Warrior's Lady by Amanda Ashley

again.
     
    She did not like the silence between them, but she didn’t know how to mend it. He had withdrawn from her in a way that made her feel lost and alone.
    In the days that followed, they rode from dawn ‘til dusk, pausing only to eat and rest the horses. He never touched her, either intentionally or by accident. He spread his blankets across the fire, ate his meals with his back toward her, making her feel as if she were unclean, a pariah.
    As the flatlands gave way to gently rolling hills and shallow valleys, she tried to tell herself it was for the best. Soon they would reach Majeulla. He would return to his own people and she would never see him again.
    For the best. For the best. The words became a litany, repeating in her mind as they traveled across the green-gold hills toward home.
    It was near dark several days later when they reached the Cyrus River. Beyond lay the rolling foothills and the Mountains of the Blue Mist.
    “We’ll spend the night here,” Jarrett said, indicating a quiet vale, “and cross in the morning.”
    Leyla nodded. Dismounting, she removed the saddlebags from behind the saddle and began to prepare Last Meal. She could feel Jarrett’s gaze on her back. Almost, she looked into his mind, wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling, now that their journey was near its end. Tomorrow they would start up the mountain. The following morning, she would be home again, back among her own people.
    The thought did not cheer her as it should have.
    They ate in silence, a horrible tension-filled silence that brought tears to her eyes. She yearned to touch him, to tell him that she cared for him, that she would never forget him, but she knew it would only make it harder to say goodbye when the time came.
    She wished he would look at her with affection just once more.
    She wished she could… The thought died unfinished as she felt Jarrett’s hand close over her mouth. When she tried to pull away, his hold tightened in warning.
    She heard it then, the faint sound of crackling leaves as something, or someone, crept toward them.
    “Drop your sword, rebel,” called a familiar voice, “or the Maje dies. My arrow will not miss at this range.”
    Jarrett swore under his breath. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard the approach of the intruders until it was too late.
    “Do as he says,” warned a second voice. “We will not ask again.”
    Leyla shook her head, knowing that surrender would mean Jarrett’s death.
    There was a sudden hiss as an arrow arched through the sky and pinned Leyla’s skirt to the ground. “That is my last warning, Rebel. Throw down your sword.”
    Jarrett drew a deep breath, then, with slow deliberation, he tossed his sword toward the voice in the trees.
    Leyla’s eyes widened in alarm as Gar limped out of the shadows. A moment later, Siid came striding toward them, a smug grin on his face.
    Stricken with guilt, she glanced up at Jarrett, silently pleading for his forgiveness, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the two men, and though his face was impassive, she could feel the tension radiating from him as he waited to see what they would do next.
    “So, Lord Jarrett, we meet again.” Gar made a mock bow of respect. “It was impolite of you to leave the party before the last course.”
    “My apologies,” Jarrett retorted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “But I did not wish to be the last course.”
    Siid’s smile was cruel as he rubbed his crippled right leg. “Your wishes are no longer important. We have one more Game to play and a comrade’s death to avenge.”
    Gar nodded. “The last Game will be played here, in the morning. And there will be no Maje to heal you this time, even if you survive.”
    Jarrett’s head came up with a jerk. “What do you mean?”
    With snakelike speed, Gar reached for Leyla and drew her to his side. “After tonight,” Gar said cryptically, “she will be powerless to help you or anyone