Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
The weight of the decision Magnus laid out before her made it feel as though the dark stone walls of the bathing solar were closing in on her.
Lyla scooted off the couch and knelt in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames but finding no answers in the bright, yellow-white tongues licking across the logs or the glowing, red-orange coals.
“I take care of people back there,” she said without turning to look at him.
“There are many here who need ye more than ye could ever imagine, lass.” He joined her on the woolly rug, the origin of which she’d rather not think about. “And I am not simply referring to myself—although, my need for ye grows stronger the longer I am in yer presence.”
“The people I take care of could lose their homes. Lose the chances I’ve made sure that they have. I give them safety. Security.”
“The beings here who await the song of the prophesied mate of the chief could lose their lives if ye refuse our bond and return to yer time.”
“Song?” She huffed a bitter laugh and patted her chest. “This is my voice. It is not temporary. I will never sound any better than I do right now. Songs are no longer in my repertoire.” And a prophesied mate?
Really? She bowed her head and massaged her throbbing temples.
The not-so-subtle pounding was probably from lack of caffeine, and if she didn’t find whatever they used as a toilet here soon, there was going to be an embarrassing puddle on this rug.
“And how could a song save someone’s life? ”
“Surely, ye dinna doubt the healing magic of music?”
She couldn’t argue with that, but he sounded so literal. “I know music helps people, but you make it sound like it pulls them from death’s door here.”
“It does.”
“How?”
He rose to his feet, then leaned down and offered her his hand. “Join me in the waters, and I will show ye.”
If she stepped down into that warm water, her bladder would launch its contents and foul the pool. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she caught hold of his hand and stood. “Where can I”—she fidgeted from side to side—“where is the bathroom?”
Frowning, he cast a glance all around the room as if checking to make sure it was still there. “This is the bathing solar.”
Rubbing her forehead, she deflated with a heavy sigh, then looked up and locked eyes with him. There was nothing to do but say it. She might as well find out right now just how archaic this place was. “I need to pee in the worst way.”
He arched a brow and backed up a step. “How do ye pee in the worst way?”
“I need to pee really, really bad—as in—I am about to ruin your rug.”
Taking her by the shoulders, he gently turned her and pointed out a tall, foldable screen painted with an amazing fantasy scene of colorful dragons in flight that partitioned off one side of the room. “Behind that wall is the privy with everything ye need.”
“Thank you.” Scurrying across the warm stone floor, she rounded the screen, expecting a pile of leaves and a porcelain soup tureen to squat over.
Instead, she discovered a wide, box-like stone bench with a round wooden lid corking a hole in the center of its seat.
Interesting. She eased toward it as if the thing was a jack-in-the-box, fully wound and ready to pop.
Holding her breath, she removed the lid, set it on the floor, then risked looking down into the hole.
Total blackness stared up at her, and thankfully, an absence of smell.
A basket of what appeared to be fluffy wads of wool sat on the bench beside the hole, alongside another basket with small rolls of yellowed rags.
Were these choices meant as toilet paper?
An ingrained need to not behave like a rude guest, one taught to her early on, demanded she make sure.
“So, I pee in the hole in the box, and then use the puffballs to dry?”
“Aye.”
That, aye, didn’t sound like he’d finished his thought. She stood beside the box, waiting for whatever other information Magnus might think she needed. “Well?” She locked her knees together and wriggled back and forth, suffering with this relief so close yet still so far.
“How are they in yer time?” he finally asked. “The privies?”
“Nothing like this. They’re bowls of water with a seat on them, and we dry off or clean ourselves with small squares of paper on rolls—or wash with a bidet and dry off.
” When he didn’t comment, she decided to get on with the task.
They had more important things to talk about than toilets.
After relieving herself and making use of a fluff of wool, she placed the lid back over the hole, then turned and noticed a lightweight robe of linen hanging on a hook beside the screen.
Small as it was, it couldn’t possibly belong to Magnus, and for some strange reason, that irritated her to no end.
Who else had he brought to this bathing solar?
“Someone left a robe back here. May I borrow it?”
“It is yers, lass.” The sound of his heavy sigh echoed through the cave-like room. “All that I have is yers.”
She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and pressed a fist to her aching heart.
“This is not possible,” she hissed under her breath.
This raging storm of emotions threatened to blow her to bits if she didn’t fight the impossibilities of all that had happened.
None of this could be…Could be what? Real?
What about the way his clothes materialized on his body?
That had been real enough. She’d seen it with her own eyes.
But all that she felt toward him? Aside from the very plausible confusion, how could any of those feelings, those achy, needy, oh-my-gosh-he’s-the-one-I’ve-been-looking-for feelings be real?
She shook her head. No, it could not be, and that was that.
“Lyla?”
“Coming.” She shrugged on the robe and tightened the belt around her. Strangely enough, it fit perfectly. Emerging from behind the screen with her hands fisted at her waist, she tried to smile but failed. “Now, then. I believe you were going to show me who needs the healing of my music the most?”
“Aye,” he said with disturbing seriousness. He held out his hand. “Join me in the waters where all will be revealed.”
Okay. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked the sound of that.
Sliding her hand into his, she tensed at the immediate jolt, the instant connection, the eerie sense of all the little chaotic bits of her life finally falling into place.
The powerful sensation strengthened each time they touched and had become painfully impossible to ignore.
He led her to the edge of the nearest pool, then halted, staring down at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.
“I wish I could read you as easily as you read me.”
He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye do not.” Once again, his clothing disappeared, but he still didn’t move. “Remove yer robe, please. The cleansing waters are for our bodies only.”
After a deep breath, she forced away her self-consciousness, untied the garment, and tossed it aside.
Magnus appeared to sense her embarrassment and averted his gaze as he led her down the steps into the warmth of the water.
Once they reached a point where the eerily soothing pool barely covered her breasts, with her hand still tightly clutched in his, he stopped.
“Do ye recall what I told ye about the mark of a chief, and how I received it?”
She barely shook her head. He had told her so many things that she suffered from information overload. Then, just as suddenly, it came to her. “Your soul’s brethren. Your spiritual twin did it.”
“Aye.” Scowling down at the water’s surface, he passed his free hand across it.
A dark bank of lightning-filled storm clouds appeared, angrily boiling across the land in a wall that dared anyone to challenge it.
“A sickness currently rages through the Realm. Foisted upon us by the vile Kcirred from his stronghold.” He nodded at the image.
“There in Thornpitch. Nothing we have tried stops the suffering it brings or cures those struck down by it. When our spiritual brethren fall ill and pass into the never-ending sleep, then we are rendered weak and cannot heal from anything that strikes us. With that vulnerability, many of humankind choose to join their soul kindred in the slumber tombs, finding it too difficult to face life without the one they have never been without.”
She found his reference to humankind odd but passed it off as Thirteenth Realm dialect.
“They die? Go to the tombs even if they have families? Spouses? Children?” Lyla understood how losing a cherished member of your family might make you wish you could die too, but what about the other people you loved?
If they’d found their soulmate, would they still seek death over living on with the one who supposedly made them whole?
She didn’t like it when he failed to answer.
“Magnus? What if they had a soulmate when their spirit brethren died? Would they still choose suicide over working through their grief and staying with their mate that completes them?”
“It is a verra complicated thing, my lady. Not merely grief, but a matter of becoming so vulnerable that they are ashamed to go on living—with or without their fated mate. Without their kindred, they would be unable to protect those they cherish the most. So, they might as well be dead.” He gazed into her eyes, the pain in them begging her to understand.
“Protecting those we cherish means everything to us. To be unable to do so is worse than being separated from them by death itself.”