by K. C. Julius
Over the same mountain trails as you did, she might have said, but couldn’t.
Borne flashed his dimples at her, then addressed her in Drinn. “It’s all right, Melisa. I know it’s you. If I’m not wrong, your accent is northern?”
Maura felt a surge of relief. He hadn’t recognized who she really was. “You’re right. I come from the Valeland.”
Borne cocked his head as if he might challenge this, but never had the chance as three merchants lurched out from behind one of the barriers. Two of them made for Borne, and the third grabbed Maura, wrapping his arm tightly around her neck.
Instinctively, she swung her elbow back into her captor’s ribs, and he grunted with surprise and pain. Her unexpected blow loosened his hold just long enough for her to twist around and bring her knee up into his groin. As the merchant doubled over, she sent Halla a silent message of thanks for teaching her that particular maneuver.
She turned to find Borne’s attackers already lying sprawled in the sand at his feet, one of them holding his head in his hands and the other out cold, a blue egg rising from his forehead. Borne held out his hand, and they were off and running again. But they didn’t get far before she felt a stabbing pain in her side, so sharp it made her cry out and clutch at her ribs.
“In here,” Borne said, leading her into a long, low building. It smelled of sweet hay, and Maura dropped gratefully to the straw, panting against the pain.
Borne sank down beside her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, careful to keep her eyes lowered. “Just a stitch in my side. It will pass.”
Borne fell back into the straw, still breathing hard from the run, and lay beside her with his eyes closed. Bits of hay had found their way into his tousled golden hair, its fine tendrils curling sweetly against his powerful neck. The chiseled planes of his face were relaxed, his expression void of its typical reserve, and Maura caught a glimpse of the boy who’d once stolen a kiss from her in a secret garden. Looking back on the moment now, she supposed he’d earned it; he’d come to her aid that day, as he had again on this.
Her gaze shifted to the fluttering pulse at his throat, then swept over his broad shoulders and chest. His surprisingly elegant fingers were clasped over it, today unadorned by the jewels he wore at court.
His eyes opened, and Maura, failing to look away in time, saw them widen. The dimples disappeared, and with a soft curse, he sprang to his feet.
“Maura? Blearc’s bloody bones—what are you doing here?”
Chapter 25
Morgan
A day after Morgan and Whit parted company, the old wizard passed through the stern gates of Cardenstowe Castle. However, to get there, he’d had to circumnavigate the large royal force camped on Cardenstowe lands, which he’d managed under the cover of a moonless night.
He requested and was granted an immediate audience with Lady Rhea. Her ladyship, seeing him alone, promptly burst into tears.
“There now, Lady Rhea. No harm has befallen Lord Whit—indeed, your son is in excellent health,” he hastened to reassure her. “He’s ridden over to Lorendale, but will return here directly afterward.”
“Thank the gods!” Lady Rhea sobbed. “If I’d known you were going to keep my boy away so long, master, I should never have agreed to letting you take him. Where has he been these past months?”
“I’m sure Whit would like the pleasure of filling you in on all his adventures himself. My lady, your son sent friends ahead of us here to Cardenstowe—a youth and… his companion. Have they arrived?”
“Gastineau?” Lady Rhea cast a querying look at her steward, who had just entered the chamber with a tray of refreshments. “Have we visitors?”
The steward’s dew-lapped jaw wobbled as he made a polite bow to Morgan, but the fellow had lost flesh since the wizard’s last visit. “None that I’m aware of, m’lady. Not that I’d know.”
Lady Rhea gave a little tinkling laugh. “Nonsense, Gastineau! Nothing at Cardenstowe escapes your discerning eye.”
Morgan was deeply alarmed that the young Konigur had not made it to the stronghold, and he was forced to consider the possibility that Fynn and the å Livåri had been captured by the silver cloaks. He desperately wanted to depart then and there to renew his search, but with the royal army camped on Cardenstowe’s doorstep, he could not in good conscience leave Lady Rhea until he had ascertained she had adequate support.
“My lady—I assume you know there are soldiers from the capital in the surrounding forest. Have they yet approached you with any demands?”
Lady Rhea smoothed the creases of her skirt dismissively. “I wasn’t aware of this, but if you’re asking if I know why they’re here—I assume the High King has again dispatched henchmen to fetch me to Drinnkastel. Sir Nidden will deal with them, as he did the last men the Nelvor sent.”
“This is no small escort, my lady,” Morgan cautioned. “It’s an army.”
“My lady,” Gastineau interjected. “Have you forgotten? Sir Nidden isn’t here. He rode over to Dinstone this morning.”
Lady Rhea clutched her breast. “Gods’ preserve us—so he has!” Her eyes welled with tears once more. “We are doomed!”
Morgan gently drew one of her clenched hands into his. “No one is doomed.” He turned toward the steward, and shot him a stern look when he caught the man in the act of rolling his eyes. “Who’s in charge of Cardenstowe’s defense these days, Gastineau?”
Gastineau, looking abashed, straightened his shoulders. “Sir Nidden, master.”
“And when he’s not here?”
“Sir Hulton, I believe, master.”
Morgan squeezed Lady Rhea’s hand reassuringly. “You see, my lady? Sir Hulton is on hand to see Cardenstowe remains secure, and Lord Whit will soon be here as well. Now—it’s best if I speak with your vassals at once to ascertain that the city is prepared for whatever this army’s presence bodes.”
“But Sir Nidden must be informed!” Lady Rhea insisted, clutching at Morgan’s arm. It was almost as if she feared censure from the old bull. Morgan recalled that as a girl, Rhea Konigur had always been timid, unlike her sister Inis. And Rhea’s marriage to the late Lord Jaxe, a cold fish if ever there was one, would have done nothing to lift her confidence. He had been an austere, humorless man, and it was lucky he hadn’t crushed Whit’s spirit as well, although Morgan suspected the lad’s constant pursuit of perfection was compensation for whatever it was Jaxe had made him believe he lacked.
Morgan gently extracted himself from Lady Rhea’s grasp. “I’ll see someone is sent over to Dinstone to make sure Sir Nidden is aware of the unfolding events.” He was impatient to end the audience. He needed to quickly satisfy himself that Cardenstowe was in competent hands so that he could set off once more to seek Fynn and Grinner. “Gastineau, if you would be so good as to direct me to Hulton?”
“I would be grateful if you would send someone at once to fetch Sir Nidden back,” Lady Rhea said. “He has been such a comfort to me in Whit’s absence, and he will want to be here to welcome my son home.”
Her cheeks flushed as she sang Nidden’s praises, and Morgan, noting the disapproving set of Gastineau’s lips, wondered what form this comfort had taken.
The steward needed no urging to enlighten Morgan once they had left her ladyship’s presence. It seemed that in Whit’s absence, Sir Nidden had wasted no time placing his stamp on Cardenstowe. Apparently this included Lady Rhea, into whose boudoir he had been admitted.
Morgan withheld judgment on this arrangement. Whit’s zealously religious father had made no secret of his celibacy in his later years, and the wizard did not begrudge the woman a warm bed. But he had more than a passing interest in Nidden’s aspirations with regard to Cardenstowe itself. Did the old knight hope to formalize his relationship with Whit’s mother? Any issue from such a union, if Lady Rhea wasn’t already past child-bearing, woul
d have no legal impact on Whit’s inheritance, but it would be prudent for the young lord to reassert his own authority as soon as possible. The inevitable struggle to see Urlion’s heir on the Einhorn Throne would require Cardenstowe’s unmitigated support, which Morgan could count on from Whit. Another cock roosting in the same nest would only complicate matters.
These troubling thoughts accompanied Morgan as he made his way to the armory, where he found Sir Hulton overseeing the distribution of arms in preparation for riding out to confront the royal troops.
Morgan counseled firmly against this. “There’s no need to provoke conflict, Sir Hulton. At present, the Nelvor’s men haven’t made any demands, have they?”
Hulton frowned. “Not yet, but Sir Nidden left orders to take the offensive should Cardenstowe come under threat while he was away.”
“Then since Cardenstowe isn’t under imminent threat of attack, I strongly urge you to send word of this occupation of her lands to Lord Whit at Lorendale. It’s up to him, not Nidden, to decide how to address the situation.”
Fortunately, Hulton agreed to this suggestion, and one of Cardenstowe’s famed crows was dispatched forthwith to carry a missive to Lorendale Castle.
Although he would have preferred not to, Morgan then relayed Lady Rhea’s request. “Sir Nidden should also be informed of the army’s presence. But I must have your assurance, sir, that you and the rest of Lord Cardenstowe’s vassals can restrain Nidden from flying out willy-nilly to engage with these royal troops. If you cannot promise this, it would be best if Nidden be convinced to remain at Dinstone until such time as he and those who serve him are needed.”
Shouts from the ramparts forestalled any such guarantee, and Morgan raced after Hulton up the steps to where a dozen of Cardenstowe’s knights lined the wall facing the road leading to their gates. Sir Olin, who had made the journey with Morgan to Chelmsford-on-Erolin over a year ago, was among them, and the young knight gave the wizard a warm, if swift, greeting.
“Royal force approaching, sir!”
Not only approaching, Morgan saw; mounted silver cloaks were pounding up the road.
“Five groats on the silvers!” another knight called from the far end of the wall.
Morgan followed the man’s pointing finger to the five riders charging across the moor. They were making for the castle, but it was clear that the royal soldiers storming up from the south would intercept them before they reached it.
“You must open the gates!” the wizard shouted. He grabbed Hulton and hauled him back down the stairs.
“Who are those riders coming across the moor?” the knight gasped.
“I’ll explain later, but you must give the order now to open the gates! I swear to you by Dylar’s light, Lord Whit would command you to do the same!”
Olin, following behind them, threw his support in with the wizard. “Do as Master Morgan says, Hulton!”
Ser Hulton’s gaze shifted between them. “If they’re outlaws, it’s on my head, you know.” He recoiled slightly from Morgan’s thunderous look, then shouted, “Open the gates!”
The portcullis began its slow rise.
The wizard snatched the reins from a startled boy who was leading a stallion across the courtyard. “Close the gates as soon as those five riders are through!” he cried, leaping astride, and ducked as the horse charged under the ascending grate.
If they make it through.
Morgan intended to see that they did. But to do so, he’d have to insert himself between Fynn’s party and the royal troops. It was a gamble, but the soldiers might consider Morgan enough of a prize to buy a few precious seconds for their original quarry.
Morgan heard Fynn call his name. “Keep going!” the wizard shouted, then thundered past them toward the advancing troops, his staff held high.
At the sight of him careening toward them, the royal force, to a man, pulled frantically on their reins, and many cried out, lifting their eyes to the sky. They wheeled their horses and fled back in the direction from which they’d come.
Dumbfounded, Morgan reined in. Then a wry smile curved his lips as it dawned on him that the silver cloaks believed he had the power to summon the black drake. If they’d known anything about the dragons’ enmity toward wizards, he would be their prisoner by now.
He turned in his saddle to watch the five riders stream through the castle gates, then trotted after them.
Fynn Konigur had arrived at the stronghold of Cardenstowe.
Chapter 26
Whit
At Lorendale Castle, Whit was greeted by a jumble of makeshift lean-tos and tents that had sprung up outside its walls. Rumors of an imminent Helgrin invasion had driven farmers and fishermen from their villages to seek succor in their lord’s stronghold, but it appeared Lord Nolan had not yet opened his gates to them.
Whit himself was questioned sharply before the guard, realizing belatedly who he was, admitted him. Torrin, Lorendale’s reeve, was in the main courtyard, and when he saw Whit, an ominous glower settled on his craggy face.
“Lord Whit.” The reeve gave his forelock a cursory tug, then fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a twist of parchment. “There’s been a crow from Cardenstowe. Lord Nolan hasn’t seen the message yet. He rode out early with Master Pearce.”
“Do you mind if I have a look first?”
Torrin raised his brows, but he handed the message over.
Whit swore under his breath as he scanned the lines Master Morgan had penned informing him and also Lorendale about the royal army ensconced in Cardenstowe Forest. He stuffed the scrap in his pocket. “I’ll see that Lord Nolan receives this as soon as he returns. Where’s the rest of the family?”
The furrows in the reeve’s brow deepened. “Master Gray’s on the trainin’ grounds. But surely ye—”
Whit didn’t wait for him to finish. He followed the sound of swordplay to the training grounds, where he found his cousin sparring with the gruff swordmaster—Draylan, the man’s name was, if he remembered correctly.
Gray had grown at least a foot since Whit had last seen him. He’d also developed a respectable sword arm, likely because Draylan was offering him no lenience for the slightest misjudgment. Such as just now, for when Gray glanced over to see who had entered the yard, Draylan sent his sword spinning out of his grip.
Gray cursed savagely, then stalked over to Whit, stripping off his stained tunic as he approached.
“If you’ve come to make an honest woman of my sister, you’re overdue, cousin. Your bastard is making its entrance into the world as we speak.”
Whit felt as if the breath had been punched from his lungs. “Halla is here?”
“You didn’t know? Slunk in last night,” Gray said, his tone contemptuous, “as round as a barrel and groaning like a sow.”
“She’s pregnant?”
“Not for much longer.” Gray cocked his head, examining Whit’s face. “No nail gouges, cousin? I’m impressed that you were able to bed my wayward sister and emerge unscathed. She was spitting like a feral cat over the betrothal.”
Whit opened his mouth, then shut it again. Halla must have been taken by force, and so had named him as the father to protect herself from disgrace. Still, it took an effort of will not to strike the smirk off Gray’s face.
“I need to speak with Nolan as soon as he returns—on urgent business.”
“More urgent than the birth of your child?” Gray shook his head in mock disappointment. “Of course, my sister’s present state would dampen any man’s—”
Whit grabbed the folds of the lout’s tunic, hauling him so close that their noses nearly touched. But just then two horses entered the yard, and Nolan leapt off one of them, throwing his reins to a stableboy before approaching Whit, his mouth set in disapproval. Gray wrenched himself furiously from Whit’s grip.
“So,” said Nolan. “You decided to com
e after all.”
Whit forced himself to quell his frustration at being held accountable for something in which he’d had no part. “We need to talk, Nolan. In private.”
His cousin narrowed his eyes. “Surely you’ll want to go to my sister first?”
Whit sensed he would not be given an option. “Well, I… yes, of course.”
Nolan turned to Pearce. “Take him to Halla’s solar, brother.” He lifted his chin at Whit. “After you’ve seen her, you can find me in my chambers in the west tower.” He turned on his heel and stalked from the yard, leaving Whit with no choice but to follow his youngest cousin.
“Halla just arrived yesterday,” Pearce said as they fell into step together. “She said you’ve been traveling together and then got separated, but she wouldn’t say where.” He cast Whit a curious look.
“It’s a long story,” Whit replied.
Pearce didn’t pursue the conversation, and they continued in awkward silence through a series of halls, then up a staircase to a closed door. A low, angry moan came from behind it, and Whit took a step back as the door swung open at Pearce’s knock. The woman on the other side of it took one look at Whit, then swung the door wide.
Pearce was already retreating.
“Aren’t you coming too?” Whit asked.
Pearce gave an emphatic shake of his head.
Releasing a steadying breath, Whit stepped over the threshold. The several women who had been hovering over the broad bed fell back at the sight of him, except for one, who remained bent between what he belatedly realized were Halla’s splayed legs. He quickly averted his gaze, only to meet that of his aunt, whose eyes were shooting daggers at him.
Lady Inis crossed to him in two strides, then slapped him full in the face. “You will rectify this situation,” she hissed, “as soon as your child is safely delivered!”
“Stop it, Mother!” Halla’s protest was broken off by a sharp gasp.
But Whit knew then that he would do as Lady Inis demanded. It was his fault Halla had been captured by the slavers, and after she’d escaped from them, he’d failed to bring her safely home. It was he who had abandoned her in Albrenia to be violated, and the least he could do was play his part to save her from dishonor.
