No fur covered the five fingers.
This body was human. She was free of the curse. But for how long?
“Darville?” Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she were coming down with a cold, or she hadn’t used it in a long time. She looked once more to the man at the fire.
“So you’re awake.” His tone was cold, matter-of-fact.
“Where are we?” She was hurt and puzzled by the distance of his reception. The last time they had been together they had shared the deepest intimacy. What had happened since then? Her memories were distorted and incomplete.
“The University. Jaylor’s and Brevelan’s suite. I’ve sent for a healer. Erda is with Brevelan now. The baby could be in trouble.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, Mikka stood from her straight-backed chair, careful to keep the dizzying disorientation at bay. She reached a hand to touch her lover’s back in mute sympathy.
He jerked away and stiffened.
“Darville, what is wrong? Why do you reject me?”
“A strange comment from you, Princess Rossemikka. This morning you ran away to a convent just to avoid marrying me.” He, too, stood and glared at her. His long body unfolded in awkward spasms. His anger was barely controlled. “Your actions have caused no end of trouble. King Simeon’s agents tried to kidnap you. Zolltarn of the Rovers took us all prisoner. His ransom is a seat on the Commune! And you dare ask what is wrong?”
“Darville, beloved, that was Rosie. This is me, Mikka,” she protested. Yesterday he could tell them apart. Why not now?
“No, you aren’t!” He grabbed her arm and roughly jerked her closer to the firelight. From a nearby table he fetched a polished metal mirror and shoved it in front of her face.
“Look at yourself, Princess,” he sneered. “Your hair is streaked white at the right . . . the right temple?” His jaw gaped open in bewilderment.
Mikka looked into the mirror as commanded. Certainly there was white streaked across her temple. But across her left temple, not the right, and it was no longer solid white, more like a dotted line of ivory, mixed with the brown and gold and auburn of her natural coloring.
“Rosse? Where is the cat, Darville?” Panic nudged at her self-control.
“The cat?”
“Where is she?” Mikka searched the room in vain for the little bundle of fur. No sign of her. She stretched her senses and listened for any sound out of the ordinary. In days gone by, Rosse was never far from her. “Kitty? Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” No answer.
“I haven’t seen any cat since the market square. You were both clearly identifiable there.”
Mikka turned her thoughts and awareness inward, seeking calm. She reeled and Darville caught her arm to steady her.
“Darville, I think we have a problem.”
“Another one?”
“I think that I am both Mikka and Rosse. The cat is still in this body with me.”
My princess is changing. She comes into season. Tonight, or tomorrow, she will be ready. The child she conceives will have the right to rule both Coronnan and Rossemeyer but only if Darville sires it.
This very night the marriage will take place. I have planted the idea into enough muddled heads that Darville will be forced to obey. Baamin is dying and can no longer interfere.
The coven’s plans must be played out.
“This is an outrage!” Kevin-Rosse paced in front of the throne dais in the small audience chamber. “Where have you been, Prince Darville, all day and half the night with Princess Rossemikka, without the benefit of a chaperone?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Darville muttered. He leaned his head into his hand, propped on the broad arm of the lesser throne, to the right of the dragon throne. The Council still hadn’t granted him permission to assume the official throne or the Coraurlia, the glass crown. He tried to appear interested in the furor that was raging around himself and the princess who was seated on a small chair just below him on the main floor of the room. He kept listening for the sound of footsteps behind him, for the messenger who would bring him news of Brevelan and the baby.
This labor was taking forever.
And so was the ambassador’s hastily called conference. All of the Council, with all of their magicians, a larger than normal number of guards, courtiers, and officials from both Coronnan and Rossemeyer had squeezed into this little room designed to hold perhaps twenty people.
So much for keeping his day’s adventures private. Janataea must have launched a loud protest at Rosie’s absence.
“More intercourse with magic!” Lord Marnak the Elder sprang forward with his accusation, only to wince at his choice of words.
A slight smile touched Mikka’s lips. At least Darville thought it was Mikka who was currently dominant. Half an hour ago she had scratched his face with those incredibly long fingernails, just because he had the audacity to touch her elbow when he escorted her back to her suite and her panic-stricken guardians. Those vivid parallel lines on his cheek were evidence that Rosie was ready to surge to the surface at any moment.
“You, Prince Darville, have sullied the reputation of our beloved princess.” Kevin-Rosse wheeled to point an accusatory finger at Darville.
Mikka choked back a protest, or was it a chuckle. They both knew that for the last two years, at least, she had been anything but beloved by her uncle and his officials.
“The marriage must take place immediately,” the ambassador continued.
“As soon as the banns have been posted,” Darville agreed. That would give him three weeks to find a way to separate Mikka from Rosie and get them both back into their appropriate bodies.
“Tonight!” Kevin-Rosse demanded.
“Such unseemly haste, my dear ambassador, will cause more gossip than a day’s adventures away from the palace. We will be married with all the appropriate pomp and ceremony as soon as the banns are posted.”
“Tomorrow at the latest,” Janataea demanded, stepping around Mikka’s chair to face Darville. “Gossip runs through this palace like a wildfire on the plateau. By midnight the entire capital will know that our princess has been compromised. If word reaches her uncle. . . .” She paused and looked at each of the Council members in turn. “Regent Rumbellesth will have every reason to assemble an invasion force to punish you.”
Heavy silence followed her pronouncement. So the threat was still there. Rumbellesth didn’t want an alliance, he wanted an excuse for war.
A few days ago, before Darville knew the truth about Mikka and her cat, he would have welcomed the opportunity for returning the princess to her native land, signing a new treaty with SeLenicca, and massing his own army on the borders.
Now he couldn’t do that. He loved Mikka too much. He looked forward to the day he would truly marry her—Mikka, not Rosie. How could he marry either while they both resided in the same body?
“Since you are all so concerned with gossip, why don’t we just all agree never to speak of this matter again,” Darville suggested. “The marriage will take place at the appropriate time and not a moment sooner—or later. When the banns have been posted.”
“The marriage will take place tomorrow at noon!” Lord Krej marched the full length of the room to stand before Darville and the ambassador. “As Lord Regent of Coronnan, I command it.”
“You aren’t regent now, Lord Krej. And you will never be king,” Darville growled.
“The Council backs me on this. Over half the army owes allegiance to me first, Coronnan second, and you not at all. You will not be king until you wed the Princess Rossemikka. My term of regency was voted to end on the day a new king is crowned. Refuse to wed her and you will be removed from the line of succession. Then I will be king. My troops will see to that.”
Darville rose in challenge to his cousin. His hand automatically reached for the dagger Zolltarn had restored to him.
“Excuse me, my lords.” Holmes cleared his throat behind Darville.
“The Lady Brevelan, Lord Krej’s ack
nowledged daughter, has just give birth to a son.” Holmes bowed his head in respect. “The baby is blond and promises to have golden eyes, sir,” he whispered so that only Darville and Krej could hear.
Chapter 24
Mikka pricked up her ears at the aide’s whispered words. There were advantages to retaining her cat senses. She heard every nuance of the last statement. The aide implied that Darville was the father of Brevelan’s baby.
Depression threatened to overwhelm her. She should have known. She had been with Darville and Brevelan and Jaylor on that long quest last spring. The three of them had been inseparable, supporting each other, thinking for each other much of the time. And she, Mica, had been only a cat, a cuddly comfort on cold nights or during a brief moment of solitude.
Her truly close companionship with Darville hadn’t come until Jaylor and Brevelan had retreated to the clearing. Mica had elected to stay with Darville, sensing he needed her more than Brevelan and Jaylor did.
Who needed her now?
Not Darville. He was still in love with Brevelan. She had never deluded herself into believing he would ever love anyone as completely as he did Brevelan. And now there was the baby to bind them closer.
Her brother, Rossemanuel, would achieve his crown soon. Perhaps he would make a place for her in his court. She was certain there would be no more marriage offers after she refused Darville. Not that she could ever marry anyone but Darville.
Mikka rose, cloaking herself with the regal bearing she’d been trained to since birth. Then she allowed Rosie’s fear of Darville to come forward and voice the opinion of both. And with the fear came a reason. Every time Rosie had encountered Darville, he smelled different. To her sense-oriented brain, this made him undefinable and therefore untrustworthy.
To complicate her limited perceptions, the smells Darville emitted were all associated with Rosie’s fears. On the barge there was the reek of magic. When she had gone to his office to apologize for her unwitting remark, he smelled of cat and she thought that cat was trying to kill her. Their next meeting was in the tunnels where he smelled of death after his brief battle with outlaws. Then, in the market square of Last Isle, he smelled of the river and a fear of drowning.
Mikka absorbed Rosie’s sensations and wrapped them around herself self-righteously.
“I refuse this marriage.” Her voice rang out across the crowded room. All of the buzzing speculation ceased. Every ear turned to her, cocked to make sure no syllable was missed.
“Your Highness! You can’t. The treaty has been signed. We gave our word,” Kevin-Rosse protested.
“Think, Rosie,” Janataea hissed at her. “For once in your life, think before you speak.” A tendril of compulsion followed the governess’ words.
Mikka jumped away from the magic probe. She hummed just beneath hearing level to make sure her slight magic protected her. She had learned much about magic in the year she had lived with Brevelan, and during the six moons when she had protected Darville. Janataea would never penetrate her defenses again.
Carefully, she illumined Janataea’s compulsion so that it was visible to everyone in the room, including the mundanes. Then, when the compulsion hit her invisible armor, it backlashed to the sender in a blaze of green light so deep in color it resembled a forest of Tambootie in deepest night. The nearly black light spread and engulfed Janataea in a prison of her own magic.
The acrid scent of burning Tambootie sizzled through the room.
“I renounce you, Janataea, for a witch of the highest order. You have kept me a prisoner of your magic and subject to your will for too long. This marriage was never my choice. I neither signed the treaty nor gave my word. So I also renounce the betrothal and will return to my home. The treaty is null and void.” Armor and dignity intact, Mikka glided down the length of the audience chamber, unhindered by the staring courtiers and guards.
“Stop right there, Princess Rossemikka!” Darville roared in his best parade ground tones. Lonely emptiness threatened to spread from the tight knot in his gut. He couldn’t bear to lose her again. Not like this.
Mikka stopped her dignified retreat from the room, but she didn’t turn to face him and her spine remained rigid.
“Compromise,” he whispered to himself. “This is no time for injured pride.” The presence of Rosie in Mikka’s body complicated matters, but he’d tolerate it to keep his precious Mikka.
He marched, as rapidly as he dared in the crowded room, to stand directly behind her. With this many Council members, magicians, and soldiers present, he might as well be acting with every eye in the kingdom on him.
“Mikka, please stay,” he pleaded. He’d learned long ago that orders slid over her without penetrating.
She didn’t move.
“Stargods, woman, look at me!” Darville swung her around to face him. Moisture brightened her eyes. Other than that, there was no trace of emotion on her beautiful face.
“I’ll not marry you. You don’t love me, and all your pretty words of devotion and affection were as smoke, to drift away in the slightest breeze.” A single tear teetered on the edge of her lashes.
Anger and desperation choked away the words that formed in Darville’s throat. He could only act. He pulled her close to his chest with harsh hands as his mouth descended to hers in punishing need.
Mikka fought him—or was it Rosie? He couldn’t be sure whose fists pounded his chest for release. Darville dug his fingers tighter into her shoulders, deepening his possessive kiss.
When he had drained her of response to the fierce plundering of her mouth, he lightened his hold. Gently, ever so gently, he allowed his tongue to caress her bruised and swollen lips, begging for entrance. Satisfying warmth melted his knees. She was so soft, so lovely. So very determined not to yield.
He nipped gently at the corner of her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears. “Don’t cry, Mikka. Allow yourself to love me.”
Her lips slowly parted as her fists unclenched and clung to him. He loosened his grip and slid his hands down her back in loving remembrance of their night together. Mikka reached to surround his neck with her arms, pressing her sweet body close to his, molding her curves to him. Strength returned to her grasp as she asserted her need for his love.
Darville clutched her tight against him, fearful lest Rosie take over and she run away again.
“I am never going to let you out of my sight again,” he murmured when they came up for air.
Around them, he was dimly aware of buzzing gossip and speculation.
“Does the treaty with Rossemeyer mean so much to you that you will force this marriage?” Mikka closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his chest. She wasn’t going to allow him to see her eyes, read her thoughts.
“You mean more to me than any treaty. I will marry you this night, even if the treaty is withdrawn and I find Coronnan plunged into war.” He lifted her chin with gentle fingers so that she could read his conviction in his eyes.
“But you are still in love with Brevelan. She has just had your son!” Mikka tried to protest. Her pupils started to contract into a vertical slit, but she mastered the impulse to allow Rosie dominance in this argument. Her eyes were clear and fully human before he spoke again.
“Brevelan will always command a special piece of my heart. But she has married another. I respect her choice.”
“Will your heart be here with me, or longing for the peace in her clearing, Darville?”
“I belong here. You can’t imagine how boring that clearing can be.” He quirked a knowing smile at her. “Or maybe you can.”
Mikka ducked her head a little to hide her smile of remembrance.
“We have shared so much, Mikka. Who else can know the humiliation, and the freedom, of being imprisoned in the body of an animal?” he whispered so that only she could hear. “Who else has the audacity to bat my nose away from a meal with unsheathed claws?”
Her hand came up to trace the angry scratches on his face. The sting faded beneath he
r touch.
“I love you, Mikka, stronger and deeper than I have ever loved before, or will again. I promise I will always be faithful to you.”
“And the child?”
“The report of one courtier who may be mistaken in his haste.” Darville didn’t dare say anything in this crowd about his suspicions of Holmes. The aide could still prove to be loyal and valuable. “Jaylor is the baby’s father. As long as you give me strong sons and beautiful daughters, I have no need to seek an heir elsewhere.”
“And if our children are weak and ugly?” A hint of her old mischief surfaced.
A smile tugged at Darville’s mouth, too. “With you for a mother, how could they be anything but perfect little princes and princesses?” He bent his head to seal their bargain with another kiss.
“Find a priest.” Darville finally addressed the crowd around them. “I agree to the wise decision of the Council.” He suppressed a mocking smile. “Within the hour I will be wed and crowned King of Coronnan!”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Andrall proclaimed and left the room before the order could be contradicted by Krej.
“What of the governess, Your Grace?” one of the magicians inquired. “By our laws she is a witch and must be punished.”
“By treaty she must be returned to her native land for judgment,” Kevin-Rosse protested. “You have no right to punish her.”
“Janataea,” Darville turned to face the struggling governess who stood within a circle of magicians. Her captors had thrown some kind of barrier around her as soon as the green backlash had dissipated. She fought the new prison with fists and spells. But each time she managed to weaken one magician’s portion of the barrier, another shored it up.
Teamwork. Not the joining and augmentation of dragon magic, just cooperation. That was the secret. If they could just continue to work together.
Lord Krej, Darville noted, stood back from the circle, arms crossed in an attitude of careful watching. The half grin on his face was too enigmatic to read during Darville’s fast survey.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 55
