Warrior's Lady Read Online Free

healing powers of the Maje, of being left alone to die slowly, immersed in never-ending darkness and pain.
    Fortunately, they did not play the Water Game often, for there was no way to hear his silent screams, and it was his screams that drove them on, that made the Games worthwhile.
    On this day, they had been even more enthusiastic than usual, their spirits high as they discussed the possibility of war with Aldane.
    The talk of war overrode their fascination with the sound of his cries and some of their blows were careless, striking places that were taboo, sometimes cutting deeper than usual, the sight of his blood less interesting than the prospect of shedding the blood of the Aldanites.
    Jarrett closed his eyes and prayed for war, knowing only something as urgent as war could bring an end to the Games, for the Gamesmen would all be called to fight. Strange, he thought, that only something as awful as war between Aldane and Fenduzia could deliver him from the horror in which he lived.
    They left him early that night, eager to go to the Hall and hear the latest news.
    Spread-eagled on the table, hooded and alone, he closed his eyes, waiting. Waiting for she who had no name.
    Hours passed. His wounds ached, throbbing to the beat of his heart. Had they forgotten to send for her? He tried to think of home, of his life before the Pavilion, but the pain was constant, robbing him of coherent thought. Where was she?
    When he had given up hope of her coming, he heard the heavy door slide open.
    “She?”
    “I am here.”
    His relief was almost painful. A sigh of gratitude whispered past his lips as she laid her hands upon him, healing his hurts, quelling his pain.
    “Something troubles you,” he remarked as she lifted her hand for the last time.
    She did not want to tell him the truth, but it was beyond her power to lie. “Yes.”
    “What is it?”
    “It is said that war with Aldane is imminent. Preparations are already being made.”
    Jarrett nodded. “Go on.”
    “The prisoners…”
    He felt the hard, cold hand of fear curl around his insides. “What about the prisoners?”
    “They are to be executed.”
    Of course, he thought, the Games had been outlawed eons ago. The Gamesmen couldn’t take a chance on having it known that they were still playing the Games, that prisoners were being held captive without the King’s knowledge for the entertainment of a small group of Rorke’s friends.
    “How many other prisoners are there?”
    “Eleven, as of last night.”
    Eleven other men, men he’d never seen, all living in the same hell. They had been culled from prisons in other provinces, men convicted of murder or treason, men without families, who would not be missed.
    “Do you heal them all?”
    “No. Only you. The others are left to die of their wounds if they are not strong enough to survive.”
    He pondered that for a moment, wondering why they had kept him alive so long. “How much longer…when will they end it?”
    “I do not know.”
    “What month is it?”
    “Fifth month.”
    Fifth month. The first month of spring.
    “There is to be one last Game,” she went on, unable to stay the words. “It will be held in the Great Arena. Lots have already been drawn.”
    “Who…?”
    “Siid. Gar. Thai.” She hesitated. “It is said the Minister of War himself will participate in the final Game.”
    Rorke. It was his worst nightmare come true. Freed from the need to be cautious or to give heed to the basic Rules of the Game, Rorke and the others would be able to use their knives and torches and whips in ways and places they had previously avoided in order to keep him alive.
    He fought down the terror that rose within him, threatening to send him over the brink into madness. The aloneness was heavy within him then, and he wished he could hold her hand for just a moment, feel the smoothness of her skin, the gentle warmth of her touch, not in healing, but in friendship.
    The thought had no sooner crossed his mind