Duality

• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
•  Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• About the Author
  
• Look for these titles by Renee Wildes
  

Duality

Renee Wildes

Dedication

To Grandma Jeanne, who first called me a writer when I was six, and Grandma Marlene, who wore out those pom-poms cheering me on.

It takes a village. Whoever said that was right on. Thanks to the critters of Central WI Writers Group, especially Toni and Becky, who knew Dara before there was a scene, much less a book!

Thanks to my “hero” Todd, who picked up a lot of the slack so I could write with a full-time job, and my kids for keeping me grounded.

A very special thanks to my editor Linda for making this project all it could be, and to Anne for the gorgeous cover!

Chapter One

Rufus Quickblade hadn’t returned from warning the king.

Dara rose from her sleeping mat and slipped outside. Fiery Mount Aege towered above all, a silent menace in the northwest. An unnatural stillness hovered in the leaden dawn. No birds chirped from the bare branches of trees. No small animals scurried through the fallen leaves on the forest floor. She peered through cold, curling autumn fog, shivering as thunder rumbled closer. The clarion call of trumpets pierced the silence, followed by the shriek of a wounded charger.

Her stomach lurched.
That thunder’s not thunder at all
. Nor was it—thank the Lady Goddess—the Fyre Mountain. ’Twas the rolling charge of heavy cavalry. Dara closed her eyes and sense-cast toward the distant sound. The ground trembled under pounding hooves tearing up rain-softened sod. Weapons clashed. Blood red violence shimmered in the air. Men hacked at one another. Friends fell screaming beneath blades and arrows. Smelling bloodlust and fear, she sought the invaders’ heraldry.

Lady Goddess, show me
.

A black boar on a red background, the standard of Count Jalad of bordering Westmarche. She opened her eyes, returning to the here and now. “Rufus was right about the Boars’ invasion.”

With much to do and little time for the doing, she ran back in and changed into her woodsman’s disguise and a hat to hide her hair. Dara grabbed her medicine bags and strapped on her knives. She wouldn’t face the killing grounds unarmed.

Getting caught by the other side didn’t bear thinking. She knew the tales. Should the worst happen and she be captured by Westmarche Boars, she’d slit her own throat in a last act of defiance, afore they got a chance to rape or torture her.

Death afore dishonor.

Outside, she slipped through the swirling mists. Dark death energies crawled over her skin. The closer to the battle she drew, the stronger the sensation. She tasted the coppery tang of blood on the air, heard the groans of the fallen and the yells of those desperate to avoid similar fates. A riderless charger careened past her, an arrow half-buried in the cantle of its blood splashed saddle.

Dara slowed, cautious. Step, pause, search for sound or scent and step again.

She cursed fate. Women weren’t permitted warrior training in Arcadia, were punished if they expressed the desire to do so. But countrymen and neighbors were dying and she wanted to do some punishing of her own. Rage boiled a red haze over her eyes, obscuring her vision. A battle lust Rufus had despaired of ever teaching her to control.

“Clear mind, still heart, clear eye, steady hand,” the aging warrior had intoned during their secret training sessions. Over and over, for years, until she’d screamed at her adoptive father to stop. Then he’d demonstrated the technique by pounding her into the dust. But try as she might, she couldn’t slip into battle-trance. She just wanted to slash and tear.

Dara focused on wavering forms of tree trunks in the veiling fog until her physical sight cleared. Her mind stripped away the fury, and she sense-cast again for blood-still-living. Waiting until the battle shifted farther westward, moving away from her and thus making it safe to emerge from the shelter of the tree line, she prayed to find survivors.
Lady, show me where to go
.

Stepping onto the battlefield, she almost tripped over a young axeman crawling toward her with a crushed leg. King Hengist’s golden eagle, on a shredded midnight blue background, covered his torso and marked him as a friend. “I’m a healer. I’m no enemy of Riverhead, I swear by Queen Moira. Let me help.”

He looked up from the mud with eyes full of pain. “Aron, son of Gavin-Baker, from White Pines.”

The neighboring hamlet, an hour’s brisk walk from Safehold Keep. “What did this?” She sliced material from mangled flesh.

“Mace. Would’ve finished me if that blond foreigner hadn’t ridden into him. Saved me life—”

“Ssh,” Dara soothed, frowning at the jagged shards of bone sticking out through the torn flesh. With rest and proper care, he’d mend to dance at the next village wedding. “I can splint it, and ’twill heal, but ’twill hurt to do so.”

“Worse’n this?” He clenched his jaw. “Do what ye must.”

She closed her eyes and held her hands alongside the gaping wound, seeing in her mind how and where the bone had shattered. Outright healing would take too much. She must conserve her strength. Who knew how many she’d be called on to aid? She opened her eyes and looked into his. “You must sleep for this. I’ve dreamwine. Tastes awful, but ’twill relax the muscles for me to work.”

He shuddered, then nodded. “Ye’re right. Give it o’er.” He took two large swallows from the wineskin, grimacing as he handed it back. Within minutes his eyes glazed over and closed as he went limp.

Dara felt the muscles slacken. Without anyone to aid her in a job that took two strong men, she thanked the Goddess for a natural strength beyond that of most men as she pulled Aron’s lower leg into position. His memory of her aid would be dreamwine-addled when he awoke.

She wrapped his leg in linen strips and wooden bracing “borrowed” from the shafts of some nearby arrows that had missed living targets, then sewed the hideous wound closed with layers of botsi silk thread. She painted the leg with twice-boiled tea made from crushed relag root to keep the wound from going putrid and padded it with wool and more linen bandaging.

“Rest easy ’til friends take you home.” She made a sign of blessing over him. “Lady, guard him from Jalad’s Boars.”

She followed the wounded boy’s blood trail farther into the battlefield. So many bodies sprawled on the spongy ground.

“Help me.” A stout man with a bristling grey beard raised a hand to her. His boiled-leather Eagle breastplate was impaled by two long black arrows. His round wooden shield lay cracked in two.

Heart lurching, she was aside him in an instant. “Conn-Blacksmith, did you not remember to duck?” She brushed the hair from his forehead.

“Nay, but I took th’ bastard with me.” He gestured toward the bloodied corpse of a giant Boar, crumpled in a heap a few yards away.

“You’ll not be going the same way.”

He frowned at her appearance. “’Tis dangerous. Hide in Safehold.”

“I’m a disobedient child.” She closed her eyes and placed her fingertips on the arrow shafts. The leather had slowed their entry. Both had missed anything vital, but the barbs prevented easy removal. For anyone but her.

Lady, help me.
She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder for witnesses. She gathered energy from deep within for the forbidden magic.
Hold his mind in Your hand. Let him remember naught
. Dark fire crackled along the shafts. She imagined the arrowheads shrinking, smoothing out. Sweat broke out across her forehead from the effort, but she dare not lose focus. Finally she was done. Now they should pull out easily enough.

She swayed as she returned to the here and now. Behind her eyes, a headache began its inevitable and relentless buildup. “You’re lucky, Conn. They missed killing you.”

He blinked as if awakening from a nap. “Tula shall be glad not t’ be a widow.”

“Aye, though there’ll be enough of them.” She pulled out her dreamwine. “Take a sip or two.”

“Nay.” He stayed her hand. “I’d have all me wits out here. Boars may still be about.”

Dara frowned. He was as invincible as a hamstrung stag, but she’d honor his wishes. “Can you bear it?”

Conn clenched his jaw and nodded. “Get on with it.” He glared into her eyes as she eased the first shaft back. A vein throbbed in his temple, but his fierce gaze never wavered. They both took a deep breath afore the removal of the second.

He frowned at the now-blunted arrowheads. “Cheap armorers… Curse th’ Boars fer breathin’.” He groaned as she removed his breastplate and tunic and packed the wounds with shaved waxroot to stop the bleeding. Then she poured relag tea over them and wrapped the wounds with wool and linen.