Lord of Legends

“Curse,” he said. His frown became a scowl so intimidating that she was glad of the bars between them. A moment later nothing but bewilderment showed on his face. “I don’t remember.”

“Don’t remember what?” she asked very quietly.

He gave her a long, appraising look. “You do not know?”

“I’m afraid …” She tossed aside the temptation to equivocate. “I didn’t realize you were here until this morning.”

If it were possible to swoon from nothing more than a stare, she might have forgotten that she’d never fainted in her life. She had the feeling that he could have snapped the bars in two if he’d put his mind to it.

“Who am I?” he asked.

As if she could answer. But surely he must have realized from her previous questions that she was as ignorant as he was.

“I don’t know,” she said, drawing the chair closer to the cage. “I wish I could tell you.”

“Donnington,” he said. Without hatred, only a calm indifference.

She braced herself. “What about Donnington?”

Ash gestured at the cage around him. “He … did this.”

The validation of her worst supposition made her ill enough to wish that she could run from the room and empty her roiling stomach.

This isn’t the Middle Ages. People don’t imprison other people for no reason.

And Ash was deeply troubled, even dangerous. There was no telling what was real in his mind and what imaginary. Who could know that better than she?

But Nola had heard the rumors about a captive on the grounds. And he looks like Donnington’s twin.…

She sucked in her breath. “You believe that Donnington put you here,” she said, matching Ash’s emotionless tone. “Do you know why?”

His hair flew as he shook his head again, on the very edge of violence. One moment calm, the next raging. Sure signs of insanity.

There would be no logical answers from him. Only the bits and pieces she could glean from the most cautious exploration. She must put from her mind the enticing contours of his body, the intensity of his eyes, the hunger.

She bent abruptly to gather up the spoiled fruit and left just long enough to toss it into the shrubbery outside. Ash was clutching the bars when she returned, his face pressed against them.

“I will not leave you,” she said, knowing her promise was only a partial truth. “I am your friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated.

“I care what happens to you. I want to help you.”

Belatedly she remembered the bottle of water she’d brought and considered the basin Ash’s keeper had left just inside the cage. She would have to take the risk of filling it with fresh water.

She crept toward the cage, knelt and poked the bottle’s neck through the bars. Ash made no move toward her, and she managed to fill the basin halfway before it became too difficult to pour. She glanced at the towels that still hung over the back of the chair. Rising, she wetted one thoroughly, walked back to the cage and held the moist towel up for Ash’s inspection.

“Wash,” she said, demonstrating for him by bathing her hands and face.

He followed her every movement, his gaze finally settling, as always, on her eyes. “Wash,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “Wash.”

Her throat felt thick. “If I give this to you,” she said, “you must not touch me.”

He seemed to understand. When she extended the towel, he simply took it. No flesh touched flesh. But as he withdrew his hand, she saw something that made the squirming minnows in her middle seem like ravenous sharks.

His hands were burned. Red and black marks crossed his fingers and palms, stripes matching the bars he had so often grasped. There were similar stripes on his face. Even as she stared in horror, they began to diminish.

“Good God,” she whispered. Without hesitation, she seized his hand, wrapping it in the wet towel he still held. “How did you burn yourself?”

“Iron,” he said in a low voice.

“Iron? You mean the bars?” She touched one gingerly. They were cold, not hot.

“I don’t know how you did this,” she said tightly, “but your hands will need to be bandaged. And your face.” She looked up from her work. The brands across his jaw, cheeks and forehead were gone. She peeled the towel away from his hand. The marks were disappearing before her eyes.

She dropped his hand. It brushed the bar, and an angry red welt formed across his knuckles.

Astonished, Mariah took his hand again. The welts were nasty and raw, but they lasted no longer than she could murmur a prayer.

She raised her head. “Ash,” she said. “How is this possible?”

He seemed not to hear her. “Ash,” he repeated.

Her face felt as fiery as his vanished wounds. “You … don’t seem to remember your name.”

His fingers tightened on hers. “Ash is my name?”

“I …” She felt utterly foolish, befuddled, incapable of harboring a single rational thought. “For a while. If … if you approve.”

His head cocked in that way she found so oddly endearing. “Ash,” he said distinctly. “I … approve.”

Relief weakened her knees. “Very good,” she said faintly. “Have you any other injuries?”

“No injuries.”

She closed her eyes, grateful to be allowed a few moments to recover and focus again on the questions that must be answered.

“Ash,” she said, pushing everything else from her mind, “who else has come here? Who has been bringing you food and water?”

His black eyes seemed to gather all the lantern’s light. “The man,” he said.

“What man?”

Ash hunched his back, slinking about the cage in a perfect imitation of the stranger she’d seen skulking near the folly. “Who is he, Ash?”

“I do not know.”