The Destined Queen

by Deborah Hale

  “You have no choice but to stand for it,” Rath growled. “Or lie for it. And it is none of my doing.” He tried to turn his head to glare at Maura, but his neck refused to move any more than the rest of him. “It is hers. Curse those fool cobwebs!”

  “Hers?” Gull’s gaze shifted sidelong, but he had no better luck making his head turn than Rath had. “You mean…”

  At some point during their brawl, the music had stopped, but Rath only noticed the silence now. He expected Maura’s voice to fill it, with a firm rebuke to him and Gull.

  Instead, a male voice sliced through the silence, speaking Umbrian, but with a distinctive twaran lilt. “What is the meaning of this, Gull? You fouled our warding waters beyond further use by leading the whole Hanish Ore Fleet into them. Now you anchor offshore, engaging in all manner of violence and debauchery.”

  Something about the fellow’s tone made Rath forget his good-natured tiff with Gull. Perhaps it was his outlaw nature to resent any figure of authority. Or perhaps the sythria made him spoil for a fresh fight.

  Into the cowed hush that followed the man’s words, Rath muttered, loud enough for all to hear, “You ought to try a little debauchery now and then. It might be just the thing to loosen those tight bowels of yours.”

  The silence that greeted his words put Rath in mind of a very thin-shelled egg tethering on the edge of a high wall. Even the waves seemed to stop their quiet lapping against the hull of the ship to listen. In that brittle stillness, the soft, deliberate approach of a pair of leather-soled boots sounded louder than the earlier thunder of the hand drums.

  It occurred to Rath, not for the first time, that taunting a mobile opponent while he lay helpless was a stupid thing to do. He could not help himself, though.

  The slender leather toe of a boot hooked under his chin, turning Rath’s head as he was unable to do for himself. A good-size foot poised above his throat. Long ago he had learned to hide fear, and he flattered himself that he’d become good at it. But it never got easier.

  He stared up at a man who appeared very tall and lean…at least from his angle. Clad in tight leggings and a long pale brown tunic, the man had piercing dark eyes and features so straight and perfectly proportioned Rath’s fist ached to knock something askew. Or at the very least, to muss the fellow’s close-cropped dark hair from its unnatural tidiness.

  “And who are you,” asked the owner of the boot, “to fling insults about without having either the courage or manners to rise and say them to my face?”

  “I’m the Waiting King,” Rath growled as if it was only a contemptuous jest meant to shock the other man. He would have had a harder time uttering the words as if he meant them. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t mind him, Lord Idrygon!” cried Gull. “You can’t hold an inlander responsible for the blather he spews on his first bellyful of sythria.”

  Lord Idrygon? Well, well. Lord of what? Rath wondered. He tried to stifle a traitorous notion that Lord Idrygon looked the way he’d once pictured the Waiting King.

  Rath shifted his gaze to Maura. When she finally stopped gaping at Idrygon long enough to spare him a glance, he mouthed the word please?

  She made a face, as if she had bitten into something sour. Then her lips began to move in a silent incantation and soon Rath was able to make his fingers wiggle.

  In the meantime, Lord Idrygon had withdrawn the toe of his boot, letting Rath’s head fall slack again. “A man who cannot curb his tongue when he drinks too much should not drink at all.”

  His hand now free to move, Rath seized Idrygon’s foot before it reached the deck. He held it an inch or two in the air, enough to keep the other man off balance. Except that Idrygon seemed more poised and steady standing on one foot than most men looked on two.

  Since the move was clearly not achieving its purpose, Rath let go of Idrygon’s foot and staggered upright, hauling Gull along with him. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his lower face to wipe away some of the blood dripping from his nose.

  “I’ll make you a bargain, my lord. If you curb your tongue, I will try to curb mine.” Rath jerked his head in the direction of the warding waters. “If you had asked before casting blame, we could have told you Gull did not lead the Ore Fleet here. A storm blew them nearer your coast than they usually come. We are guilty of nothing more than some damn fine sailing to wriggle out of their clutches.”

  “I saw what happened.” Idrygon’s well-shaped mouth compressed into a thin, rigid line. “If this ship had not distracted the Han, they might have seen how close they’d strayed to our coast and made some effort to avoid the warding waters. Gull should know better than to come here so near the time when the Ore Fleet sails.”

  With all the anticipation he would have felt pulling a bowstring to return enemy fire, Rath drew breath to reply.

  Before he could summon the right words, Maura appeared at his side, looking pale and agitated. “Are you saying you did not summon us with that messenger bird? But Langbard told me the first one came from here. And the second message said Captain Gull would bring us.”

  “Messenger birds?” murmured Idrygon in a flat, dazed-sounding voice. His haughty features twisted in a grimace of disbelief as he looked from Maura with her boy’s clothes and wild hair to Rath, all beaten and bloody. “But that cannot be.”

  Much as he relished making this arrogant lordling squirm, Rath also wished it could not be—that somehow this was all a huge mistake.

  “We send those fool birds out all the time.” Idrygon’s contemptuous tone left no doubt what he thought of the practice. “No one has ever answered their summons.”

  Maura’s shoulders slumped and Rath sensed what she must be thinking—that Langbard’s death and all their struggles had been for nothing.

  He wrapped his arm around her and gave a heartening squeeze. He might not be very promising king material, but he wasn’t a man to give up without trying, either.

  Leaning toward Lord Idrygon, he flashed his most impudent grin and announced, “Someone has now.”

  6

  W hat did Lord Idrygon mean about sending messenger birds all the time? The fiery sythria seethed in Maura’s belly until she feared she might make a complete fool of herself by retching on the Vestan lord’s elegantly shod feet.

  She’d assumed that she and Rath would be expected and welcomed here—find answers to all their doubts and questions. Now it appeared their arrival might pose far more questions than it answered.

  When Rath wrapped his arm around her, Maura could not decide whether to savor his clumsy gesture of support or to turn and throttle him for making such an ass of himself! No wonder Lord Idrygon looked so dazed. Any high-flown visions the poor man might have had about the Waiting King and Destined Queen must be dying a painful death.

  To give him credit, he rallied his shaken composure quickly.

  “Your pardons for beginning our acquaintance on a sour note.” He made a stiff bow to them. “These are…surprising tidings indeed. I think you had better come ashore with me now. No doubt you will desire an audience with the Council of Sages as soon as one can be arranged.”

  Maura gave a tentative nod. She supposed they would. Was it the Council of Sages who had sent the messenger birds? Would they be able to answer some of her questions, at least?

  “And you will surely wish to prepare yourselves for the audience,” continued Lord Idrygon. “Rest, groom, tend your hurts. I offer you the hospitality of my house for your stay on Margyle.”

  On the still night air, Maura fancied she heard a hushed buzz spread among Gull’s crew. The tone of that murmur told her Lord Idrygon’s offer of hospitality must be a great honor.

  But his mention of tending injuries reminded her she had other obligations. “Our thanks to you, sir. But two crewmen were wounded during our fight with the Han. They may need me in the night.” She patted her sash. “I am a healer, though perhaps modest in skill compared to many on the Islands.”

  “The wounded men should be broug
ht ashore now, as well,” said Lord Idrygon almost before Maura finished speaking. The haste of his offer suggested eagerness, but the set of his well-bred features looked more as though he was compelled to swallow some foul tonic. “They will be taken to a place where they can receive the best possible care.”

  Put that way, Maura couldn’t very well refuse the man’s invitation, could she? She glanced at Rath, her brows raised.

  He replied with a repentant shrug. His earlier belligerence seemed to have deserted him. “Go, stay, it’s all the same to me. Whatever you think best, aira.”

  “I believe we should accept Lord Idrygon’s generous invitation. He is right that we ought to make ourselves presentable before we meet with anyone else.”

  She did not want to risk making as unfavorable an impression on the Council of Sages as they had on Lord Idrygon. At least he appeared willing to give them a second chance. Others might be less forbearing.

  “Very good.” Lord Idrygon bowed again. This one looked less apt to crack his spine. “The wounded crewmen, we would find them belowdecks?”

  When Maura nodded, he turned and gave some hushed but forceful orders to three men he had brought on board with him. All wore the same boots with slightly curled toes, tight-fitted leggings and high-collared tunics, though theirs were shorter than Idrygon’s.

  The instant he finished speaking, two of his men headed toward the hatch while Idrygon and the third man escorted Rath and Maura to a long slender boat moored beside the Phantom.

  As they climbed down into the craft, Maura heard Idrygon call over his shoulder to Captain Gull, “Make sure you do not sail until we have had a chance to talk!”

  Rath tried to protest that none of this was Gull’s fault, but Idrygon gave no sign he heard…or cared.

  They rowed ashore in silence. By the light of the waning midsummer moon, Maura could make out a large number of pale-colored buildings clustered on gently sloping hills that surrounded a small bay. A sense of safety and tranquillity hung about the place. It seemed to open its arms and welcome her, perhaps recognizing how deeply she craved what it offered.

  Langbard’s cottage and Hoghill Farm had once seemed like peaceful havens to her. But even there, peril had always lurked. Kept at bay by Langbard’s power, it had skulked in the shadows waiting for a moment of weakness or inattention to strike. Here, she sensed true peace, unlike any she had ever known.

  At last the boat tied up to a small wharf. Idrygon disembarked with quick, lithe movements then turned and extended his hand to Maura. Once he had helped her ashore, he offered his hand to Rath, who ignored it, almost tipping the boat as he staggered onto the wharf.

  A mild sea breeze wafted up from the bay, but it did not smell of brine and fish like the air in Duskport. Instead, the subtle mingling of flowers and herbs reminded Maura of her garden behind Langbard’s cottage and the warm spring in the Blood Moon foothills where she and Rath had rested on their journey.

  Idrygon froze for a moment, as if watching or listening for something. Then he strode off into the night calling softly, “This way.”

  Though Maura had no idea where they were going, it seemed Idrygon might be taking them by a roundabout, little-used route. Now and then he would stop for a moment and listen before going on. He acted as if he was smuggling something forbidden, and possibly dangerous, onto the island.

  After walking uphill for a time, then doubling back, at last they reached a large pale-colored house. Again Idrygon stopped, listened and peered into the darkness before pulling open a door of elegantly carved latticework and ushering them inside.

  A single tiny lamp burned in a sconce beside the door. By its light, Maura could see they had entered an enclosed courtyard at the center of which a small fountain gurgled softly. A number of potted shrubs stood in clusters, giving the place the air of a forest glade transplanted indoors.

  “It’s beautiful!” she whispered. “I could sleep quite comfortably here.”

  She could sleep comfortably anywhere the ground was not rocking beneath her. Ever since they’d stepped off the boat, she had relished the firm foundation of solid earth under her feet.

  “No need for that.” Idrygon sounded mildly shocked at the idea of their spending the night in his courtyard.

  His reaction made Maura grin to herself in the darkness. This would be a far more comfortable sleeping place than most of the ones she and Rath had shared on their journey.

  “There is a guest chamber you may use.” Idrygon took the lamp from the wall sconce and started toward a wide archway in the right-hand wall of the courtyard.

  After a few steps, he stopped so suddenly that Maura and Rath almost bumped into him. When she peered around their host, Maura could see a faint light coming toward them. It flickered and grew brighter as someone approached, also bearing a lamp.

  An instant later a man emerged through the archway. At first glance, he looked so much like Idrygon that Maura fancied he might be some enchanted reflection.

  The other man startled at the sight of them. “You are late coming home!”

  “And you are late going to bed, Delyon,” replied Idrygon in a chiding tone. “What keeps you up?”

  Delyon held out his right hand, which gripped a scroll. “Reading.” He sounded almost guilty. “What else? Have you brought guests with you?”

  He held up his lamp to get a better look, which gave Maura a better look at him. His clothing was almost identical to Idrygon’s, but he had a rumpled air about him. He wore his hair a bit longer, and the way it curled around his face had a softening effect on his fine, regular features.

  “I have brought guests.” Idrygon took a step toward him, perhaps to block his view. “But the hour is late and introductions can wait until morning.”

  “I suppose they can.” Delyon yawned, then headed across the courtyard, raising his scroll in a kind of salute. “Sleep well, guests. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow.”

  “My brother,” said Idrygon. Then, as if to explain or apologize, he added, “Delyon is a scholar.”

  They passed through the archway and by several doors on either side of the wide, tiled gallery furnished with clusters of chairs and small tables.

  Finally Idrygon stopped in front of one door and threw it open. “I hope this will serve you for tonight.”

  Behind her, Maura heard Rath give a snort of laughter. She knew what he was thinking. This spacious chamber would be easily the most luxurious place in which they’d ever spent the night…apart from the Secret Glade, perhaps.

  A wide, low bed thrust out from the opposite wall with a canopy of fine netting draped over it, suspended from a hook in the ceiling. A pair of chairs and a small table occupied one corner, in front of a shuttered window, while another corner held the most elaborate washstand Maura had ever seen. Finely woven rush matting covered the floor, from which rose a faint aroma of dried flowers.

  “This will do very well, my lord.” Maura tried not to laugh. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It is an honor.” He set the lamp down on the elaborate washstand. “I believe you should find everything here that you might need for the night. I would ask that you remain here in the morning until I come for you.”

  A simple enough request, but it made Maura uneasy somehow. Before Rath could take it into his head to protest, she answered, “If that is what you wish, you are our host.”

  “Very good.” Idrygon stepped back out into the hallway and drew the door closed behind him. “Sleep well.”

  Maura turned to find Rath had pushed the netting aside and settled onto the bed.

  “Ah! Hope this will serve, indeed! We could have brought back half of Gull’s crew to sleep with us!” He winced as he raised his arms to tuck behind his head, but his features soon lapsed into a roguish grin. “I’m glad we didn’t, though.”

  “You can stop looking at me that way, Rath Talward!” Maura investigated the washstand where she found a ewer of the most delicate glazed pottery filled with
water, as well as a matching basin and some washing and drying cloths. “If you reckon I mean to let some battered brawler have his way with me, you had better think again.”

  “But Maura…”

  “But what?” She filled the basin and carried it to the bed, some cloths spread over her arm. “Gull did not sully my honor this evening. He only showed me how to dance…which is a good deal more than I can say for you.”

  In a gentler tone she added, “Now peel that shirt off so I can see how badly you’re bruised.”

  She set the basin on the floor beside the bed and wet one of the cloths. As Rath struggled out of his shirt, she swiped at the dried blood all over his lower face. “You must remember you are not an outlaw anymore. You are a king. You cannot answer every imagined insult with your fists.”

  “We have had this talk before.” Rath threw his shirt onto the floor, then clamped his hand around her wrist. “Besides, I thought you liked the outlaw.” He drew her toward him, as much with the shimmering heat of his gaze as with the tug of his hand. “Thought you burned for him.”

  Maura tried to hold on to her anger, but it slipped through her grasp like a greased rope—greased by Rath’s rough-edged charm and by the long-forbidden feelings she was now at liberty to indulge. It did seem a shame to have such a fine bed at their disposal and not make use of it.

  “Behave yourself, now!” She swooped to kiss a spot on his neck she knew was ticklish. “At least let me clean you up and apply a poultice where Gull kicked you—that’ll teach you to pick on a man half your size!”

  Removing her sash, she mixed a potent compound of laceweed, marshwort, moonmallow and winterwort, bound with a bit of water warmed over the lamp flame. Then she smeared it on Rath’s belly and bound it with the last of her linen strips.

  “This reminds me of the time you tended me after I fought Turgen.” Rath chuckled. “When I squirmed under your touch, you worried that you were hurting me.” This time he made no effort to hide his true response.