Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  There was a great deal of laughter.

  Unsurprisingly, it was Detrick who told the best story, a complicated tale whose conclusion had everyone roaring with laughter, Morgan and Kyri included. The man had a quick mind.

  A lute played softly, and someone sang a soft and lovely ballad.

  Some folks had already disappeared into the darkness, singly or in pairs.

  When Morgan looked, he noticed neither Detrick nor merry Gaia were anywhere to be seen.

  Caleb had already gone to his bedroll.

  Morgan sighed.

  As much as he wanted to ignore it, it was growing late.

  Reluctantly, Kyri had to consider leaving as much as a part of her wanted to stay. Duty called her.

  It was a long flight back to Oryan and an even longer ride, as she knew that Morgan knew. They both had responsibilities, but his were here.

  Hers were not.

  She tipped her head back to look up at Morgan.

  The firelight was soft on the strong features of his face. Those crystal blue eyes met hers.

  So light those eyes, so pale a blue, as bright as a Fairy’s wing.

  Gently, Morgan brushed her golden hair back from her shoulder as he’d always wanted to do, his fingers skimming over the satiny skin.

  “You have to leave,” he stated simply.

  She shrugged a little, helplessly.

  “I should,” she said with a sigh.

  Reluctantly, she sat up and pushed the rest of her hair back over her shoulders.

  Morgan got to his feet and offered her his hand.

  With a soft smile, she took it and he raised her to her feet.

  For a moment they were close, their bodies almost touched…

  If they’d been anywhere but here with so many watching…

  His fingers lightly brushing the back of her arm, Morgan escorted her into the darkness, to where the moonlight streamed through an opening between the trees. It was clear enough there for her to take flight.

  Kyri took a step, two, as her wings unfolded, before she looked back at Morgan.

  The moonlight lit his strong features and turned his eyes silver. Something within her caught at the sight of him.

  Even as Morgan tried to find the words, a reason to call her back, she paused and turned.

  She ran back quickly to press a soft, swift kiss to his mouth, her hands light on his chest, before she spun away once more. Her wings spread in one long stroke, then another, a third, lifting her from the earth. Halfway up she rolled to look back at him. Moonlight glimmered over her wings for only a second, a moment, a breath, before she completed the roll, dropping only a little before she swooped upward.

  Morgan could still feel her lips on his as she disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The great tent billowed over Oryan’s head, soughing softly as he bent over his desk to make notes. It was a soothing sound. The wind was picking up a little. It was likely to rain tonight. He looked up at it absently, smiling with distracted amusement. Once there had been a time when he wouldn’t have noticed a shift in the wind, much less known what it meant, but he was getting to know his Kingdom on a far more visceral and intuitive level than he ever had. Now he knew when a change in the winds meant rain, or not. There was that smell in the air, too, a dampness, the promise of showers. The farmers needed it, the ground was too dry.

  He wouldn’t have known that either.

  Geoffrey and Gwen’s people – his now – had become skilled at erecting the tent, setting it up quickly and tearing it down again just as quickly, so they could move on again, much like the rebel bands. After all, they’d learned it from them, as the rebels in turn had learned it from the Wanderers.

  The tent had become more comfortable as well. The simple cot he’d used while hunting had been replaced by a frame bed, ropes holding the thin mattress in place. He had a small chest for his clothes. A single wagon could hold it, tent, bed, tables and all.

  The King’s traveling castle, some called it. It even had a little flag in his colors that flew from the top.

  Chuckling a little at the thought, he went back to his reports.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing to laugh at there.

  Haerold had moved on Dorset’s borders at long last and Oryan awaited word on the outcome. When last they’d talked, Philip had been considering surrender, to live to fight another day. He’d known full well he couldn’t face Haerold’s forces alone and Oryan couldn’t aid him. Not yet. Still, with all that Oryan was hearing from across the Kingdom, Philip might have been better off to fight rather than subject his people to Haerold’s oppressive rule.

  His brother was also trying to bring the countryside under control as well, with little success thanks to Morgan, Morgan’s Marshals and the nascent rebellion.

  That rebellion continued to grow despite, or perhaps in spite of, Haerold’s Hunters – those wolf-like men – who fanned out across the countryside, searching for him, of course, and for any sign of the rebellion. Sometimes they had wizards with them. Neither the Hunters nor the wizards asked gently, which only fueled the resentment, anger and fear of the people.

  Morgan’s Marshals were the key there, too, stepping between the Hunters and the people of the Kingdom where they could. Word had come back to Oryan that the people saw Morgan especially – and Oryan by extension – as some kind of hero, someone to protect.

  The only thing that concerned him was that it seemed Morgan seemed to be trying to be everywhere at once. He worried that the man was stretching himself too thin.

  But then who wasn’t these days?

  It was at times like these when Oryan missed Gwen the most.

  She’d been his solace, had filled the emptiness inside him, eased the burden of his crown, had been his sounding board and held him in the night when the decisions he had to make were particularly difficult.

  All he had left of her now was Gawain.

  When was the last he had seen Gawain? When was the last time Oryan had looked to see his son? Frowning a little, he wondered how much time had passed. Weeks, months? In the life of a child, so much could change in that short time.

  He pulled Kyri’s little silver bowl toward him, poured a measure of water into it, sifted the herbs over it and triggered the magic.

  Gawain.

  Oryan wanted to reach out and touch the boy, his son, pictured in the cup playing tag with a group of other children, all of them of about the same age. Gawain was laughing. Happy. The woman Liliane watched as she weeded a small garden nearby, smiling fondly as her hoe worked the weeds away from some pole beans. Was it his imagination or had Gawain grown taller, ganglier? Surely he had.

  Oryan bowed his head, here where others couldn’t see.

  For his son alone he would do this, he would fight. If for no other reason so that Gawain might live long enough to grow into a man. So that some part of Gwen would live on in their son. For Liliane, too, who watched over his child for him.

  And for all those who worried over the fate of their children in these dark times.

  There were so many other sons and daughters that it seemed Oryan’s shoulders must bow beneath the weight of them.

  He’d sent messages to other Kingdoms seeking support. At least one had sent back offering refuge – but save for that one few had responded with tangible aid, one or two with funds. Most waited to see what Haerold would do – what terms Haerold would ask or offer them, to see where their best interests lay. Oryan wanted to fault them for it, but he couldn’t. Not when he would have done much the same in their place, not wanting to interfere in another’s kingdom.

  Whistles echoed through the woods, bird calls that weren’t from birds, asked and answered.

  Oryan’s head lifted.

  He’d grown familiar with them now too, and knew them well enough to know what they meant.

  He banished the magic and put the cup away.

  He had a visitor.

  Someone was coming
, passing through the intricate web of security that Morgan and Kyri had woven around him.

  Now there was an ally who’d proven priceless. Kyri. She’d never faltered once, neither she nor any of her people, he blessed her and them for it.

  Automatically, Oryan got to his feet as the door flaps went open and Geoffrey said, “Lord Jordan of Dorset.”

  The boy stepped through, striding forward, his hand extended… a younger, slightly taller and more intense version of his father, his hair more reddish than Philip’s, but otherwise they were very much alike. Oryan remembered him from that spring visit. The boy had grown, it seemed, in only a few short months.

  It was clear Jordan was upset, his eyes were reddened, his young face pale and set.

  “My apologies, your Highness, for this sudden and unexpected visit,” young Jordan said, clearly floundering for the proprieties, the words tumbling over each other, “but my father is taken and I nearly with him…I would join cause with you, my Lord King.”

  He tried to go to one knee to pledge his fealty, but Oryan held him up, Jordan’s words a shock.

  “Say again?” Oryan said.

  Only seventeen, the boy was barely old enough to claim his father’s dukedom.

  “Haerold,” Jordan said, and now his voice was shaken. He was visibly overset and undone. “They met for parley under a white flag and still Haerold took him. Haerold’s men killed the guards, ran them through and they took him.”

  Parley.

  The shock was shadowed in the boy’s eyes.

  He’d watched, helplessly, as his father was taken under a flag of truce, in violation of all the conventions.

  Clasping the offered hand, Oryan drew the boy close instead, his hand over the boy’s neck as Jordan’s head fell against his chest.

  Suddenly Oryan missed his old friend acutely, fear sharp in him. He could see an echo of Phillip’s strong spare frame, so much like a crane, in the boy as Jordan bowed his head against his King’s chest.

  “He was under a flag of truce, your Highness,” Jordan repeated, in horrified disbelief, as he stepped back. His expression was stark. “It was supposed to be a parley. He was supposed to be safe. Haerold called him traitor. They arrested him. They plan to hang him.”

  Tears were thick in the boy’s voice, if not on his face.

  Damned if they would, Oryan thought furiously.

  Galan appeared in the doorway in response to his Call. Kyri had assigned Galan to Oryan’s service, so the Fairy Healer was always close at hand.

  Oryan didn’t even need to speak, Galan was already nodding, his eyes going unfocused in that way the Fair had, speaking to his Queen…and through her, Morgan.

  For once it was Kyri who sought Morgan, rather than the other way around. She’d gone herself, so Galan could remain with Oryan in case more messages arrived. Finding Morgan wasn’t difficult as her sense of him had grown so great she could have found him even without the talisman he wore and in the darkest night. Only cold iron and earth could hide him from her now. As it wasn’t so dark it was even easier, despite the fact that Morgan and his people had set no fire.

  In light of that caution, though, as Morgan wouldn’t have spared his folk a fire without good cause, she circled higher.

  Even in the waning moonlight she could see those that followed clearly.

  Hunters.

  They were on Morgan’s trail, some little ways back, but clearly tracking.

  Narrowing her eyes, she drew her bow, circled to come at them from the opposite direction, and aimed for the leader.

  At the last moment, seeming to sense her shot, or perhaps he heard the faint whistle of the arrow or the thrum of her bowstring, that one threw himself to one side so the shaft only grazed him.

  The others scattered, looking around for the source of the attack.

  She sent another arrow after the leader.

  That one caught him in the hindquarters.

  He yelped, tumbling, as the others spread out further, muzzles lifting to try to catch her scent on the air, scanning the gathering darkness for their assailant anxiously.

  It was enough.

  Kyri wasn’t so daring as to risk staying. Their eyes were better in the night than hers, they simply hadn’t yet thought to look up.

  That would hold them for a little while, though, long enough for her to reach Morgan with her message. She caught an updraft that gave her enough lift to soar, before circling down over the camp.

  “Hail, Morgan,” she called softly.

  Somehow that quiet hail didn’t startle Morgan this time. It wasn’t that he’d expected it exactly but rather he’d somehow sensed she was coming. His spirit lightened even knowing that if she was coming at this hour, the news couldn’t be good.

  Looking up, he found her caught in the thin moonlight as he had the last time he’d seen her, so it silvered her wings and her hair, rendering her ethereal.

  None of his people reacted, all of them knowing her voice nearly as well as he did now, but all of them came alert.

  That she’d come to them without being called couldn’t be a good sign.

  “It’s too much to hope that you came just to see me,” he said, his voice light but low, half in jest, as her wings folded and her feet touched the ground.

  She smiled and laughed a little before sighing regretfully.

  “As much as I wish it were so,” she said with a sigh. “Sadly, no, that’s not the only reason.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oryan needs you. Philip of Dorset went to Haerold to offer his surrender under a flag of truce. Haerold killed Phillip’s Guard and arrested him instead.”

  Morgan’s humor and appetite fled as his mouth tightened.

  Swearing softly, he put his food aside.

  Philip was a good man.

  Arrest was poor thanks for his generosity to Oryan. Apparently they hadn’t been able to keep his aid as secret as they might. Someone had talked. No surprise. A secret shared wasn’t a secret long. Not that it mattered now.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan,” she said.

  He sighed, “It’s not your fault, Kyri, that you get to be the bearer of bad tidings. Tell Oryan that I’ll find out what I can on the way back.”

  Kyri nodded.

  It took only a thought to Galan to pass the message to Oryan.

  Kyri reached to touch Morgan’s hand lightly, a brush of her fingers, wishing she could offer more comfort.

  “He knows. There are Hunters on your trail, too, Morgan,” she added, “but you knew that.”

  With a sigh, Morgan nodded and asked, as his people saddled their horses, “How close?”

  “Not as close as they were,” she said, with a mischievous grin. “And their leader has a Fairy arrow in his flank.”

  He smiled. “Does he, now?”

  Kyri’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight as she gave him one of her slanting glances. “He does. It doesn’t suit him.”

  Smiling, Morgan said, “I imagine not.”

  Then she turned, wings extending as she ran three light steps.

  Her wings stroked and she was gone with only a quick glance back.

  “You heard,” Morgan said to his people. “Let’s clear those Hunters first.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was late summer and even the setting of the sun offered little relief from the oppressive heat that seemed to have been captured beneath the canvas. Even with the flaps on the roof opened and the doorway tied back, little in the way of creating a breeze moved the stifling air within the tent. Cups of cool water taken directly from a nearby stream offered some measure of relief from the stifling heat.

  “Haerold gave Philip a sham of a trial, but it was nothing more than show. It’s going to be a public execution,” Morgan reported, looking steadily at Oryan. “He’s set a date for it, giving us plenty of time to plan and prepare.”

  Morgan and his people had ridden in only an hour before after a long hard ride. Dorien had answered the call to
guide them in, not Kyri, somewhat to Morgan’s disappointment, although he liked the tallish Fairy. Nor was Kyri anywhere to be seen. As neither Dorien nor Galan seemed disturbed Morgan couldn’t worry about it too much, but he found himself missing her bright presence.

  Oryan nodded and sighed, “Deliberately. He’s drawing us out, then, forcing us to show ourselves or let Philip hang. So the question isn’t can we do it, but should we?”

  Young Jordan started in protest, but Oryan held up a hand to stop him, his brown eyes grim.

  “Make no mistake, Jordan,” he said. “We want to help your father and we certainly don’t want him to hang, but look around you. Our resources are few. There’s only so much we can do.”

  “And if we do nothing,” a soft voice said as Kyri stepped past the shadows by the doorway, “they’ll say we abandoned him to his fate, he who helped you, Oryan, by giving you shelter.”

  Kyri waved at Oryan as she joined them, looking tired, her expression grim. “I heard.”

  She was tired.

  One of Haerold’s patrols had chanced to pass too closely to a Fairy glen. It had been a tense few hours, as they watched and waited to see if the patrol offered them threat or not. As much as she hated to let them pass unmolested she simply didn’t have the people to attack such a heavily armed group and possibly inadvertently draw attention to the glen there.

  With a village of the Kingdom nearby, though, she couldn’t let them go completely and had flown to the nearest group of rebels to alert them to the presence of the patrol before she’d come here to meet with Morgan and Oryan.

  Her sharp gaze took them all in, settling for a moment on Morgan, warming a little as their eyes met briefly.

  Morgan gave her a quick questioning look. Kyri gave him a brief answering smile in return to let him know she was fine, shaking her head against further questions. There wasn’t time.

  Oryan gestured in frustration.

  “Damned if we do – as they’ll expect us to do something – and damned if we don’t. We certainly can’t let him hang.”

  He paced restlessly across the carpeting covering the earth and grass much as a caged lion would.