by Gaelen Foley
“How’s that? Was it poisonous?”
“Worse.” Jonty gazed at him wistfully. “Evil is such a strange force, Thaydor. Sometimes it’s just a small thing, some petty, personal failing. But there is another kind—pure evil.”
“Tell me about it,” he said with a snort. “I’ve been fighting it my whole life.” He looked from one man to the other in deepening confusion. “But I know you didn’t come here to philosophize with me. So somebody tell me what the hell is going on.”
“We believe you are in danger,” the newcomer informed him, echoing the servant’s earlier claim.
“Another day, another foe that wants to kill me.” He let out a cynical sigh. “Who is it now? King of Aisedor? Or the leader of the Urms? Tell ’em to get in line.”
“No, Thaydor. This time it’s Wrynne,” said Jonty.
Thaydor stared at him, then frowned and turned back to the door. “Right. If you’ll excuse me.”
“This is no jest,” the sorcerer informed him.
“We think the fire thistle might have stung her today when we went to Silvermount.”
“Wait. You took my wife back to Silvermount?” he exclaimed, pivoting. “What about the rocs?”
“They’re all dead,” Jonty hastily assured him. “Unfortunately, that was not the greatest danger on the premises.”
“What did your wife tell you about today?” the sorcerer pursued.
Thaydor looked at them blankly. “Nothing. I only walked in about an hour ago. And we weren’t really…talking.”
“Oh, perfect,” Jonty muttered to his companion. “You see what this means?”
“It’s already using her to try to get control of him.” Novus shook his head. “Especially now that he’s king.”
“She didn’t by chance try to kill you in there, did she?” Jonty asked, seeming to holding his breath.
Thaydor looked from one to the other, bewildered. “Have you two lost your bloody minds?”
Just then, Reynulf came marching into the corridor.
“Oh, good, Thaydor, there you are. What do you want me to do with Eudo? Do we bother with a trial or can I just kill him?”
“Not right now,” he said, waving him off.
Suddenly, the chamber door opened behind him, and there stood Wrynne, dressed just as he had left her. Which was to say, barely dressed at all.
Indeed, she looked like the very embodiment of sex.
Skin flushed, lips swollen, hair tousled, and every curve of her magnificent body on full display, she leaned in the doorway as the other three men gaped at her for a heartbeat and then swiftly averted their eyes.
As well they might, if they valued their lives.
Thaydor stared seethingly at them, making sure none was peeking, then he turned to her. “What are you doing out here? Did you need something?”
“Oh yes.” A radiant smile broke out across her face, but she stared right past him. “Reynulf!” she purred, running a feverish gaze over the man who had once given her nightmares. “Bloodletter, such a bad boy,” she teased, twirling her hair, then she bit her lower lip. “Are you busy right now?”
Thaydor’s jaw dropped.
Chapter 20
Poison
“Rrright.” Reynulf looked around uncomfortably at the others. “Is she drunk?”
“No,” Jonty said, while Thaydor moved angrily to the doorway, looming over her.
“How dare you?” he thundered at her, red-faced. “Get in the room, now!”
“Easy, man!” the bard warned, launching over between the two of them, as though he feared Thaydor might do her some act of violence. “This isn’t her fault!”
“Get out of my way.” Wrynne pouted, trying to peer past them. “I want to see Reynulf.”
“Leaving.” The red knight lifted his hands in surrender and backed away, looking bewildered.
“Oh, don’t go! Mmm.” She ogled Reynulf’s rear end from under Jonty’s arm as he retreated.
Reynulf shot her a look of incredulity over his shoulder, then shook his head and strode away.
Thaydor never took his eyes off her. “Why is my wife acting like a harlot?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“That’s what we’re here to explain, and why we’ve spent the past hour trying to get a meeting with you. They wouldn’t let us see you!”
He glared at the bard. “You have my attention. Now, talk.”
“The simplest way to put it is that she’s sort of, well…possessed.”
“I just had the best sex of my life with a possessed woman?” he shouted in astonishment.
She laughed gaily. “It was good, wasn’t it? But I’m only getting started. Come on, boys, who’s next? Thaydor couldn’t satisfy me. But I’ll bet one of you can. Or both of you.”
“Why, you little—”
“Not her fault!” the bard insisted again.
“Jonty! My darling,” she moaned, turning her dewy-eyed attentions to the Highlander, slipping her arms around his waist.
Right in front of Thaydor.
“Won’t you sing for me, Jonty?” she asked, her lips skimming the bard’s earlobe. “Your voice melts me.”
“Stop that before you get me killed!” he scolded, his cheeks reddening as he slipped out of her grasp and backed away. “Wrynne, you’re not helping yourself here. You’ve got to fight this.”
“Fight what?” she asked prettily. “Oh, hullo, Novus.”
“Don’t look at her!” Thaydor barked.
“We’re not!” Jonty cried. “I’m sorry, dear, but this is for your own good.” With a scowl, he shoved her none too gently back into her chamber, pulled the door closed, and held it shut while she protested, pounding on it.
“Let me out! You can’t make me a prisoner! Oh, please. All of you are so boring!”
Possessed? Thaydor walked away, stunned, utterly confused, and pretty well humiliated, too. He looked at them in shock. “What the hell happened to my wife?”
Novus took over the task of holding the door shut so that Jonty could go over to him and attempt to explain.
“She’s under the influence of a very dark magic right now. The venom of the fire thistle turns a person wicked. The more time that passes, a perfectly nice person can begin turning into a very devil.”
“Or a whore?” Thaydor asked coldly, angry at himself for allowing her to sway him where all the Fonjan harlots had failed—and even worse, for enjoying it so much.
He should have known.
Jonty looked pained by his bitter question but forged on. “According to our research, the more innocent the victim, the less immunity he or she has to something like this. In such hosts, it takes hold all the faster and has a more powerful effect. Listen, we don’t have much time.”
“Fine. We’ll get the Golden Master to perform an exorcism—”
“That’s not going to do the trick! Thaydor, listen to me. I know you feel betrayed right now, but it’s not her fault. I’m afraid your wife’s condition is very serious.”
“Ahem, if I may.” Novus used a spell to lock the door and joined them over by the window at the end of the hallway.
“By all means,” the bard muttered, gesturing to him to take over the explanations, and looking rather at his wit’s end with Thaydor’s hardheadedness.
As Novus turned to him, Thaydor eyed the exotic-looking stranger skeptically, unsure if he trusted him.
Novus returned his gaze with equal wariness.
To be sure, there was no love lost between the followers of Ilios and Okteus. On the other hand, Thaydor did not sense a particular aura of evil around him.
“Blame me if it helps,” Novus said, addressing him as though he were still simply paladin and not king.
It came as a relief.
“I took the group of them to Silvermount,” he continued. “I needed their assistance to send the fire thistle back to the Infernal Plane so that no one else might become infected.”
“But someone did,” Thaydor said coldly, q
uietly.
“Your lady insisted on coming despite your men’s protests, because she alone knew where the firechoke was.”
He clenched his jaw. It certainly sounded like Wrynne, launching herself into the thick of the danger.
“We had her well protected,” Jonty said in dismay. “All her guards were around her, as were Novus and I. Then Novus opened the portal to the Infernal Plane, as planned, and I was to have cast the fire thistle through it. But the rocs attacked, and Wrynne suggested I use my music to calm them, which I agreed to because I was afraid the three lads would die.”
He looked away as another wave of anger washed through him. “So, they were with you, too?”
“They did well, Thaydor! The point is, Wrynne ended up with the job of throwing the fire thistle into the portal. Handled carefully, it didn’t seem that dangerous. Especially for someone who’s an expert on plants. And don’t blame Novus, despite what he says. He was in a trance with the effort to hold the portal open and stop any demons from coming through. Nobody saw exactly what happened, but we soon suspected she got stung. Novus asked her flat out and she denied it. Lied to his face.”
“Tell me she wasn’t acting like this with all of you earlier today?” he asked in a strangled tone.
“No, no, this is new,” Jonty said grimly, glancing over at the door, where she still knocked and scratched and begged to get out, occasionally calling them all bastards for locking her in.
His little Wrynne, cursing like a fishwife!
“What made us suspect she’d been infected was when I got wounded up at Silvermount,” Jonty said with a flicker of horror passing behind his green eyes at the memory. “Wrynne tried to heal me but couldn’t. Her ability was gone.”
“What?” he breathed.
“Novus had to do it. And then she lied about that, too,” Jonty added.
“And now this,” Novus said. “As you can see, it’s escalating quickly. Taking hold. Very soon, she’ll be out of control. You need to be careful around her. Because just as the fire thistle made Lord Eudo target you, it will likely cause your wife to do the same.”
“That’s impossible. She loves me.”
“But the evil that’s taking over in her hates good, Thaydor,” the bard warned, shaking his head in regret. “You’re known for being, well, rather ridiculously good. Ergo, it hates you. Weren’t you the first one the Silver Sage marked for death?”
“Because I spoke out against him and his influence over the king.”
“Of course you did. You make my point for me.”
Thaydor heaved a frustrated sigh, his mind spinning. “Well, it sure didn’t seem like she hated me in there.”
“Oh really?” the bard countered. “She wasn’t using you? Wasn’t manipulating you?”
“He’s obviously not used to being treated the way the rest of us are by females,” the sorcerer muttered.
The bard snorted in cynical agreement. “You need to be on your guard around her,” Jonty repeated.
“I don’t believe this.”
“Thaydor, right now, Wrynne is turning dark. You must be prepared to expect treachery from her until we figure out how to save her. Just remember, what you’re seeing isn’t really her. This isn’t her fault. You mustn’t hold this against her.”
Folding his arms across his chest, he was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. “So what do we do? How do we cure her?”
Novus and Jonty exchanged a grim glance.
“What?”
“There is no known cure,” Jonty forced out.
Thaydor turned white. “Then find one! Make one!”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Novus said. “This thing is very rare. It is said that even on the Infernal Plane, these plants only bloom every hundred years. The chance of one escaping Hell is miniscule. There haven’t been enough cases for study, and in the few that have been found, the patient ultimately—” He stopped abruptly.
“What?” Thaydor demanded.
“Dies.” Novus’s quicksilver eyes were difficult to read. “The poison of the fleur du mal kills the spirit first and, later on, the body.”
Ilios. Thaydor turned away, feeling as though he’d been struck in the gut, and spent a moment trying to gather himself.
“Very well,” he said with difficulty at last. “You have the first case available now. Experiment on Eudo if you must. But you have to save my wife. I order it. As your king.”
His innards felt like cold porridge as he faced the reality of the task set before him. He had been hesitant about taking the reins of power, but this changed things. To save Wrynne…
Very well.
“Spare no expense. You have the resources of Veraidel at your disposal. Just name it. Heal her.” Thaydor looked from one to the other, sickened by the thought of how many people Wrynne had healed, including him, but now that she was the one dying, they dared say there was no cure?
“If you succeed, you shall have whatever you want as your reward. But if you fail,” he said to Novus, “I promise you, there will be hell to pay.”
“Thaydor, don’t threaten the man!”
“It’s all right,” Novus mumbled to the bard.
“And you!” Thaydor turned on Jonty. “How could you let this happen to her? Never mind the idiot knights, I told you specifically to protect her!”
The sorcerer came to Jonty’s defense. “It was a little difficult for him when the rocs ripped his guts out and nearly started eating them—sire.”
Taken off guard, Thaydor fell silent.
Jonty looked away.
Thaydor dropped his gaze and strove to get his rage under control. There was no need to take it out on them. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed in an awkward tone. “I’m sure you did your best. It’s been a very trying day.”
“No, you’re right. It is my fault,” Jonty mumbled, head down, and obviously distraught. “I should have found a way. It should’ve been me it happened to. You told me to protect her and I failed.”
“We all failed,” Thaydor said. “I should have never let her out of the Eldenhold. But it’s just, when she asks me for anything…I can’t say no.”
“Even if you had, do you really think she would’ve stayed put?” Jonty asked, and they both knew the answer to that.
Not that the realization helped.
“She is to be my queen.” Thaydor swallowed hard and tried to check his rising wrath, to little effect. “I need her by my side. If I lose Wrynne, I don’t give one damn what happens to this kingdom or anyone else in it. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” Novus replied, looking quite tranquil. “That’s probably what the evil in her had in mind all along.”
Thaydor looked at him in angry surprise.
“Destroying her destroys you. Two birds, one stone.”
“No, a whole flock, actually,” the bard said.
“What do you mean?” Thaydor countered.
Jonty shrugged. “Say you refuse to take the kingship because of what’s happened to her. Chaos ensues. Rival warlords take to the battlefield to vie for power. Of course, they’d probably have to hunt you down and kill you, just to be sure you didn’t change your mind and try to come back.”
“So?” Thaydor replied darkly. “Without her, I don’t care if I live or die.”
“Well, Reynulf would probably come out the winner in a struggle of this magnitude. Sorry,” Jonty said, “but he’d make a terrifying king.”
“Of course, if you were dead,” Novus said, “the Lady Wrynne herself could claim the crown, as your wife. What then? Are we to be ruled by a madwoman?”
“Perhaps Wrynne and Reynulf would reign together,” Jonty persisted. “Bloodletter and the Mad Queen, now there’s a match—”
“Enough!” Thaydor wrenched out, even though he saw what the two were doing, trying to goad him into doing what the world asked of him.
The bard shrugged. “That, my friend, is what happens if you choose now, of all times, to walk
away from your duty.”
“You’ve made your bloody point,” Thaydor grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself.
He could hear her scratching at the door and wheedling him to unlock it. It sounded like she was crying. “Why are you doing this to me, Thaydor? Why are you being so cruel? Don’t you love me anymore?”
He flinched at the question and finally nodded at the men. “Very well. Do whatever it takes. Anything you need to help you find this cure, you have only to name it.”
Novus inclined his head in a token bow. “I’ll go get started.”
“Bring me any word of your progress.”
“Wait, what about Wrynne?” Jonty interrupted. “What are we going to do with her in the meantime? When we make her better—and we will—she’ll be horrified at how she acted. She needs to be protected. From herself. And from others who might take advantage of her, er, peculiar state.”
Thaydor blazed with sudden rage at the thought of any man daring to accept one of the little maniac’s lustful invitations. But again, he checked his urge to smash cities at the thought.
“You’re right,” he said with grim, forced calm. “I will not let my queen become an object of mockery. If it’s evil at the root of her…disease, then we should transfer her to holy ground, where the Light can help protect her.”
He nodded to himself as the answer came clear. “I want her taken to the Bastion and watched around the clock by the nuns and clerics there. Tell them I want prayers and orisons said for her continuously until she’s healed. Can you go with her?” he asked Jonty. “I’m needed here. Perhaps your music will help the sisters keep her calm.”
“Certainly. Whatever you want me to do.”
“If she tries to tempt you, Jonty—”
“Please. I do have one stray moral here and there.” He glanced at Novus, who was still waiting to see if there was anything else.
“I’ll be on my way, then,” the sorcerer said.
“Novus,” Thaydor called after him.
He glanced back in question.
“Thank you,” Thaydor said.
The longhaired sorcerer gave a curt nod and then strode off, his black cloak flowing out behind him.
