Wangaia by Gayle P. Nastasi (novel24 .txt) 📖

task of opening her eyes.

Yup, he was still there.

Gareth Dôn--she was certain it was him, after all, hadn't she created him?--bent over the iron cauldron that hung from a spit above a small cookfire. Casey had no doubt it was rabbit stew she smelled, and from the looks of her cat, who sat straight with whiskers quivering alongside the man, it was almost ready to eat. Gareth ladled a small amount onto a scrap of leather on the ground beside him.

"Careful now, small one, 'tis hot." His rich voice was precisely as Casey had always imagined it would be.

"Is there enough of that for me?" Her own voice, however, sounded hoarse and foreign, and her throat was sore.

He spun to face her. "Ah, I see you've finally decided to join us again. I am delighted. Are you in pain, does your head still hurt you?"

Casey reached up and felt her head. Her short strawberry hair was dry, and it caused her to realize that her clothing was as well. How long had she been out? She looked down at herself and jumped in surprise. Her clothing! She was dressed in a coarse gray tunic, girded at the waist with a broad belt that appeared to be made of horsehair. The dress was long, if she stood it would have reached her ankles, and ragged at the bottom. A peasant's frock. What had happened to her jeans and tee shirt?

"Where are my clothes?" She looked up sharply as Gareth Dôn approached, a wooden bowl filled with steaming stew in his hands.

"Why--on your back, young woman." He looked around the tent. "Had you other clothing, a pack, perhaps? I sincerely hoped that you were not robbed before I found you. Rascals abound in these parts. . . . "

"No, no, I guess not," she interrupted and accepted the food from him. "I'm just, well, a bit confused."

"That is understandable." He retrieved a second bowl of stew and returned to sit beside her. "I can find no wound, no bruising, but I think that you may have taken a blow to the head. You slept for several hours, and I was beginning to be concerned that you might not awake, although you seemed to be sleeping comfortably enough."

Casey took a mouthful of the stew. It was delicious. He had laced it with spices that gave it a hot tang which burned ever so slightly on the way down. There were wild roots and greens, and thick chunks of whitish meat. "Rabbit?" she asked, stirring through the bowl to examine the contents.

"Partridge," he answered, frowning slightly. "Are you sure you are not in pain?"

She looked up, brows raised. Rabbit stew was the Wangaia standard, and Gareth Dôn's favorite concoction. "Partridge?"

He nodded and scooped up a heaping mouthful. "Do you dislike partridge?" he muttered through the stew, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It's . . . it's very good." It was. She took another bite, wondering how the story had managed to take a turn she hadn't written. Her thoughts startled her. How could it possibly feel so normal, so natural, to be sitting here eating stew with Gareth Dôn in a tent beneath a rainstorm? This entire world didn't even exist!

"Gareth. . . " she began, hesitating, looking up at him cautiously.

His spoon halted abruptly just in front of his mouth. He pressed his lips together and scowled, lowering the utensil to his bowl. "How do you know me?"

Should she avoid the question? Beat around the bush? Or just plunge into it? Heck, what did she have to lose?

"I invented you."

"What manner of sorcery has confused your mind? Or are you simply mad?" He scooted backward, just out of her arm's reach, his face a clouded mask of distrust.

Casey took a deep breath. Okay, she'd gone this far. Get it all out at once. "My name is Casey Reese, I'm a writer, and I was about to turn off my computer because--"

"Computer?"

Her mouth hung open for a moment. His face was still half in scowl, but one brow was raised in doubtful curiosity. "Um, nevermind, that's not important. But I got hit by lightning. That's the last thing I remember till I woke up here in Wangaia, which I created--I said I was a writer, right?--and which doesn't really even exist." She took another deep breath and watched him, waiting for some sort of reaction.

He nodded. "Mad. That blow to the head must have been harder than I had thought. 'Tis a wonder I can find no bruise."

This wasn't going very well.

"Oookay. Let's try a slightly different approach."

One side of his full mouth curved upward in half an amused smile. The distrust and doubt still shadowed his features, but he seemed more comfortable dealing with madness than the thought of sorcery. Of course he did. Gareth Dôn hated sorcery in any form. It was through evil magic, after all, that Annur Rath had stolen his home and family from him. She would have to be careful. Find out where in the story she had landed, and see if there was any way to find her way back to her own world.

An odd thought sent shivers up and down her spine, and she placed her stew, barely touched, on the damp ground. Her own world. Would she ever get home? And for that matter, did she even want to?

"Are you ill?" He was watching her, the distrust fading, the caution moving aside for a hint of compassion.

God, but he was handsome. Casey sighed, the hopelessness of her situation nearly overwhelming her to tears. She'd always had a bit of a crush on Gareth, from the moment she'd really gotten into the first draft of the first novel. She'd written him as her dream-man, after all. The perfect hero, strong but vulnerable, fierce but tender, spurred on by driving anger and passion that flamed a woman's fantasies. So why not simply forget about her own world, stay here with him, write the story from within. After all, wasn't this the culmination of her dreams?

She swallowed hard. No, her dream was to be a successful writer. And even though she'd failed at that, she didn't belong here. Maybe she didn't belong anywhere.

He rose to his knees, leaned closer to her, and placed a hand, cool and solid, on her forehead. "There is no fever." He raised her chin, looked into her eyes. "Your gaze is steady--I do not believe you have broken your skull. Are you nauseous?"

"Yeah," she replied, forcing a hoarse whisper past the hopeless lump in her throat. "A little. But it's not from my head, it's from my heart."

"I do not understand."

She sighed and gave herself a shake. "It's, it's not important. I was just feeling sorry for myself, as usual."

Gareth looked at her, a soft and strange expression in his eyes. "Yes, I know how that feels. Some have much to be sorry for."

An odd feeling of resolution rose up her spine, and tingled at the back of her neck. Where else was there to go but forward? Here she was, stuck in her own story, and she suddenly had a strange sense of thankfulness that she'd decided to outline this one from start to finish before she began to write. She knew how the story turned out--knew each plot twist along the way. There was no way of knowing if following the story to its conclusion was going to help her get home--but what else could she do?

Zimmer, finished with his long and thorough post-partridge-
stew bath, rose suddenly and trotted to her. He climbed into her lap, placed his paws on her chest, and butted his forehead against her cheek.

She hugged him tight. "You think so, too, eh?"

"What does he think?" Gareth eyed her doubtfully, the certainty of her insanity clear in the glint of his gaze. He spoke softly, almost condescendingly, his head tilted to the side as if he were talking to a child.

Casey couldn't help a chuckle. "He thinks that you're a very good cook, and I guess I'll finish my stew now."

He smiled and reached over to stroke the cat. "I thank him. He's a pleasant companion--would that I had such to travel with me today, as I leave my home and lands."

Casey nearly choked on her stew. Leave? No, no, that wasn't right. She thought back on her story, tried to fit the current scene into the plot. Gareth was camped on the rise overlooking Caer Dôn, that she could see, and that must mean he'd just come from seeing Vatas and was about to try to steal into the castle and abscond with Annur Rath's crystals. What was he talking about, "leave his home and lands"? First the partridge, now this. Something was wrong.

"You, you can't leave Caer Dôn."

He glanced at her suspiciously. "What do you know of my plight? What stories have the peasants hereabouts been telling? I know you are not one of my . . . one of Caer Dôn's people, why have you come to this area?"

She had to think fast. At the moment he just thought she was insane--he seemed to be able to deal with that. If she let too much slip, though, he was liable to get suspicious of magical doings, and that would put him off. It had only been through sheer desparation that he'd agreed to try Vatas's suggestions after she'd forced a confrontation.

Okay, Vatas. Good. He'd been to see her, so she might be able to use that. "I'm a servant of Vatas," she began cautiously, "She sent me to help you."

"Who is Vatas?"

Casey stared. Who's Vatas? Only the mentor figure in this story! Only the one that helps you find the confidence you need to take on the sorceror Annur Rath! What do you mean who's Vatas? "I . . . um. Vatas, the Sorceress? Guardian of Wangaia?"

"I know no such person, and if you are in league with a Sorceress. . . . " His hand went to his dagger and his eyes turned to blazing blue ice.

"You don't know of Vatas?" She kept an eye on the dagger hand, and sank back to her haunches in the blankets and straw. "But everyone in Wangaia knows of Vatas. Most trust her--except of course for you. She was supposed to help you, she gave you three tasks that would help you gain control over the evil Annur Rath." His glare did not warm, but his jaw untensed ever so slightly, and a tiny spark of hope rose in Casey. "You really don't know