Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

spending freely, invoking lust?" The deep tones of the stranger resonated closer to the innkeeper, who, judging by his answer, had retreated to the far end of the bar.
    "I… I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Helv gasped out a startled squeak.
    The two voices were closer now, and an image came to my mind of a tall, imposing man grasping Helv's collar, lifting him to his toes. "Lord Alastair must believe that his consort has deserted him. I cannot kill the wastrel outright; the bond they share will shatter, freeing Loren's soul to seek revenge. But if my lord believes he's been thrown over, eventually he'll seek another mate – me. Once I've joined with the king, you can do whatever you like with the deposed one. Bleed him dry of all his power for all I care."
    "Whatever you do, you must keep him quiet a few days longer. Lord Alastair is close to giving up his search."
    I pulled silence around me like a blanket, willing the stranger not to sense my presence.
    "If you fail me again, it's more than the return of my coin I'll seek in recompense." A smidgeon of anger leaked past the newcomer's forced serenity.
    I peered out the window at a black stallion waiting in the lane. A cloaked figure strode purposefully outside, mounting the horse in one graceful move. His hood swept back, revealing pale skin and pointed ears. Something deep within my mind supplied a name: Rodin, my rival for Alastair's affections. How did I know that?
    Sitting in a corner, I watch dust swirling in light beams, cobbling together the pieces of my past. At noon a simple cup of broth finds its way just inside the door. I swill down the liquid in my hunger. Within moments my vision fuzzes, my limbs weaken, and I collapse onto the floor in an ungainly heap.
    I feel him inside my body, his bold thrust rocking me to my core. "Alastair," I sigh, wrapping my lover in my arms. Our lips seal in a heated kiss.
    Once more we lie in the circle of stones, celebrating our passion on a bed of soft clover. The scent of him fills me. Lust, yes, there's certainly lust and desire, but over it all is love. This man loves me, totally, completely, and unconditionally.
    I awake to the clear-headed knowledge that Rodin is wasting his time. Alastair will never stop searching for me, as long as he knows I'm alive. Recalling the bond Rodin mentioned, I withdraw inside myself, seeking the hidden connection. A tendril, much like the single strand of a spider's web, snakes out from my body, an invisible line that joins me to something. Quietly, so the innkeeper will not hear, I murmur the words my love used to seal our joining. That shimmering sensation occurs again, and I now know what I felt. The mystical curtain separating the world of man and elf had parted, allowing someone to pass through. Without doubt, a member of the search party. With all my strength, silently I declare, "I am here!"
    I saw him in my mind's eye: a hooded figure, and when he glanced up, scenting the wind, I stared into the face of my beloved. My heart stopped, and then started again, fluttering wildly in my chest.
    "Keep singing," the specter instructed. "Keep singing."
    Though addled by the drug the innkeeper gave, I sing, warbling silly childish songs, songs of harvest, songs celebrating the arrival of spring. I sing funeral dirges and, every now and then, I sing of love. Beneath my attic patrons come and go, but my melodies are no longer focused on separating man from coin. My notes draw a map across two realms, hopefully leading my lover to me.
    ****
    Worn out, I barely manage a sound. My eyelids are heavy. Supper arrives that I do not eat for fear of being drugged again.
    In the wee hours of morn, after the innkeeper has locked up, I drift off to sleep, disappointed. From somewhere in the inn a door crashed open.
    "Gods help us! They're here!" Freda screams.
    "Where is he?" a familiar voice bellows. "Where is the elf you keep hidden?" My heart leapt.
    "There is no elf here," Helv replies, voice quaking. I smell deceit.
    "You lie! His magic permeates the very walls. Now, where have you hidden him?"
    I drag myself to my feet, shouting, "I'm here!" but my strained voice comes out a mere whisper. Staggering to the door, I pound my fists against the wood uselessly, until bloody fist prints stain the heavy panel.
    The gurgling gasps of a dying man's last breath reach through the chaos, followed by the anguished screams of a woman. Heavy boots trod the stairs. "He's here, milord," a