The Portal 00 - Legacy of the Witch

“I…you…think I’m…”
    “More than the harem girls, more than anyone. So beautiful that
I have not been able to stop thinking of you. And I would have come to you
anyway, even if I did not have…dire news to share.”
    I blinked, torn between wanting to know what this dire news was
and wanting to pursue the topic of his apparent fascination with me.
    Responsibility first. Always. Duty to those I served was my
only reason for being. This I had been taught from the very cradle. And now that
I was slave girl to the slave girls, I was willing—even eager—to serve them.
    “What is this dire news, Harmon?”
    He lowered his head. “There’s talk in the ranks. It’s been
suggested that your beloved Lilia has been unfaithful to the king—with one of
his soldiers, no less.”
    My hand flew to my lips and my eyes widened, for I knew it to
be absolutely true. I had to warn her! I turned toward the pool’s edge, but
Harmon stopped me with a hand on my arm.
    “There’s more,” he said.
    I turned to face him, tears already burning in my eyes. “Hurry,
then. I must warn Lilia before it’s too late.”
    “It might already be, Amarrah. I came as soon as I could,
but—”
    “Just tell me. What else is there to know?”
    He took a deep breath, nodded resignedly. “It’s been whispered
that they are witches—Lilia and her two sisters, as well. The high priest has
been told. This harem is a very dangerous place for you now, Amarrah. I want you
to leave with me—tonight. I’ll find a way to hide you, to disguise you, until
this has all been forgotten.”
    I went very still, tipping my head to one side, staring at his
beautiful dark eyes, thick lashes, dark skin. “You would do that for me? Risk
your father’s wrath—and the king’s—along with your future?”
    He held my eyes, said nothing, just nodded.
    “Why?” I asked him.
    And then his gaze lowered. “Because you have somehow burrowed
your way into my heart, and I cannot get you out. So please come with me,
Amarrah.”
    Tears burned, and my throat squeezed so tightly I could barely
force words through. “I can leap that wall as easily as you, my beloved soldier
boy. But I cannot leave this place until I have warned my friends. They’ve been
so good to me. I owe them that.”
    “They would not do the same for you.”
    “I think they would.”
    He held my eyes, then finally nodded. “You have more honor than
any man in the king’s guard. More courage, too. No wonder I love you.” And then
he clasped my head in his hands, pulled me close and kissed me.
    It was my first kiss. And I heard a whisper inside my mind, a
vow. I will never forget this moment, this feeling, not
even if I live a thousand thousand lifetimes.
    And I didn’t.
    * * *
    “Amarrah, are you all right?”
    I blinked up at him, and for just a moment his face swam in
front of my eyes. In that odd, surreal, timeless instant, I was the little girl
from that…that vision or hallucination…and he was the boy. My young hero.
Harmon, son of Brock. All grown up.
    Such a feeling of déjà vu washed over me that I was momentarily
dizzy as I stared at him and leaned in closer, my eyes falling closed, awaiting
his kiss.
    He leaned in, too, his lips moving so close to mine that I felt
his breath, warm and unsteady. Then he seemed to pause, and he straightened away
again.
    I opened my eyes, and bit by bit the puzzle pieces of the here
and now fit back into place. When I looked into his eyes, I saw the confusion
there. He’d almost kissed me, and he was trying to figure out why.
    “Are they gone?” I asked, recalling the break-in, along with
all the rest. Why those men had been here. Why I was here myself.
    “Yeah, they took off.” He slid his arms under mine, helped me
to my feet, but having him holding me that closely made my heart begin to
hammer. This was too real.
    It’s a childhood fantasy. I spun it from
the strands of that story Gidaty was always telling me. It’s not
real.
    “Did they get the box?” I asked, nearly panicking at the
thought.
    He frowned at me.
    “They came for the box. The one that looks like a miniature
treasure chest, with the odd symbols painted on the bottom, and the old iron
lock.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that?”
    I looked at the floor. “They were asking me about it.”
    “I heard that part. I was coming up the stairs. They didn’t
describe it—not the way you just did.” He let go of my shoulders and took a