Not for the first time, he looked at her and wondered that she loved him. She, Kyriay, Queen of the Fairy. Knowing even so that she did, with as much passion and intensity as he loved her.
There were times when he’d wake and lay there for a time watching her sleep, curled in against him.
She was an amazement to him, but now, looking at her, she stunned him.
Kyri looked up to see them all staring at her, but her eyes were locked on Morgan.
His clear blue eyes said everything.
She smiled, letting out a breath.
This was a thing of his folk more than hers, but he, Morgan, mattered.
Oryan had, of course, seen her dressed this way once before, the first time she’d presented herself to him – Morgan had been in the South that day, something to do with bandits, he thought – but it had been a long time since that day, it seemed. Oryan had grown accustomed to seeing her in the thin things her people wore.
Clearing his throat abruptly, Oryan said, “Well, that should impress him.”
Kyri looked at him and shook her head. “While I cannot mind looking pretty, I don’t see how this makes me more a Queen than I am.”
As his own clothes were much simpler of late, Oryan could understand. It had never been raiment that made him King, nor had a crown, however elaborate, made his brother one.
“Such things impress our people more,” he said, almost apologetically.
Morgan moved forward, impatient for it to be over, to have Kyri back and safe.
Casting caution to the winds, Morgan pulled her into his arms.
Let them think what they would. He loved her.
“Stay high, Kyri,” he said, cupping her cheek, looking intently into her eyes. “Promise me, stay high until you’re close.”
Neither of them had hidden their relationship. Nor had they advertised it, knowing that if their enemies got wind of it, it would give them one more weapon to use against them if either were ever caught.
Kyri looked into his eyes. The concern there in them warmed her.
“I’ll be careful.”
“I want you back,” Morgan said quietly, intently, his blue eyes sharp on hers.
No, he needed her back. The thought of losing her was nearly unbearable.
As surely, Kyri looked back at him, raising a hand to trace his cheek with her fingers. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
To say she wasn’t afraid would be a lie, but she would have both her bow and sword with her – that last hung now from a handsome white leather scabbard at her hip.
She took a breath and nodded.
No one missed the exchange.
John of Orland’s eyebrows shot up, startled, but Philip nodded as if he’d guessed as much.
All of the Fair knew. She was Kyri.
“Kyriay,” Oryan said, stepping forward, offering his hands. “Your Highness.”
She smiled and laughed.
In all the time Oryan had known her, he’d only called her that once and he didn’t know now as he hadn’t known then that he was repeating himself.
Now, however, wasn’t the time to discuss such things.
“Oryan,” she said instead, “I am always Kyri to you.”
Her fingers touched his lightly and then he leaned forward to brush a kiss across her cheek.
The gesture touched her deeply.
“Be careful,” Oryan said, his brown eyes showing much more concern than he’d voiced. “I would have you back as well. Perhaps not as much so as Morgan…but I still wouldn’t care to lose you, Kyriay, my friend. I’ve come to value you, personally as my friend and as an advisor I wouldn’t care to do without.”
“Oryan,” she said softly, hearing all he didn’t say. Her heart wrenched. “As you are my friend as well, and as close to my heart as any of mine.”
Oryan took a breath, his mouth tightening and then he stepped back.
Kyri couldn’t allow fear to touch her, but her heart was close and tight in her chest.
Morgan would be at her back, Galan and Dorien would be near, she reminded herself.
For part of the journey they would ride.
Morgan had no doubt that Haerold would have his Hunters out, but teams of rebels roamed the countryside even now searching for them, while some of Kyri’s people flew on high, trying to spot trouble. He and Kyri had taken every precaution they could.
It was still dark when they rode out, the morning air crisp and growing colder by the day it seemed. The leaves were changing, winter was coming.
Everyone was silent, strained. Caleb rode at Morgan’s right, Kyri to his left, with Galan behind her, all surrounded by a trusted band of Morgan’s Marshals. None of them liked the situation any better than he did.
He racked his brains to think of something he’d missed, some detail he’d overlooked.
“Morgan,” Kyri said quietly.
He turned his head to look at her.
Smiling a little, she said, her voice soft. “You’re shouting again.”
Thinking too loud.
He remembered and smiled a little.
“I did say I couldn’t promise not to do it again,” he said.
Laughing, a sound that could still ease him, if only a little at the moment, she said, “So you did.”
The sun peeked above the horizon.
Against the possibility that someone might retrace their route, Morgan set them on a zigzag track.
Even as they rode Oryan’s camp was packing up to move on, taking no chances that nothing would go wrong.
Oryan would be gone in a few hours, even as Morgan and Kyri came within sight of Remagne.
To the east a band of Corvin’s rebels and Morgan’s Marshals picked up the trail of riders headed west toward Remagne and turned to follow.
Morgan sent a small group of his people to search the little copse of trees on the rise.
Beyond those trees the land sloped away into the bowl that was the valley of Remagne.
Small thickets of trees dotted the ridge and the land around the city. This was grazing land, with herds of cattle and sheep roaming across it. If it was him Morgan would have had Hunters and soldiers in a number of these copses and there very likely were.
Above them some of Kyri’s people soared, circling high out of sight, trying to spot any sign of danger.
“They don’t see anything, although the tree cover is thick where there are trees,” Kyri said.
Morgan nodded, signaled and the scouts rode in, pushing through the brush.
A short time later the scouts signaled that it was safe.
Gathering up her skirts so they wouldn’t get snagged, Kyri, along with Morgan, Galan and Caleb, and surrounded by the Marshals, rode into the little grove of trees, dismounting on the far side where they could see down into the valley and the city there.
Here and there across the valley were other small groves amidst a sea of tall grass. Brown cattle and white sheep roamed under the eyes of their herders.
Had any of them noted the strangenesses? Kyri wondered.
She’d had little reason to visit Haerold’s domain in the past and since his assumption as Duke her people had abandoned even the small section of forest there, uneasy with the magic he brought with him. Save for that one visit with Morgan to rescue Philip, she’d spent no time in that city.
The cities of men were no place for Fairy.
Morgan lifted her down from her horse, his strong hands closing around her waist, bringing her down lightly, pausing only a moment to draw her into his arms.
“Stay high as long as you can,” Morgan reminded her.
Reaching up, she touched his cheek again and gave him a reassuring look.
“I will.” It was a promise.
Morgan studied every line of her face.
He lowered his mouth to hers, but only for a moment, brushing his lips over hers.
He wanted to hold her back, keep her here and safe.
Instead, however reluctantly, he let her g
o.
Now he knew what it had cost Oryan to let Gwen go that night, fearing all too well the same result…
Now though she saw what it was that Morgan and Oryan had been talking about.
She reached up to touch Morgan’s face once more.
Kyri could see the same worry in her faithful Galan’s eyes and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand to reassure him.
The main gate and entrance to the city of Remagne was large enough to allow two wagons to pass, going in opposite directions. Once the city guard had patrolled these walls, but until Haerold had assumed what had been his mother’s old family seat no one had done so in ages. Now they were there once again, small figures that moved across it, looking like ants at this distance.
Some ancestor, though, in a fit of architecture, had decided to make that main gate seem more imposing and added a high decorative pediment above it, with classical sculptures enclosed within, of the width of the gate itself. It had been capped by an odd, flat, keystone-like piece set along the top.
That was where Kyri would go.
For a moment she looked up at Morgan, battling fear and duty.
They’d made love the night before with near desperation, clinging to each other.
Now she looked up at him and Morgan looked down at her.
As he wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her there, safe and she wanted to shelter there and couldn’t. Not for her people, or his.
Morgan brushed the back of his hand across her cheek.
Neither needed to say the words, but they were there.
Morgan said them anyway. “I love you.”
His eyes as Kyri looked up into them were so beautiful, so clear, so very blue.
Morgan’s hand touched her cheek one more time, brushed over it as she looked up into his beautiful eyes.
Taking a breath, he released her.
Kyri made herself step away, her wings unfolding.
This was something Morgan couldn’t get tired of watching, as Kyri’s wings spread around her, catching the light in the feathers to sparkle and glisten in the brilliant sunlight. Miniature rainbows reflections danced everywhere around her.
She ran, lightly, a few steps, in time to the stroking of her beautiful wings and then she was airborne.
Light flashed from her wings as they stroked.
That was the signal for the Hunters to make their move, that flash of light on Fairy wings.
They stirred from the burrows where they’d laid hidden, stalking their prey, keeping low and silent.
Kyri flew above the city. Trails of greasy smoke rose from a hundred or more chimneys within the high walls. It was easy for her to see why Haerold was so attached to it. It suited him. Where Caernarvon had been open to both the land and sea, to the sky and the breezes, Remagne was one of the old, walled cities, dark and shuttered, with closely guarded gates.
The sun was directly overhead as she descended, her wings cupping and spreading to catch the wind, lowering her slowly as she eyed those below.
Haerold hadn’t kept quite to the letter of their agreement, but then they’d expected no less of him. He sat a great black destrier below within the city gates, not outside of them, with his wizard queen beside him on a white palfrey.
A crowd had gathered before and around them. It gave a collective sigh that was audible even above as Kyri dropped to the top of the pediment.
For those waiting below, she was an amazing sight to see as she dropped out of the sky, a figure of silver and gold, her gossamer wings spread wide to glow and glitter in the sunlight as she stepped lightly to the pediment. She was a thing of brightness and light, slender and lovely, truly the Queen of the Fairy, with her rippling curls bound by circlet of gold, her dress shimmering as her delicate feet found purchase.
Standing straight, giving bow to no one, Kyri looked down at Haerold below.
“Hail to he who calls himself King Haerold from Kyriay of the Fair,” she said.
If it was no insult for him to refer to her in such terms, he couldn’t take umbrage if she referred to him the same.
Even at that distance she saw his face darken and his eyes narrow.
It seemed he did.
Below her along the walls to each side arrows were turned toward her. The closest had too difficult an angle while the rest were too far away in the stiff breeze to do her any harm. And, she could always call up a stiffer one.
“A warm greeting, I see, my Lord Haerold,” she said dryly.
“Simply diligent,” he called back, his tone mild, “in defending their King.”
Kyri noticed he hadn’t given her greeting back, nor title. She let it go though.
“Perhaps you misunderstood, Haerold,” she said, pitching her voice above the crowd noise. “We were to meet on the other side of the gate. I’ll wait for you there.”
Giving him no time to demur, she turned and walked the other way, happy enough to wait for them to ride through.
The crowd was more than happy to oblige as well, surging through the gate past the guards to ogle her from the other side.
If Haerold wasn’t to be forced to shouting after her, he had to go and be forced instead into following her.
That would grate on him.
She watched him ride through, his irritation clear in the way he jerked at the reins of his horse. The destrier shook its handsome head, chomped at the bit on the close held reins, shifting its feet.
Haerold’s Lady Wizard followed, her pale face impassive, her hand closed around the pendant at her breast.
“All right, come down so we can parley,” Haerold called in return.
With a sigh, Kyri shook her head.
“I think not,” she said drily. “Those who parley with you, Haerold, don’t fare so well. You tend to arrest them. As you did with Philip of Dorset. I think this is as close as I’ll come.”
The crowd murmured restlessly.
Rumors had circulated about the circumstances of Philip’s capture as well as his escape. Few knew the truth of it.
“Only those who’ve given me reason to arrest them,” Haerold countered.“They betrayed their rightful King and gave aid to his enemies. Have you done so? If not, then I’m no threat to you.”
“In that case, must you then arrest yourself? For, after all, didn’t you betray your rightful King? As for myself, I am Kyriay, Queen of the Fair and I have no King, no overlord. Nor will I bow to one. As for threat, the night you betrayed Oryan you also attacked my embassy, or have you forgotten that? I would call that threat, my lord Haerold.”
Why this cat and mouse of words? Kyri wondered. He was delaying. Why?
Those above her could give no reason but her growing alarm sent them searching for one.
“An accident,” Haerold declared, “overzealousness on the part of some of my men.”
Gesturing, she said, “Like these to each side of me? You need to curb your people, Haerold.”
Haerold was too calm.
Something was wrong. He was plotting something. The wizard beside him had pressed a catch and was staring intently into her pendant, scrying, but for what?
They must know Oryan had moved on…but Morgan…
A trickle of fear went through her and above her her people responded to it.
“Forgive me, Haerold, but let us stop this war of words. You summoned me here for a reason, a parley,” Kyri said, “name your terms.”
One of her people spotted movement, furtive movement, near Morgan.
Instinctively she turned, looked across the plain as fear lanced through her.
“Morgan,” she whispered, her wings spread...as her heart stuttered.
Faithful Galan out there on the plain, and the Marshals.
Her heart went still.
A warning shot from her to those above.
“No,” she said, softly.
“Yes,” Haerold answered, smiling at a nod from his lady. “Surrender and I can promise you a quick death.”
The
first of the guards died at his post in a short, silent, bloody fight even as Morgan mounted his horse.
Galan cried, “Hunters!” even as Kyri’s warning burst into his mind.
Instantly the Marshals formed a circle with Galan in the middle.
He was crucial, their Healer and their archer. Lose their Healer and they might survive the battle, but die of the wounds. If anything happened to any of them or Kyri, he was the only one who could Heal.
So close, Galan didn’t have space to take to the air in time to escape.
He reached for his bow instead, his knees tightening around his horse.
The first of the Hunters leaped for them.
In tune with its rider the Fairy horse snapped at its attacker as a Marshal slashed at it with his sword.
Morgan saw the next coming and threw his belt-knife, left-handed, as another charged from his right. He slashed at that one with his sword as his horse leaped to lash out with its hooves, landing to stomp the first Hunter beneath its forefeet.
It had been a trap and the jaws had been spread wide.
An arrow from Galan’s bow flashed past him to take another of the Hunters.
Kyri.
She was alone down there, unprotected now.
Fear for her turned Morgan berserker. His sword whipped, hacking and slashing.
All around him his people fought furiously, for him and for Kyri.
There were few among them that hadn’t benefited from her Healing touch or watched her turn on a wing to draw down on an enemy they hadn’t seen.
From the center of the circle Galan put an arrow into a Hunter that darted past the guard and leaped for him.
One Marshal was carried from his saddle but Morgan bent down and took the head of the Hunter about to rip the man’s throat out.
Kyri. Her name was a mantra in the back of his mind.
“Go, go,” Morgan shouted, turning his horse and setting spur to it, racing for the plain.
His eyes were on her, standing on top of the distant pediment.
She might have been just another statue there at the top, a slender figure of gold and silver, or pale marble. Justice maybe, or, and he smiled a little, the Goddess of Love.
Song of the Fairy Queen Page 20
