows…

The smell of yaupon tea and hearty saffron bread filled the small room. Drakthe inhaled deeply. Beat the hell out of his cooking. Rock-hard biscuits were more his style. But, not to look a gift taiger in the mouth... Do you always fix a meal for the man who kidnaps you?

Only when I’m hungry.

He poured a cup of tea and regarded her over the rim. She shifted, the first sign she wasn’t as at ease as she was trying to portray. He let the silence grow. As he expected, she broke first.

Do you intend to ransom me? she asked finally.

Drakthe saw the intelligence behind her blue eyes, the way she struggled to present a serene front. No. I intend to bond with you.

4

Cheyna retreated into ritual politeness, bowing her head and spreading her hands. I must decline the honor. Bonding with two men is illegal, and I am promised to Lord LeCrier. She was in the hands of a madman. How, in the names of the Saints, did one deal with the deranged?

One humored them, she decided.

Her captor sat back on his heels. Considering the fact you are at my mercy, your bond-promise with Lord LeCrier holds little significance, he pointed out with ruthless bluntness as he filled a second cup and held it out to her.

Although tea was the last thing on her mind, she thought it best to placate him. She took the mug, careful not to allow her fingers to touch his.

Why me? she asked, staring into the dark liquid, wishing it held the answers.

I could say it was because of your house.

She inclined her head. You could, but if you know of my house, you know it is waning. It is neither rich nor powerful enough to risk such an unorthodox bonding.

An odd glint came and went in his eyes. In a flash, Cheyna understood.

Not deranged at all, playing with her.

Her fingers tightened around the mug. Sometime during the night, she’d reached a few conclusions. The first of which was that, for some reason, he wanted her alive. The second, despite common sense which said she should be terrified of him, she wasn’t.

Deep in the third mental level of Sai and Kai, she’d had a lot of time to think. Three possibilities had come to mind: he intended to ransom her to LeCrier; he knew the Agorian naturpaths would deal with her and wanted to reopen the trade route himself; or somehow he’d found out she sought the Crystal Sheathe.

The first she’d ruled out, leaving the other two. According to her studies, Scimtarians were bound to their guild roles. If someone showed an aptitude for healing, they became a naturpath. In Scimtarian society, unlike Raipierian society, it was frowned upon and actively discouraged to step outside your chosen path. Something the Agora naturpaths had understood well when they conditioned the reopening of the trade route.

Given the demand to negotiate only with another naturpath, and given their refusal to deal with male traders directly, but only with married, female traders, she could understand his desire to bond with her. He obviously knew she was a naturpath willing to enter a trade marriage, but the Sheathe? That had her baffled.

How could he have learned of her true mission? Even Lord LeCrier hadn’t been told. He’d been led to believe hers a desperate house.

Her captor leaned forward and sliced off a thick chunk of bread using a two-edged dagger. Cheyna’s mouth watered and her stomach growled when he took a bite and chewed with deliberate thoroughness.

Okay, so it’s not your house, he said, before taking another large bite of bread.

Cheyna’s hand went to her belt, only to find the loop that held her eating knife empty. She looked up to see the small, sturdy utensil resting on his broad palm. She took it, resisting the impulse to lecture. You still haven’t answered my question. Why me?

Let’s cut to the chase. You want to contract a bond-of-trade and I want to reopen the trade route.

I have a contract.

Do you?

She paused, knife only halfway through the bread. Without stopping to consider, she stuck her left hand in the pocket of her burnoose. A sigh of relief escaped when she felt the