As the night had faded and the fog rose, the cold had joined it until they were all chilled to the bone, especially those who’d been roused from sleep and were thinly dressed. Liliane had wrapped her cloak around young Gawain while Morgan offered his first to Kyri, clad only in the thin shift.
With a smile, she steered her horse closer and he saw she’d wrapped herself in her iridescent wings, nearly blending into the fog save for her gilded hair and aquamarine eyes.
Gods she was beautiful.
“Unless gravely wounded we suffer little from cold unless it’s particularly intense, nearly freezing. But I thank you for the offer. Oryan, however, could make more use of it.”
One look was enough to convince Morgan.
For all his strength, Oryan had pulled into himself, trying to keep his core warm. Morgan tossed his King the cloak.
Not that Oryan would have asked but, wearing nothing except the trousers he’d put on in haste, the cold mist had settled over his bare skin and now he was so cold his teeth were chattering.
Without demur, Oryan pulled it over himself, then huddled into the warmth left in it gratefully.
All of them watched the sky and the pale circle of the sun brightening through the fog as the heat slowly burned the mists off.
“Will we make it?” Oryan asked as Kyri glanced upward once again.
Her eyes went to him and then to Morgan. “It will be close.”
Running a hand down his horse’s neck to feel the sweat there, Morgan asked, “How long can the horses hold out at this pace?”
They’d been at a gallop or a canter for most of the night, more than most horses could have managed.
Her eyes met his steadily. “It will be close. We dare not push them harder.”
Morgan took a breath and nodded in understanding.
It was a delicate balance then.
Daylight glimmered ever more strongly through the mist.
Kyri fought the decision she must make and soon. She didn’t want to do it as there were consequences to tampering with the weather. To do so, she would also have to fight the sun. That went against her very nature and her gifts. It could be done, but not easily…and the magic required…
A Fairy dove through the clouds.
Galan.
“Ahead, turn slightly right,” he said.
Morgan had to admire Kyri’s command of her people and how well she used it. They’d been taking turns, the Fairy, in scouting the way ahead, giving each a chance to rest.
“Thank you, Galan,” she said with evident relief even as the Fairy arched, his wings taking him upward again.
A greater shadow loomed ahead and then they were among the trees, small ones at first, taller as the land sloped upward.
“Follow,” Kyri said, and gave her horse a little more of its head.
A tumble of boulders loomed to their right as thin sunlight pierced through the canopy of leaves above them.
This was the last of the wild country within the Kingdom. Although most of the Great Central Forest had been scouted to some extent, Morgan had never seen much need to penetrate more deeply into it. Nor had the thieves he’d been chasing at the time, few of them having the wood-skills necessary to traverse the depths of it. Only hunters and woodcutters traveled it now.
It was known to the Fairy, the dense woods and mountains were their lands by nature.
Her sunny hair streaming over her shoulders in a rippling flow, her wings folded neatly against her back beneath the thin shift, Kyri led them deep into the heart of the wood and into brilliant sunlight.
Light burst over her, turning her hair to molten gold, and where it touched her folded wings it dazzled the eyes.
A dozen Fairy awaited, both male and female, standing on the face of the cliff to each side of a small waterfall. Each was armed with sword and bow, all were dressed in some variation of the thin shift they all seemed to wear, some with loose trousers so the shift served as a tunic and some not.
Oryan and Morgan recognized Galan, Dorien and perhaps one or two others from Kyri’s entourage. The rest were strangers, new to them.
“My people await,” Kyri said, turning her horse to face them. “What would you, Oryan, Morgan?”
For a moment, Oryan almost hesitated but in the face of Kyri’s calm expectation he couldn’t.
Use us, she almost seemed to demand.
He couldn’t in good conscience and for the sake of his people refuse her.
“I need a messenger to go south to Gwenifer’s estates to warn them and to tell them that we’re coming.”
One of the newer Fairy opened her wings, her hair a cap of ebony curls, her dark eyes sparkling merrily.
“I know of it,” that one said and dove off the cliff, her seemingly diaphanous wings tinged with pink when the light caught them, feathers sparkling. Then she was gone, darting between the trees.
“You’ll have people watching?” Morgan asked.
With a nod and a smile, Kyri said. “They’re already in place.”
He’d never doubted it, he merely asked for verification. As she clearly knew.
Above them Fairy swooped down, some to poke in holes in the cliff face, before tossing down wrapped bundles to those who had preceded them below.
“What is this place, Kyri?” Oryan asked as they dismounted.
Liliane had Gawain cradled in her arms. Gawain was asleep. For that Oryan was grateful.
Looking around Kyri smiled a little and sighed.
“Once it was a Glade. Now we use it as an occasional refuge. Flying is tiring work, unless one has the skill and talent to ride the thermals, which is why you will never see a portly Fairy. Not all have that skill. And so this remains, a stopping-over point.”
There were memories here for her. Her wrists ached.
“What happened?” Oryan asked, “Why did you leave?”
She looked at him and smiled a little, a curve of her lips. “The forest was growing smaller.”
It was the first time Morgan had sensed a touch of sadness in her.
She had no need to explain, both Oryan and Morgan understood. Men needed wood for their fires and Fairy tended the forests. Conflict had been inevitable.
“Is anyone injured?” she asked. “We have Healers among us.”
Aside from small cuts and scrapes, neither Oryan nor Morgan had suffered any injury but there were one or two of Morgan’s people who had, especially those who’d defended the door.
“Galan,” she said, “will you see to them, please?”
Morgan saw a look pass between Kyriay and Galan as Oryan’s attention was taken by a Fairy gesturing him toward a small lean-to and bedroll. With a small shake of her head and another smile, Kyri sent the other Fairy on his way. Obediently – but clearly reluctantly – Galan nodded and went to the injured.
Frowning, Morgan watched as Kyri turned to glance over the clearing to assure herself that everyone was being cared for and then one of the Fairy touched Morgan’s arm lightly, distracting him, too.
A bedroll had been laid out for Morgan as well it appeared.
“There’s food, too, my Lord Marshal,” a Fairy said, with a gesture to a trestle table set to one side.
Already Morgan’s people gathered around it, wearily spooning bowls of peas porridge—a thick soup – and something much like oatmeal laced with raisins and nuts. His stomach rumbled at the scent of food. With a nod of thanks to the Fairy attending him, Morgan went to join his people, still watching Kyri.
Her people came and went looking for orders and the answer to questions.
Finished helping Morgan’s people, Galan hurried across the clearing, his expression determined, chiding, shaking his head in exasperation at his Queen.
Grinning wryly, Kyri sat on a rock, and turned a little as Galan neared.
Morgan caught his breath and then swore softly beneath it.
Blood stained the thin material of her shift on one side from her ribs to her hip and Morgan suddenly remembered the t
ear in it he’d seen when she’d landed on the parapet. He’d no doubt her rescue of him had only made that wound worse, as it was with the hand on that side that she’d caught him. She’d said nothing, made no outcry, nor had made any complaint on the journey.
At that instant, her aquamarine eyes met his across the breadth of the clearing. Her expression softened a little and she smiled, bowing her head a little in acknowledgment.
Seeing his look, Kyri didn’t regret what she’d done – especially as Galan’s healing eased some of the pain that had plagued her – it had been necessary.
Pain was something she feared they would all get used to soon enough.
She looked over her people, in her thoughts seeing those who were missing.
Grief and sorrow as well.
“What’s wrong?” Oryan asked as he followed Morgan’s gaze. He sighed, seeing the blood on Kyriay’s shift. “Damn.”
“My thought exactly,” Morgan agreed angrily.
Remembering Gwen with a sharp pang, Oryan said, pain in his voice, “We none of us will come out of this unscathed, I’m afraid.”
He looked to his son, nestled sleeping in the bedding the Fairy had provided.
With an effort he held back grief at the thought of Gawain’s mother, his own precious Gwen.
Oryan’s words were true enough. Morgan had faced that pain often enough on the part of his people, but for some reason it bothered him more where the Queen of the Fairy was concerned. It was a thing of men, War, not her folk.
A breath of magic touched Oryan and a dozen Fairy eyes turned to him as Kyri got hurriedly to her feet.
The sunlight around them seemed to brighten, to intensify, sparkling from the leaves of the trees high above them.
“Scrying?” he asked.
With a nod, Kyri answered, “There are ways to hide us from their sight for a time and we’re doing so.”
For a time.
That complicated things.
Oryan glanced at Morgan. His intention had been to either find some place defensible to gather his forces, to take refuge with one of his vassals perhaps, or in another Kingdom if necessary. If they could scry for him, though, that was impossible.
“Is there any way to stop it?” he asked, as she came across the glade toward him, accepting a bowl of the oatmeal from one of her people as she passed.
Slowly, Kyri shook her head. “I’m sorry, Oryan. There are ways to cloud it temporarily, but nothing permanent. We can’t change your blood.”
“This changes our plans, Morgan,” Oryan said. “A refuge is out.”
Morgan nodded. His heart sank but his resolution hardened. It would make things that much more difficult. A single retreat, somewhere in the mountains perhaps, would have given them a place to gather their forces. That was impossible now, if they could scry Oryan.
Squaring his shoulders he responded, “Haerold’s not making it easy but we shouldn’t expect he would. For now, we’ll keep on the move.”
It would mean no central base but that might actually be better for their purposes as there would be less chance of an assassin finding them.
Weariness dragged at him.
Seeing tiredness settle over Morgan and feeling it himself, Oryan waved it away. “Let’s sleep while we may. A few hours at least.”
Morgan nodded. “We’ll get on the move then. Talk about it when our heads are clear.”
They sought their bedrolls, gratefully.
As did Kyri.
Chapter Four
The sun shone brightly through the windows of Gwen’s small country estate, the blue sky nearly cloudless above them. It should have been a perfect day…the temperature was comfortable and the sky clear. Around the estate, the hills rolled green and lovely, stitched by the zigzagged gray lines of split rail fences. From the window, Oryan could watch the horses graze in those verdant fields. Gwenifer’s fields, Gwenifer’s horses. At least now they would go mounted on their own horses and so free the Fairy horses for the Fairy.
In the rooms around them came the sounds of clatter and busyness as the folk of the estate prepared for their departure. There had been a find, though, the great tent he’d used when he’d come south now and then to hunt in the hills and forests here. That was how he’d met Gwen, all those years ago, he’d been hunting. His heart twisted at the memory.
That tent would be shelter of a kind and, more importantly, portable.
Although some few had demurred, most of Gwenifer’s people had sworn to follow him into exile, even as they grieved for their mistress. As he did when he could. It was a constant ache, a burning pain around his heart. Everything here reminded him of her but he had no time for personal grief. Not yet. And there was more grief to come, as the missive in his hand proved…
“Messengers from Haerold went out to all my vassals within hours of the fall of the castle,” Oryan said, “demanding they surrender. Cavender folded almost immediately but both Dorset and Delaville have sworn to fight, or so they claim.”
Their own messengers had gone out on their journey here, Morgan trying to balance the loss of fighters against the need for more men and information reluctantly. More of Kyri’s people, had arrived to fill the gap until Morgan’s own people caught up.
Cavender should have been no surprise and yet Oryan still was.
He sighed.
Cavender’s lands were the closest to Haerold’s, so he was the most immediately at risk and he would have known Haerold well.
His brother was wasting no time securing his claim to the throne, such as it was. So long as Oryan and Gawain lived they threatened his hold on it.
They’d had no word as yet from the others, those who also owed fealty to him.
Haerold wouldn’t have attempted his coup without support from more than just his pet wizards. He’d gotten those men from somewhere, there had been too many to be no more than his own personal levies, Remagne and its surrounds couldn’t have raised so many as had struck Caernarvon. Oryan hadn’t been foolish enough to give his ambitious brother that much power. It had taken a sizable force to defeat the city and King’s Guard, though.
With no enemies on his borders, Oryan had kept no standing army save for Morgan’s Marshals, relying instead on the levies he could call from the various demesnes that owed him fealty – and save for the first years of his reign, there had been little need of them so that had sufficed.
As boys, Haerold had frequently expressed his resentment with their birth order and Oryan’s fitness to be king. With maturity he’d seemed to become resigned to his position, content with his own lands. There had been times, though, when Haerold had clearly disagreed with Oryan’s policies and hadn’t hesitated to say so, advocating much harsher, more draconian practices – tighter controls on the populace, higher taxes, more conscription and a firmer hand against everyone, not just criminals.
Yet neither Oryan nor Morgan had heard in the years since that Haerold had been so dissatisfied he would take up arms. Neither had seen this coming, and he knew Morgan was taking the responsibility for that onto his own shoulders. As was he, truth be told. Search his mind as he would, though, he could remember no overt sign of danger.
Oh, there had been tales that had drifted from Remagne, stories of Haerold and his wizards and what they did there. Some wizards had stayed, clearly of their own will, but there were rumors of others who hadn’t. It wasn’t enough for Morgan to take action, although he’d investigated.
Those missing were missing, but none could say that Haerold had aught to do with it. It had troubled them both but without more proof, there’d been little either of them could do. Within his own domain Haerold also practiced many of his harsher policies stringently, with the result Oryan had anticipated – no few fled and made their way into the rest of the Kingdom. That hadn’t eased the tension between the brothers.
There had been other problems, though, to take his and Morgan’s attentions away from Haerold, the city of Remagne and Harold’s lands around it.
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br /> Raiders had come down out of the North – by both land and sea – to bedevil those along their border there and that had required much of Morgan’s attention, drawing him away from Caernarvon often.
Those raiders had been no light threat, striking out of their lands to the north to lay waste to whole villages. They’d carried the unarmed women and children off, killing all the fighters. It had taken some time for Morgan to set up a patrols and a warning system along the northern coasts.
Oryan certainly couldn’t fault Morgan for failing to see what he himself hadn’t. After all, Haerold was his brother. Or half-brother.
What was done, though, was done. Now it remained to be seen whether he could take his throne back, how long it would take to do it and what it would cost in lives and coin.
“Of the two,” Morgan said, in response to his comment, “I would trust Dorset more.”
Oryan nodded. “I agree.”
A tallish gangly man with thinning brown hair, Phillip of Dorset was a good man, solid and dependable, devoted to his family and lands, where Delaville was a man of appetites, liking the finer things of life, his gold and silver, his satins and his fairy silks.
Pushing away from the desk, Oryan shoved to his feet to come around it. He looked at Gawain sitting in the window seat with a book. Gawain was a handsome boy, old enough to have been given his own sword. He and Gwenifer had presented it to him on his last birthday. That was lost now, too.
As difficult as it had been, he’d explained to Gawain that his mother was gone. How much Gawain actually accepted or understood that knowledge Oryan didn’t know.
The hunt for both father and son had begun in earnest. He had no doubt Haerold’s men were even now fanning out across the country looking for them, a contingent was surely on their way here soon. Painful memories hovered, but now wasn’t the time.
Haerold might have the Crown, but it wouldn’t be secure so long as Oryan and Gawain lived to threaten his hold on it.
Neither would be safe so long as Haerold had power.
Taking a breath, Oryan looked to pretty Kyriay where she stood by the other window, her wings tucked away beneath the loose silken shift her people wore – the magic of Fairy – so that, with her hair covering her ears and flowing down her back she looked much like one of his own people. Her finely featured face was uncharacteristically still, her large aquamarine eyes watchful and curious, waiting – unlike the merry, mischievous expression with which he was more familiar. Here then was the steel hidden beneath the silk, and what had made Kyriay Queen of her people. Each day that passed since his castle had fallen had made Oryan all the more grateful for such a staunch and able ally, in so unexpected a person and manner.
Song of the Fairy Queen Page 3
