Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  Oh, you’re clever, she thought in amusement. As if you give a fig for Ilios when you’re known for wine and women. Nice flattery, though.

  As Wrynne stepped alongside his cell, she paused, taking her first look at the wayward soul she had secretly come to rescue. Jonty Maguire was lean and sinewy, tall—though not the height of her towering paladin. He was dressed in a loose linen shirt that hung unlaced across his chest, and a Highland kilt so grimy it was impossible to identify the colors of his clan. A wild tangle of dark auburn hair hung to his wide shoulders, and his jaw was covered in a rugged reddish scruff.

  “Please—dear lady.” He clung to the bars, his intelligent emerald eyes locking on to hers in soulful desperation. But not even the squalor in this place could dim the bard’s charisma. He was a good-looking man, full of fire and intensity, with an angular face that showed his every emotion, from roguery to despair—and even a blend of both, if that were possible.

  “You sing well, sir.”

  “Of course I do,” he said impatiently, speaking at a rapid pace, as though well aware the warden wouldn’t give them much time. “A month ago, ’twas royal ears that listened to my songs. Now I sing for the damned. I am Jonathon Maguire, lady. You’ve probably heard of me. Or not—it scarcely matters. I hate to trouble you, but can you get a message out for me? There seems to have been a terrible mistake—”

  “No mistake,” the warden interjected, looking placidly amused. “They all say that at first. This one, though, he’s a right proper gentl’man. I’ll give him that.”

  “Thank you so much for that, master warden,” the fiery bard said as though he could barely contain his sarcasm.

  Wrynne fought a smile and gave him a soothing “Blessings of Ilios upon you, master bard.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, all knife-hilt cheekbones and dramatic dark eyebrows as he flicked his highly trained fingers once more around the bars and fixed her with a pleading gaze, hunching his tall frame down to try to cajole her. “I can give you gold if you like…a donation to the church!”

  “Leave her alone,” the warden said in bored annoyance. “Come along, Sister. Your patients are this way.”

  “Wait! I have another verse!” he pleaded, reaching through the bars of his cage, not in a threatening manner like the others had, but on a sudden inspiration, Wrynne pretended to be outraged when his famous lyre-stroking fingertips grazed the back of her hood.

  “How dare you?” she bit back, pivoting and lowering her scarf angrily. “Lugere aegritudine! Hic sum ut liberem te.”

  “What?” His emerald eyes widened with abrupt astonishment.

  “You heard me,” she said coldly, as though she had just given him the most withering of educated set downs.

  He stared at her, then bowed to hide his grin. “My humblest apologies, lady.”

  “Humph!” she said, turning on her heel. “You were right,” she told the warden as they marched on. “No manners a’tall.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I rebuked him, of course. Told him it’s one thing to be ogled by cretins such as these, but a gentleman ought to know better.”

  Another lie.

  The Golden Master would not be happy with her.

  In actuality, her Latin words to the bard had been a terse command: Feign illness! I am here to rescue you.

  * * *

  “What’s taking so long?” Thaydor muttered, his armor clanking softly as he paced.

  “Calm down, she’ll be fine. Maybe they had more sick in the dungeon than we expected.”

  “Aye, and what if she catches it?” he retorted.

  “Then you’ll heal her,” Piero said in an ever-so-reasonable tone.

  Thaydor frowned toward the dungeon. “If anyone lays a hand on her, I’ll burn the place down.”

  “Stop pacing and get into position,” his old friend scolded. “She could pop into view with the bard at any moment. We’ve got to be ready to run as soon as they appear.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” one of the younger monks remarked.

  Thaydor stifled a sardonic reply. Ilios wouldn’t approve of his unbrotherly sentiments toward the bard. He didn’t really know Jonty Maguire very well, after all.

  It was just that some people had it so easy in life. Free to roam wherever they pleased—no cares, no commitments, no responsibilities—while he carried enough for ten men and had obeyed orders since he was old enough to walk.

  He supposed if he were at liberty to do whatever he pleased, even he might manage to be charming once in a while.

  Or not.

  Ah, well. Sitting around playing music would probably bore him to death.

  Come on, sweeting. Where are you? Crossbow resting on his arm, he got into position with the others and waited in case she needed cover.

  He suddenly wondered if Wrynne would think the bard charming. His frown deepened. Well, this was a new emotion…

  Jealousy.

  He scoffed at himself and shook his head. But if Jonty Maguire ridiculed him in front of his wife and made a fool of him, Thaydor feared he might temporarily turn into an Urmugoth and tear the merry scapegrace limb from limb.

  Don’t push me, mate, he thought, staring at the prison. I’m a paladin, not a saint.

  * * *

  “I rather wish you wouldn’t have told me that,” Wrynne said, glancing from the warden to the evil-eyed prisoner who was strapped down in the next infirmary cot, waiting to be healed.

  The warden shrugged. “Wasn’t sure if it mattered. Don’t worry, he’s been castrated since he hurt all them girls.”

  Still, Wrynne thought. She tried for a few moments longer, but the Light would not flow—the aura of evil around the pox-ridden man was too overwhelming, and maybe, deep down, she did not really want to heal him.

  She gave up, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I tried. It won’t work.”

  “It worked for all the others, bitch! Try harder!” the patient ranted.

  “Don’t you dare talk to her that way!” the warden thundered, menacing him with his club.

  “It’s all right,” she said, hiding how rattled she had become while facing her criminal patients at close quarters.

  Forgive, forgive…

  Thaydor would be furious if he could see what manner of people she had been treating.

  Thankfully, they soon left the infirmary. Still a bit unnerved, she glanced at the warden as they walked back down the corridor by which they had come. “Why is that last one still alive? I thought hanging was the penalty for such crimes.”

  “Ach, he’s related to some duke.”

  “Oh.” Even curing a murderer of jaundice had not revolted her the way the rapist had. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place. She just hoped she’d succeed in taking Jonty Maguire with her.

  As they neared the bard’s cell, tension tightened the knots in her stomach. She had already aided—nay, married—a fugitive, and she was about to break a prisoner out of jail. Thinking about the possible consequences was too terrifying. But having met him, she couldn’t leave him here to rot. Not now. She knew in her bones that he did not deserve this.

  Somehow she ignored her fears, following the warden as they retraced their footsteps through the mazelike dungeon. She kept watch for Jonty’s cell, then fought a smile when she heard his mournful groaning coming from up ahead.

  “Help! Please!” the magnificent voice wrenched out, though they could not yet see the man. “My guts are all twisted. I’m sick. Chills. Fever!”

  “Oh, shut up,” the warden muttered as they came alongside his cell once more.

  “Sudden onset, I daresay,” Wrynne remarked.

  To her relief, the warden stopped there and glanced at her sardonically. “Obviously, he’s faking, mistress. I’m no healer and even I know that.”

  Jonty groaned. He was lying on his cot clutching his stomach. In the dim torchlight, they could see his grimace and his admirable shaking.

  �
��He’s a trained playactor! Don’t the bards’ guilds make their members learn this sort of thing?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know. Do you mind if I talk to him for a moment just to be sure? My vows require I do not turn my back on anyone who is truly suffering.”

  The warden shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Wrynne stepped nearer to the bars.

  “Did this just start now?” she asked skeptically.

  “No, of course not!” he snapped, playing his part well. “I didn’t complain before, but two nights ago, the stomachache began. It’s only grown worse. Please help me, Sister!”

  “Could he have been served spoiled food?” she asked the warden, who was now also wincing in disgust.

  “Well, we don’t give ’em what you might call fine cuisine, but look around. None of the others are sick with this. They all eat the same food. Fakin’,” he repeated.

  “You’re probably right. But perhaps I should have a look at him. Abdominal pain could mean typhoid fever. It’s very contagious.”

  That got the warden’s full attention.

  “I don’t need an outbreak in my jail,” he said a trifle nervously. He backed away from Jonty’s cell and covered his mouth and nose with his hand. “Had a bout of typhoid fever here two years ago. Killed thirty, including five of my guards.”

  “Well, don’t be too alarmed just yet,” she soothed. “It could simply be his appendix has burst. That’s fatal, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, save me!” Jonty wailed, clutching his stomach and rolling on his cot.

  “Fatal?” The warden frowned. “I’m not allowed to let him die.”

  “The pain! The pain!” Jonty moaned.

  “You believe him?” the warden asked, squinting at her.

  She shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. It will only take a moment, like the others.”

  “Very well. If you’re fakin’ in there, I’ll have you flogged till you lose that famous voice of yours from screamin’.”

  The warden lifted his mass of keys and started unlocking the cell.

  “Ought you to shackle him first, sir? For my safety. Is he dangerous?”

  “Nay, he’s in here for debts and disturbin’ the peace.”

  “They sent him to a place like this for such small crimes?”

  “I reckon somebody wanted to teach him a lesson. I don’t ask questions. But after havin’ him here for the past month, I can understand why someone would want to try to shut ’im up—though from what I’ve seen, it’s impossible.”

  Wrynne smiled at the warden. As he opened the door to Jonty’s cell for her, she hoped nothing too bad happened to him for what she was about to do. He seemed a decent man with a very hard job.

  “The Father of Lights sends his blessings upon you,” she said, offering the same formal greeting she had used with the other inmates as she stepped into Jonty’s cell.

  Heart pounding, she clutched her staff and walked the few short paces toward the cot where the bard lay theatrically writhing.

  “Your abdomen, you say? Let me see.”

  With the warden right behind her, she had to stall for just a little time.

  “Can you pull up your shirt, please? I need to see if your stomach is swollen.”

  He paused and glanced at her, the wicked twinkle in his green eyes at odds with his show of suffering. “You want me to undress for you? Odd request from a nun.”

  She gave him a stern look. “I’m not a nun. I’m a Daughter of the Rose.”

  “You’re very pretty.”

  “Would you shut up?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Aye, milady.” The wild bard obediently pulled up his loose shirt and revealed a sharply chiseled stomach, though not as impressive as Thaydor’s. Also, he smelled like a dungeon.

  “Now tell me if it hurts when I touch it,” she instructed, crouching down beside his cot.

  “Touch it all you like. Please,” he whispered.

  Wrynne scowled at him.

  He groaned again. “Mother!” He pretended to sob like a sick child, chin trembling.

  She fought not to laugh at his charade as she went about her inspection.

  “Yowww,” he purred in roguish mischief when she laid her hand on his stomach and palpated him, the warden looking on.

  “Please, sir, I’m a doctor. And I’m married,” she added under her breath.

  “Tragedy,” he whispered. “Then again, tragedy is one of my favorite art forms…”

  “Well?” the warden asked, hovering nearby. “Fakin’?”

  “Actually…” Wrynne gripped her staff in one hand and kept her other planted on Jonty. He held on to her arm, curling upward smoothly into a sitting position. “There’s only one thing I can say for certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  Wrynne bumped her staff on the ground.

  “Cheerio, mate!” Jonty grinned at the warden, waving goodbye as Wrynne whispered, “Hasten.”

  In the twinkling of an eye, they were gone.

  They landed in a field about a thousand feet outside the walls of Blackport Dungeon, collapsing in a heap. Jonty rolled onto his back in the cool, tall grass in gales of raucous laughter.

  “Shh! They’ll hear you.” As Wrynne sat up, sputtering and shaking the usual hasten spell dizziness out of her head, the bard caught sight of the sky and drew in his breath at the beauteous stars.

  “Oh!” He sat up suddenly, craning his neck to view every possible constellation. “The sky…”

  “Admire it later, friend. We have to teleport again a few more times to join our party. They’ll be waiting.”

  “Party?” He jumped to his feet and offered his hand, pulling Wrynne up unceremoniously.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t attempt this on my own.”

  “Well, whoever you are, I could kiss you.”

  “Not if you value your life,” she said with an arch smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said I have a husband.”

  “Oh? Who’s the lucky fellow? Tell me. I know everybody.”

  “You’ll see. Hasten.”

  This time, they managed to land upright when the spell carried them another thousand feet toward the others. She was glad of that. She did not think her husband would have appreciated seeing her lying on the ground in a tangled pile of limbs with another man.

  Not even one who smelled like a dungeon.

  She steadied herself and glanced at her fellow traveler. “You all right?”

  He glanced down at himself, saw that all his parts had arrived in their proper places, and grinned. “All here.”

  “Here we go again.”

  There were five jumps in a mile, so they were both rather woozy by the time they reached their waiting companions, but at least they got there fast. It had taken only seconds.

  “Wrynne!” a strong voice called from out of the darkness. She looked across the landscape just ten yards off and glimpsed moonlight gleaming on armor as Thaydor marched out from behind the men’s cover and strode toward her.

  “They made it. Quickly, to the horses!” Brother Piero commanded the two other warriors, while Wrynne nodded to Jonty to follow.

  She rushed ahead, running into Thaydor’s embrace. His hands descended firmly onto her shoulders, and he searched her face worriedly for a moment. “Are you all right? Any problems?”

  “Everything went smoothly. I’m fine.”

  “Praise be to Ilios,” he murmured, and tipping her chin up with a gentle press of his fingertips, he bent to brush a brief kiss to her lips. “Well done, darling.”

  “Oh, you have got to be joking!” Incredulous laughter filled the air as the bard joined them. “Golden Boy? You’re the one behind this?”

  Wrynne turned to Jonty. “Allow me to present my husband, master bard. I believe you two already know each other.”

  Thaydor scoffed. “You could say that.”

  Jonty turned to her in mirth, laying his hand on his heart. “Oh, dear lady! You must be a piece of perfection, indeed, to have bee
n selected by this one. The great, the glorious Sir Thaydor Clarenbeld!”

  “She is, actually. Now stop looking at her,” he said with a cool, aloof smile.

  “Boys,” Wrynne warned. “Jonty, you’ve been in prison for a while, so you probably haven’t heard. My husband is the most wanted outlaw in the kingdom right now. I daresay I’m the second most wanted at this point, and in about five minutes, you’re about to be the third. So I suggest we all make a timely egress.”

  “Wait, they’re after him, too?” Jonty asked, squinting. “How is that possible? He practically is the kingdom. They turn against me, that’s one thing. I piss off everybody. ’Tis my gift. But you?” he asked Thaydor. “And pardon, but I still can’t wrap my head around the marriage part! I thought you were some sort of priest!”

  “Hardly,” Wrynne purred, her arm around her husband’s steel-clad waist.

  Jonty shook his head, looking amused and nonplused. “I can have some fun with this.”

  “I don’t suggest you do,” Thaydor said mildly.

  “A Daughter of the Rose,” Jonty mused aloud. “But of course. This one wouldn’t have any but a she-paragon. Well, who’d have thought a lover’s heart beat all this time inside this great, shiny chunk o’ metal standing before us?”

  “Watch it.”

  “Can we go before we all get arrested?” Wrynne asked impatiently.

  Thaydor looked at her and then at the rascally bard, and seemed to remind himself he was the bigger man. “We brought you a mount, Maguire. I hope you can ride in that skirt.” He pivoted and walked away, heading for the horses.

  “Hoy! Respect the kilt!” Jonty called indignantly.

  “Come on. We have to keep moving,” Wrynne said.

  They both followed Thaydor up the shallow rise, behind which the horses were hidden.

  “He’s taken the hero routine to a whole new height while I’ve been locked up, hasn’t he? Rescuing people he doesn’t even like?”

  “Actually, the oracle in service to our god told us you have some sort of information on which the fate of the whole kingdom rests.”

  “What? Me?” Jonty stopped and looked at her incredulously. “Shite in a bucket!”