“Kyri,” he said.
She heard his worry in his voice and looked back, her gaze apologetic. “The only one I cannot Heal is myself.”
“Keep watch by the doors,” Morgan said to the others.
Reaching into her saddlebags, Jena drew out a white shirt. “It’s clean.”
Caught off guard, Kyri looked at them.
It was the first time Morgan saw her look so vulnerable, so undone.
With unsurprising humility, she said, “Thank you, Jena.”
Gently, Morgan pulled the ribbons that secured the straps and the top of the dress fell to her waist, leaving her bare, save for her hair. He went to one knee, turning her a little so he could see the marks. His breath hissed in. On that soft skin the marks looked ugly, deep scores that still bled sluggishly.
Was she so used to standing alone she hadn’t thought to ask for the aid she gave so readily herself?
Ripping the white shirt into pieces, he laid a hand on her waist, pressed his other hand gently against the wounds. Her breath caught only a little at the pain, her eyes still fixed on him with something very like wonder.
Carefully, he tended to her, pressing another clean piece of cloth to the scores, then binding them in place.
Even Galan had never tended to her so personally, so very tenderly. It was oddly intimate.
“They’re getting restless, Captain,” Caleb said, without looking back.
“Almost finished,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling the ends of her dress back up over her shoulders. He touched her cheek and she closed her eyes against some intense emotion. A single tear gathered, spilled and turned to crystal.
He brushed a kiss lightly by her eye. “Never forget that I love you, Kyri.”
Reaching up, she ran her fingers over his cheek in wonder and smiled. “And I love you.”
The horses stamped restlessly, made uneasy now by the smell of the dead Hunters and the blood. He eyed the horses curiously.
“Kyri,” he asked, “Can you make them follow you?”
She followed his gaze. “Your horse is Fairy, the rest should follow.”
It would put her in the fore, but surprise might do the trick.
“You’ll need your bow,” he said.
“And you’ll need your shirt,” she said, smiling, taking a quick moment to run her hands appreciatively over the strong muscles of his chest, “although I very much appreciate the view.”
He appreciated the touch, he loved her hands on him. He ran his fingers deep into her hair, drawing her mouth to his for a quick kiss.
“I’ll get them,” he said.
Dropping her bow and sheath to her, pulling on his shirt, he said to the others, “Get the rest of your gear on, quickly and be ready to go.”
He dropped down lightly to join them, buttoning quickly before pulling on his coat and settling his hat on his head once again.
“Saddle them up,” Morgan said.
Outside they heard a horse stamp restlessly, mirroring its rider’s agitation.
They wouldn’t wait much longer.
Kyri swung up into the saddle, her sword sheathed, bow strung and arrow notched.
“Stay low until you’re almost on them,” Morgan said, tossing a blanket over her to cover the red dress. “Use the horses to scatter them, distract them, give us time to get out and then bring the horses around. Caleb, Jena and I will go out the front, Ford and Gavin the back.
She nodded.
“Everyone ready?”
Morgan looked up at her, crouched over the horse, her brilliant hair spilling down over her shoulders. He kissed her once again, quickly.
“Go.”
Setting heels to horse, Kyri gave it the command and the horse leaped forward, the others, uneasy from the storm, the fight and the blood, the scent of the Hunters, pounded after.
Outside the sky had cleared and the light was brilliant, nearly blinding against the frosted whiteness of the snow, but Haerold’s men in their dark livery against that brightness were impossible to miss.
Kyri literally rode one down, the impact of Morgan’s horse striking another audibly, a thud of flesh and bone. The other horse was driven back, its hooves scrambling in the snow, falling, taking its rider down with it. Guiding the horse with her knees, Kyri rose up, bow in hands and shot the first one she saw, drawing an arrow, setting it, turning to face backward to take another.
The horses charged, scattering Haerold’s horses and men before her as she rode around the barn. Some of the men fought to gain control of their mounts, the others were taken completely off guard. And then she was around. Morgan reached for the pommel of his horse, swinging up behind her to take the reins in one hand, leaning back a little to draw his sword without cutting her.
One of the soldiers tried to grab the reins, but Morgan drove him off.
The others of their party gained their saddles and they were off through the snow, leaving Haerold’s squad in confusion and disarray behind them.
Chapter Twenty Eight
The table in Oryan’s tent had been cleared of maps and missives, correspondence to foreign courts and reports from around the Kingdom. There had been a letter there from one of Oryan’s vassals, a surreptitious offer of aid, supplies, even funds. Oryan still didn’t known whether Patraic was playing both ends against the middle or was still his man. The table though was now clear, save for a tray with several bottles of good wine and the best cups Geoffrey could find.
He bowed his head, remembering, grieving a little still for what had been, for his Gwenifer.
There were times now when Oryan simply talked to her in his head, seeing her as she’d been, his beloved wife, listening to the memory of her voice, knowing so well what she would say. Or what he thought she’d say. But there were days when he couldn’t picture her clearly any longer… He was losing her again…and that was as it had to be, but he still missed her intensely.
A single lantern illuminated the tent as Geoffrey held the flaps open for Morgan and Kyri.
Oryan stood alone, his head bowed, his expression pensive as he stared down into his wine cup.
Morgan and Kyri looked at each other, both frowning a little.
“Oryan?” Morgan said.
The man himself looked at them as Geoffrey brought them each a glass of wine and then simply stood back a moment, a glass in his own hand.
Oryan lifted his cup a little. “I wasn’t certain this called for anything close to a celebration, but I thought we should mark the date somehow.”
He looked at the bewilderment on their faces and nodded. “I nearly missed it, too. Caernarvon weather being what it was, the temperature rarely varied much there by the sea, something to do with the currents or some such. Unlike here. There was no snow there that night. But I checked and I counted.”
For a moment he paused and then took a slow swallow of his wine.
“It was one year ago today that Caernarvon fell,” he said, quietly. “So, it’s an anniversary of sorts.”
A familiar voice called from outside. “Geoffrey?”
“That will be the others,” Oryan said, his deep voice steady. “But first I wanted to raise a toast to the two of you. If it weren’t for you both, I wouldn’t be here today, my Kingdom would be laboring under the hand of my brother with no hope of relief and I and my son wouldn’t be alive. I’ve never thanked you for that and I need to do that.”
Kyri’s heart caught.
Seeing the look in Oryan’s eyes, Morgan simply nodded his head.
“I also need to thank you for your friendship during these difficult and sometimes dark days,” Oryan said. “That being said, that’s enough of that. A toast, then, to restoring the crown, to health and happiness.”
The three of them raised their glasses to drink and then Geoffrey went to the tent flap to hold it back to allow the others in.
Philip was the first, with young Jordan at his side, the older man still a little stooped, the gray streaked through his hair mor
e liberally than it should have been for his age, but otherwise he looked more at ease with himself. It had helped that Oryan included him as part of his privy council and gave every evidence he truly valued Philip’s opinion.
It was Jordan, though, who had changed the most. He was still young, still somewhat impetuous, but he’d taken on the gravity of men years older, assiduously listening at every meeting, but saying little until he was certain no one else said what he needed to add. He had taken over much of his father’s duties of running his dukedom from exile, although another sat in his castle.
Behind them were Detrick – Gaia as always at his heels – Martin and Corvin and a few other of the rebel leaders following.
Morgan and Kyri had known this meeting had been planned, but both had been too busy to truly take note of the date, to their chagrin. It was a chancy thing, to have so much of their hierarchy in one place, though, but necessary under the circumstances.
The tent flaps opened to allow Galan, Dorien and Solon to pass, all of them bowing their heads to Kyri in respect as they entered. Solon looked at little startled to be in attendance, but as he stood in Kyri’s stead in Faery when she was here she’d decided he needed to be here for this meeting.
John of Orland – their newest ally – arrived a little tardy.
The tent had become more crowded than any of them had ever known it.
Which was a good sign.
“I think we’re complete,” Oryan said, as Geoffrey went around the room passing out cups of wine. He raised his to all of them. “Thank you, all of you, for all you’ve done and all that you have yet to do.”
A little surprised, everyone nodded.
“For those of you who weren’t there, or don’t remember, tonight is the anniversary of the fall of Caernarvon. It was one year ago today we were set on this path. It hasn’t been an easy one. Some of you may have had second thoughts. Some of you had no choice. Whatever, we are now on it together.”
There was no other choice. Exile perhaps, but certainly Haerold would never suffer either Oryan or Gawain to live and threaten his throne. Death by assassination would have been their most likely fate. Of the others, none would have served well under Haerold’s yoke, most would have been marked for death in any case.
“So, it’s one year later,” he said. “But I don’t call you together to dwell on the past, but to look to the future.”
Oryan glanced at Morgan.
Who nodded.
“Our numbers are growing. Certainly more are joining our cause.” Morgan looked to the three main rebel leaders. “We still aren’t great enough in numbers to face Haerold on the field of battle, but his numbers are dwindling. Desertion is heavy among his regular troops, some due to the harsh conditions, others flock to our cause.”
That was news to most of those in the room.
Morgan had just returned from a meeting with Jacob.
For a moment he was silent, still a little disturbed. There had been something different about Jacob this time, but Morgan couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe he was just tired. He’d verified the information, though, so he knew it was good.
“Haerold is having to rely more and more on hired mercenaries, the Hunters and his allies among the Northmen.”
“They,” Corvin said, “are winning no friends in the north either.”
Morgan nodded grimly.
“We’ve heard and seen the same,” Morgan said. “We’ve all seen the refugees.”
Heads nodded as faces grew grim.
Everyone had seen the refugees streaming out of the north in response to the raiding there.
It pained Morgan that after the years spent defending those lands they’d had to abandon them, but there had been no choice. First Haerold had left them to their own devices and then he had virtually ceded the territory to the Northmen. There was little chance Haerold would ever get it back and he was too blind to see that once those lands were settled, the Northmen would turn their eyes south once again.
That was for another time.
Morgan took a breath, looking around the room at the others as Oryan moved quietly up behind Kyri.
“The one advantage we have,” Morgan said, “is the aid of Kyri and her people. Without them, communication would be far more difficult and they’ve been invaluable in a fight. It hasn’t been without cost for them or us.”
That first raid on the Fairy village had only been the harbinger of things to come. It had been followed by others, as well as raids like it on villages near rebel territory that were suspected of supporting them.
Softly, Oryan said, at Kyri’s back, worriedly, “Morgan looks tired.”
Kyri sighed, glancing back at Oryan over her shoulder. She nodded, concerned as well. Morgan did look tired.
“I do what I can, but who else is there?” she asked.
Oryan sighed.
There was no one else, not in the field where he needed Morgan to be.
Oryan could make certain Morgan had the funds he needed, the supplies and horses, the support. He could gather reports and information, serve as the central contact point, but he couldn’t do what Morgan did in the field. Not without exposing himself to capture.
And if he were caught the rebellion was over and with it any chance to reclaim the throne until or unless Gawain reached his majority without being found or caught himself.
Only Kyri came remotely close in ability and experience but she wasn’t Morgan and she was Fairy. Men wouldn’t follow her.
Gently, Kyri ran a hand down Morgan’s back because she knew he liked the contact, he liked knowing she was there. She also willed him strength and a little energy, wishing there was some other way she could make things easier for him.
At the soothing touch some of Morgan’s tension dropped away and he brushed a kiss over her forehead as he drew her close.
Having circled the room, giving a word of thanks to each, Oryan said, “If nothing else, our efforts haven’t been entirely in vain. Haerold now concentrates on us and so, while leaving the north to fend for itself, he’s left Mormont and some others alone and untouched. That’s not enough. We need Haerold off my throne. We need to remove his foot from the throats of the populace, rescind his taxes and stop the conscriptions. So, to that end…”
Gesturing to Morgan, Oryan stepped back again.
“We need to become more organized even than we have been,” Morgan said. “We need to start training as fighting units, not individual groups. Where we can, we should be drilling, practicing the kind of military skills necessary to fight Haerold’s mercenaries. In the meantime, we can’t leave off the harassment of his troops, the confiscation of his supplies and we need to keep annoying the tax collectors.”
All of which meant Morgan would be busier than ever.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Rolling his head on his shoulders Morgan tried to focus. The report in front of him didn’t want to make sense. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, as much from trying to read the print in front of him than from lack of sleep. He sat back against the tree for a moment, the papers balanced on his knee, looking out across the rolling hills to rest his eyes.
It was cool, the earliest days of spring, when pockets of snow huddled in the shadows but the first flowers nodded, small snowdrops, golden daffodils…
If he wasn’t tired physically, he was in spirit. It sometimes seemed he took two steps forward and one back. More and more recruits joined the rebels and some he recruited for the Marshals, but Haerold was also increasing his attacks on the villages, the rebels, and the Fairy. Some of the Hunters had been set to scent, track, and hunt down individual people, himself, Oryan and Kyri included, so it had become a deadly game of cat and mouse.
The light at the end of the tunnel, however, was growing, if only by inches and not yards.
Stretching, he tried to work out the kinks in his shoulders.
He missed Kyri, knowing she would have sensed his discomfort and worked on those shoulders, her strong, long-fingere
d hands kneading and rubbing until the pain was gone. It had been too long since he’d seen her. But then even two days between meetings sometimes seemed too long.
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his report, until he heard the sound of wings and looked up as Dorien settled to the ground, his expression alarming, frightened, worried and furious…
“Haerold has Galan,” Dorien said shortly.
Galan.
The thought of the strong but gentle Fairy Healer in the hands of Haerold’s people made Morgan wince. And then there was Kyri…she would be frantic…heartsick….
Everyone in earshot heard and the call was repeated as Morgan’s folk shot to their feet, rushing to saddle their horses. Morgan didn’t even have to give the order. No one questioned it. Many if not most of them owed Galan their very lives.
That Kyri was already on her way was something Morgan never questioned.
“Where and how far?” Morgan asked, swinging up onto his horse.
“All I know now is west and a little north of here,” Dorien said, “Kyri will tell me more when she finds him.”
The cry and shock had ripped through her like a knife and Kyri spun in place instinctively, her eyes going north, to Galan. It shivered through her even as she ran, taking two steps before launching herself off the edge of her aerie, with Dorien right behind her. Solon gathered others…
Galan, who’d gone in response to another, different, cry for help from one of the rebel bands. They’d been attacked by a squad of Haerold’s forces, had taken casualties before they’d beaten them back. It had been an emergency, with so many wounded. She’d heard from him only hours before. The worst of the wounded had been Healed, he was tired, but there were a few more to see.
Haerold had Galan. Sweet, patient Galan.
Galan’s pain battered her as she sensed that of all her people, but she forced herself to keep her mind clear. It would do him no good if she lost her wits.
This was why she was Queen.
She sent Dorien to find Morgan.
It would take time to reach Galan, less time on wing than if they rode, but far more tiring. She had to balance one against the other, although every Fairy with her was fired with fear and fury. That would carry them farther.
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