Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

crowded attic, locking the door behind him. He's never done that before, and for a moment I panic, a vision of iron bars superimposed over the simple wooden door.
    A fierce, agonizing burn shoots through my wrists and ankles, and I peel up the leg of my breeches to find the skin red and raw, as it had been the day I'd arrived at the inn, cold, hungry, and unknowing of my name. Iron. My skin burns as if touched by iron, something that doesn't seem to bother the local folks.
    I shake my head and the vision disappears, as do the bars over the door. Sniffing the air for Helv's scent, I taste fear. Whether it be mine or the innkeeper's I cannot say.
    Choosing the song that'd lined the barmaid's pocket the previous night, I sing, though the normally lively ditty emerges sad and cumbersome. My heart simply isn't in it.
    The innkeeper doesn't let me out of my attic prison. Instead, the cook shoves through a chunk of bread and cheese, muttering, "I'm sorry." A few minutes later a sullen barmaid opens the door just wide enough to push a chamber pot through, quickly slamming the oaken panel behind her.
    In my sorrow and loneliness, I began to croon, while visions of myself in chains fill my mind. I drift off into a troubled sleep.
    In a meadow, amidst the ringed stones, two young men laugh and play. "I'll race you to the grandfather stone," a dark-haired lad with laughing eyes declares, pointing toward a chunk of granite far taller than the others. Together we bound toward our destination, our laughter riding on the wind.
    Legs much longer than mine pump steadily, and my opponent touches the sun-warmed surface of the rock mere moments before my own hand finds purchase.
    "You won," I mutter, "what prize do you claim?"
    His dark eyes lose their merriment, taking on a more serious gleam. "Something I've wanted for a long, long time," he whispers, his breath stroking my cheek.
    Wisps of downy hair grace his cheeks, a tell-tale sign of approaching manhood. Eyes wide, paralyzed by anticipation, I watch his face descend, his lips grazing mine, the kiss turning forceful as his tongue seeks entrance into my mouth. I part my lips and lose myself to the one who I've loved from my earliest memories.
    He pulls away, snaking a finger up the sweep of my ear, teasing the sensitive point. I mimic his actions, stopping at the trio of golden loops that adorn his lobe, marking his rank. "My lord," I breathe, suddenly afraid. "If anyone sees us…"
    "They won't," he assures me. "And when I am named king, none can speak against us." He kisses me again, and I let myself fall, into his eyes, into his arms, into his life.
    I wake trembling, as much from my revelations as from the cold. Removing the hat that the innkeeper insists I wear, I stroke one long, tapered ear. Freda is right. I am a foreigner, and somehow, someway I must find Alastair. While my memories are still fragmented, this I know for certain: he'd never let me go willingly. If I am here in this strange place, then my lover must be looking for me.
    ****
    Helv doesn't return to unlock the door, and I spend the day contemplating escape, for now I see that though I was granted some freedom, I'm a prisoner nonetheless. My senses are increasing, my hearing sharpening. Even the scuttling of bugs overhead in the thatched roof can't escape my suddenly keen ears. Smells assault my nose: roast chicken with a stuffing of rosemary and sage, mulled wine warming before the fire, and over it all, dark, palpable fright. Then that shimmering sensation again, and my own fear adds to the mix. I damp it down, for I know the one now standing on the doorstep can feel me, and senses that I'm here. He would kill me outright if he could.
    "I told you never to come in broad daylight," the innkeeper growls from below, his faux anger a mask for sheer terror. I could have told him that false bravado has no effect on his adversary.
    "You're not keeping your part of our bargain," a silken voice purrs, deceptively calm. Beneath that outer tranquility lurks panic, like a captured butterfly beating gossamer wings helplessly against an earthen jar.
    "I agreed to keep the lad hidden, which I've done." Guilt cloys the airs.
    "Yes, but you found a way to take advantage, did you not? Use the powers he doesn't even know he has?"
    Below me, the innkeeper stuttered a reply. "I… I didn't… He merely…"
    "You saw no harm in allowing an elven prince to sing to your silly cows? Or line your pockets by provoking your patrons into