Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  “Oh, really?”

  “One of his housemaids came over to me one night at a pub after one of my performances. She was tipsy enough to tell me I was more right about ‘the old goat’ than even I knew. It was the perfect chance for me to pry. I bought her a pint and started asking her questions. People like to talk to me, which probably isn’t wise unless they want their stories to end up in a tale. But wouldn’t you know, I learned something highly enlightening from that little housemaid. Servants always know what’s really going on.”

  “What did she say?”

  “About a year ago, he came back from the Harmonists’ annual retreat at Silvermount, a shrine to Efrena, and he was a changed man.” Jonty shrugged. “She said from then on, he started acting ‘weird.’”

  “Weird?”

  “Distracted. Irritable. Aloof. He left off his daily private worship at home, and then developed a nasty temper. The head of the church of Harmony beat one of his footmen bloody with a fireplace poker for forgetting to clean the ashes out of the hearth. The whole staff was shocked, she told me. Publicly, he could keep up the charade. But in private, she said it was like he had slowly started going mad. Talking to himself. Keeping odd hours.”

  “So something happened to him at Silvermount?”

  He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “That was the servants’ theory, but they had no idea what it could’ve been. When they saw him pressure the king into paying homage at the Harmonists’ shrine to Efrena, then they got frightened. She said they couldn’t believe nobody else noticed how off the Silver Sage seemed. But everyone treats him with such deference, who would dare point it out?”

  “You, apparently.” Wrynne shook her head. “It sounds like he was exposed to some sort of evil influence out there.”

  “What, magical, you mean? It was over a year ago. Most spells would have worn off by now, surely.”

  “Maybe a curse.”

  “Demonic possession?” he suggested.

  “Jonty,” she retorted, “I’m sure it’s nothing that exotic. Maybe he had a fight with someone he cared about. Lost some important relationship in his life. Or perhaps a crisis in his faith. Maybe his mind actually is ill.”

  “Maybe he did something naughty at Silvermount for which he is now being blackmailed,” he suggested, arching a brow.

  “You do have quite an imagination, don’t you?” She sent him a charming little smile and then shrugged. “I suppose it could be anything.”

  “Well, I can tell you this. I was on my way out the door to go have a look around at Silvermount when I got arrested. What a coincidence, eh? I thought I might find something there. Do a little investigating. But I never got the chance.”

  “Sounds like we have our next destination sorted. This has to be what the oracle was talking about.”

  “Agreed. Maybe I can get someone to talk to me up there. Somebody must have noticed something. Once we know what changed him so much, perhaps we’ll be able to deduce what he’s up to and how to stop him. And by the way…look who’s coming.” He smiled and nodded toward the road.

  She drew in her breath, peering through the branches. “Thaydor!”

  He was riding Avalanche at an easy canter and leading two of the other horses by the reins.

  “Oh no!” she murmured. “He’s alone. Where are Piero and the brothers? I hope nothing’s happened to them!”

  “Let’s go.”

  They scrambled down the tree. Twigs and leaves crunched underfoot as they dropped onto the forest floor and hurried through the thicket toward the lonely, moonlit road.

  “Thaydor!” Wrynne called as loudly as she dared, waving her arms as they stepped out a hundred yards ahead of him. “We’re here!”

  When he reined in before them, she hurried over to Avalanche’s side and tilted her head back, scanning her husband’s face while worried questions tumbled from her lips. “Are you all right? Where’s Piero? And the others? Was anyone hurt? Are the dire wolves dead?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s fine. We split up to throw the guards off our trail. They’ll be along shortly. We need to keep moving. Mount up.”

  She seemed loath to leave his side, clinging to his hand. “I’m so glad you’re safe, darling. Those wolves looked ferocious.”

  “So am I when the occasion calls. Everything go all right with you two?”

  Jonty nodded.

  Thaydor met his gaze with a terse nod of thanks, man to man. “Good. Let’s find some shelter for the night, get the horses settled, and determine our next move.”

  “I think Jonty and I made some good progress on that point,” she said eagerly. “We’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Later. First we need to get out of sight.” He nodded as Wrynne and Jonty swung up onto their still-agitated horses. “Follow me.”

  In spite of himself, Jonty did.

  * * *

  As Wrynne galloped Polly half a stride behind Avalanche, she gave thanks for Thaydor’s safety with every yard of ground they covered. But even her unasked-for prayers were answered when, lo and behold, about fifteen miles up the road, they came upon a fanciful stone travelers’ inn.

  Horse heads peered out of the stable at the back of the cobbled yard. Nearer by, warm light and lively music poured from the ground-floor tavern.

  They reined to a halt in the shadows and gazed at the place longingly.

  “I smell food.” Jonty sniffed, nearly floated off his horse’s back, but the wavering melody of the shawm, the wild strumming of the gittern, and the rhythmic, silver jingle of the timbrel seemed to beckon to his music-starved soul even more than the food lured his body.

  Wrynne glanced at Thaydor. “Do you think we can chance it? We could all use a rest.”

  He shook his head in regret. “Remember the Wanted posters? They’ve probably got one displayed in there, too. You two could probably go in, though.”

  “I’m not going to leave you behind,” she said.

  “Hold on,” Jonty murmured, squinting at the placard hanging above the doorway in the darkness. “The Spicy Cup… I know this place!” He suddenly laughed aloud. “They love me here!”

  “That was before you were an escaped convict,” Thaydor pointed out. “Tends to change the opinions of others.”

  “Nay, these are good people. We can trust ’em,” Jonty said.

  “Really? What are their names?”

  “How should I know? I canna be expected to remember the names of everyone I meet when I’m constantly on the move from place to place, tourin’ about. But I do remember this: whoever they were, they liked me here. They’ll be glad to see me. Oh, enough of the steely stare, knight! Not all of us have the strength of ten. I need some food, a fresh shirt, a good cup o’ mead, and a bath.”

  “I don’t disagree, especially on the last, but the guards will surely look here by the morrow if they don’t come tonight.”

  “Thaydor,” Wrynne spoke up, “why don’t we let him try? If you could’ve seen the awful conditions he endured in that dungeon… The bard at least deserves a decent meal after all he’s been through.”

  He frowned, weighed it, and shrugged. “I don’t like it, but if you insist. Make it fast. My lady and I will make camp in the woods off the road, there. Find us when you’re ready. You can leave your horse with us. And Maguire? Do not. Get. Drunk. We need to keep our wits sharp.”

  “My wits are sharper’n yours when I’m asleep,” Jonty shot back. “Don’t worry about me, laddie.” He jumped off his horse. “Just look after your girl.”

  “Be careful in there,” Wrynne warned, also dismounting and taking the chestnut’s reins from Jonty.

  “I’ll see what I can do for you two, as well,” he promised.

  “Don’t mention us to them!” Thaydor whispered as loudly as he dared, but Jonty ignored him, already striding in his half-naked state toward the lively establishment.

  Wrynne wondered what sort of reception he’d get. She turned and looked at Thaydor in question. He shook his head with a lo
ng-suffering look. Then they withdrew from the road and picked their way into the woods.

  It was good to have him all to herself again, now that the danger was past for the moment. “Maybe we can find a cave for the night,” she said with a note of flirtation in her voice.

  He glanced over his shoulder and flashed a grin. “Now there’s a plan I like.”

  But there was no cave, just a flat patch of ground under a huge pine tree that looked acceptable. There was room enough for the horses, and the inn was visible through the trees in case Jonty ran into trouble. They could watch the innyard from there to monitor the arrival of any search party from the Blackport, as well.

  Moving with efficiency, they unrolled their blankets to set up camp, but as they spread them out over the thick bed of fragrant pine needles under the tree, Thaydor sent her a smoldering look that told her he had urgent expectations of her that night.

  Wrynne felt the thrill of his hungry glance down to her toes and bit her lip as she turned to secure the horses. Thank you, dire wolves. It was a curious thing she had noticed about her warrior husband. Any sort of battle seemed to get his blood up. With all his instincts on high alert, he craved release afterward—some equally physical way to burn off the aftermath of violence in his veins. She was more than happy to oblige.

  As she helped him take off a few pieces of his armor, she was already anticipating the feel of his hands on her body and the taste of his tongue in her mouth, when suddenly, a loud crackle of twigs snapping underfoot barged in on their intimate arrangement.

  Thaydor turned to face the intruder, reaching for a knife and gently shoving Wrynne behind him.

  Heart pounding, she glanced toward Polly, wondering if she had time to pull her little crossbow out of the saddlebag.

  “Not very subtle, whoever it is,” he murmured, glimpsing the glow of a lantern through the trees.

  “Is it Jonty?”

  Before he could answer, a loud whisper called, “Halloo? Sir Thaydor, be ye here?”

  A plump old woman in an apron waddled into view, holding up a lantern. “Oh, bless me! There ye be.”

  Thaydor lowered his blade as she let out a cheerful laugh. Wrynne stepped out from behind him with a cautious tilt of her head.

  “A good night to you, gentles. I am Mistress Margaret of Galssop, landlady here.” She laughed as she spoke. “The dear mad bard told me who ye be—privately—so I could come out and let you know ’tis all right to come inside if ye will.”

  Thaydor frowned warily. “We’d rather not.”

  “Nay, this won’t do!” she scolded. “I’ll not have the Paladin of Ilios and his bride sleepin’ in the woods like a pair of common beggars when we got warm beds inside waitin’ for ye. Come in and take yer supper, both o’ ye.”

  Thaydor and Wrynne exchanged a guarded glance.

  “Thank you, Mistress Margaret,” he said darkly, “but perhaps you are not aware there is a bounty on my head?”

  “Pshaw! You think I’d turn you in, sir? Nay, not enough gold in the ground to make me or any of my house betray you after all you’ve done for our people.”

  Wrynne was touched when she saw Thaydor’s face soften at the old woman’s words. She sent him a glance that said, You see? They still believe in you.

  “Besides,” Margaret added, “you brought my son William back safe and sound from the Krenian Wars, and for that, ’tis the least I can do. Now you young folk come in and take shelter.” She was beckoning and shooing them toward her establishment like an old hen. “I won’t hear of havin’ it otherwise.”

  Wrynne sensed no hidden malice from her and, apparently, neither did Thaydor.

  “Mistress, if the king’s men learn you gave us succor, there could be consequences for you,” he warned.

  “Pah! That lout don’t know his arse from a hole in the ground anymore. If it comes to it, we’ve got hiding places in the walls—priest holes. Now come and put your horses in the stable. Our boy will see to them.”

  “You’re very kind,” Wrynne said.

  “And ye both are very welcome, lady. Come now! No dawdling. ’Tis late, and the fairies don’t like folk botherin’ their woods after dark. No tellin’ what they’d turn you into if you slept out here, anyway. A pair of toadstools, likely.”

  Wrynne bit back a giggle. I love her, she mouthed to him as the old woman waddled ahead of them through the thicket.

  “I told Maguire not to tell them who we are,” Thaydor grumbled nonetheless.

  “Oh, I think it’s safe to say that Jonty does what Jonty deems best.”

  “Harrumph.”

  She smiled at his frown and started gathering up the bedrolls. “Don’t worry, husband. It’ll be all right. We’ll sleep with one eye open.”

  “If we sleep at all,” he breathed with a wicked smile.

  They didn’t, much.

  While Jonty had his mead and his food and all the attention he’d been starved for, entertaining the whole taproom with his tales and a lyre under his arm, Wrynne and Thaydor landed in the promised bed with the chamber door locked and no thought of dire wolves or dissipated kings.

  Soon, they were completely absorbed in sensation. Thaydor showed her positions she had not known existed. Positions that might well be a sin. She didn’t care. He took her from behind on all fours, he took her from below, he took her from above, with her leg thrown across his shoulder. Wrynne gave herself to him completely in the unfamiliar bed, while the hearth’s light played across his gorgeous, velveteen skin.

  She heaved under him, her skin damp with perspiration as he took her to new heights of pleasure and left her nearly sobbing with release. He growled like he’d become the ravenous dire wolf when he came the second time, and then he finally collapsed atop her, shaking and sweaty.

  “Oh, Thaydor,” she groaned in blissful exhaustion.

  He kissed her brow and eased his heavy weight off her, blowing out a long, satisfied breath. His work done, he crashed onto his back next to her and took her hand, lifted it wearily to his lips.

  “Very well,” he panted at length. “Every now and then, the bard has a good idea.”

  Wrynne burst into laughter at this admission and punched him softly in the chest. He scooped her into his arms and pulled her atop him, kissing her once more.

  “Mine,” he said as he held her.

  “Always.”

  “You are beautiful. And very good at this,” he whispered.

  “Am I really?” she asked, rather gleeful at the latter.

  He nodded with an almost pained look of pleasure, flicking a glance down to her breasts. “Oh yes.”

  “So are you, Sir Thaydor,” she purred.

  “No, I need more practice,” he protested. “Lots and lots of practice. Daily. Nightly. Any free moment, really…”

  She laughed. Caressing and speaking lovers’ nonsense to each other, they had not even bothered to discuss yet what Jonty had revealed.

  But tomorrow would be another day, and with the authorities on the hunt for them, Wrynne was learning to enjoy the moment.

  Even more surprisingly, Thaydor was, too.

  As it turned out, her mighty paladin was not all business. All he had lacked was the right playmate.

  Until now, she mused as she stroked him in contentment. Then she pressed a tender kiss to his hard jaw, hopelessly smitten.

  Hate him?

  Impossible.

  This man was the love of her life.

  Chapter 12

  Pagans

  “Well, that’s unexpected,” Jonty said the next day, when the three of them were suddenly forced to rein in their horses.

  A thick iron chain had been strung across the lonely wooded road leading up to Silvermount, the Harmonists’ retreat.

  DANGER! KEEP OUT! read the wooden sign hanging from it, with a skull and crossbones painted beneath the words.

  But why? Wrynne glanced around uneasily. The woods seemed very still.

  Though the area felt remote, in actuality
, the mountain shrine to Efrena, goddess of harmony, lay just ten miles north of Veraidel’s bustling capital city of Pleiburg.

  She turned to her husband. “Should we be worried?”

  “Perhaps.” Brow furrowed, Thaydor sat astride Avalanche beside her, contemplating the ominous placard.

  He was dressed as a civilian today, too recognizable in his suit of armor. But considering the number of people trying to kill him, she was glad that he still wore his short coat of chain mail hidden beneath the dark blue gambeson that he had paired with black braies.

  When he glanced at her, she could not help noticing how the indigo shade of his coat made his eyes look as deep and blue as the sea.

  He shrugged off the nominal barrier before them. “Maybe they just want to scare people away.”

  “Or maybe this means they are hiding something, just as I suspected,” Jonty chimed in.

  He, too, looked much better after their brief respite at the Spicy Cup. He’d eaten enough for three men at the inn—and had drunk enough mead for half a dozen. He’d had a bath and washed the stench of Blackport Dungeon off him, shaved, washed his wild mop of dark auburn hair, and tied it back in a queue.

  Having shed the kilt that made the famous bard so readily identifiable, he was now dressed in the set of fresh clothes that Mistress Margaret had sold him. The landlady had been glad to make the trade—her grown son’s Sunday best in exchange for a few of Thaydor’s gold coins.

  The striking Runescar Highlander looked more presentable but a lot less exotic in brown braies and a dark green wool coat, with a brown belt around his waist, clean boots, and a charcoal cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thaydor had given the bard his choice of weapons from his extensive traveling armory, as well. Jonty had chosen a good sword and a dagger. Other than being armed to the teeth, they looked like three ordinary travelers.

  Unfortunately, of course, they were still being hunted by the law.

  “Let’s leave the horses here so we can approach more stealthily,” Thaydor suggested. “The Harmonists claim to be pacifists, but who knows? We may run into any opposition. Wrynne, can you hide the animals for us with a sanctuary spell?”