Prince of Swords

by Linda Winstead Jones

  His head settled beside hers, and in a gruff whisper he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” she answered breathlessly. “You did not hurt me. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised. Sex is quite fun, isn’t it? I didn’t ask you here for purposes of fun but out of necessity, but since you’re here and we do seem to get along so well…” She wrapped an arm possessively around Lyr to touch his finely sculpted back and raked her foot along his leg. “Stay with me for a while?”

  7

  LYR THANKED THE STARS THAT IT WAS HIS CUSTOM TO ride at the front of their party. He didn’t think he could look at Rayne and not somehow reveal that he’d been affected more than he should’ve been by their encounter last night. He’d gone to her bed intending to do what had to be done and nothing more, but when he’d found her waiting, naked…soft…his…everything had changed.

  Maybe it would make a difference to Ciro’s plans that she was no longer a virgin. She was so trusting, even in bed, even when she moaned his name and lifted her hips to his, that he was almost certain there was nothing she could do which would tarnish her heart or her soul. Lyr didn’t know what criteria a demon would use when choosing a wife, but if bedding Rayne last night meant he wouldn’t have to kill her, then he could not be sorry. As if bedding her had been a chore…

  He’d do the same again, given the same circumstances. There was no way he could send one of these men to her bed, not when he had begun to feel so blasted proprietary about her. The unexpected sensation was a temporary inconvenience and would not last. He’d saved her, she’d helped him find the dagger, he’d given her his word that he would see her to safety. What honorable man wouldn’t feel a bit proprietary?

  A bit. Ha.

  Segyn left his post at the end of the party and joined Lyr. “Something’s wrong with m’lady,” he whispered, so none of those behind them would hear.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but she’s been acting strangely all day.”

  “Strangely in what way?”

  “Look at her.”

  Lyr hesitated, then turned his head about in a casual manner. Rayne looked fine to his eyes. A bit tired thanks to a lack of sleep, a little wistful, maybe a touch too happy with an added bit of color to her cheeks…“She looks fine to me.”

  “She has not engaged Swaine or Til in conversation all morning, and you know how she likes to chatter nonsense. She thinks it makes the time go by faster.” The older man rolled his eyes, expressing his opinion of that idea.

  “Maybe she’s run out of things to say,” Lyr offered logically.

  “Unlikely, m’lord. There have been many times when she’s been content to chatter and say nothing at all. I suspect she might be up to something, and so her mind has wandered elsewhere.”

  “What might she be planning?”

  “Escape, perhaps. You didn’t see fit to leave her in the village. Perhaps she’d just as soon settle there as continue on with us. We’ve been traveling at a steady pace for more than a week now, and she is unaccustomed to such travel.”

  “She did not wish to stay behind,” Lyr said confidently.

  “How do you know?”

  “We discussed the matter.”

  Segyn gave one of his snorts. “And of course she wouldn’t lie to you and agree to whatever you might say and then turn around and do something else entirely.”

  Lyr studied Segyn’s rough profile. “You do not think highly of women, as a whole.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Well, you can take my word as truth in this matter. Rayne did not wish to remain in that village. She is not plotting escape.”

  A moment later Segyn said, “Women and war do not mix well.”

  Lyr could not argue with that statement. “Is that what happened to your kitchen maid? War came between you?”

  “That is a tale for another time, boy.” With that, Segyn turned his horse about and returned to his post at the end of the line.

  IT WAS ALL RAYNE COULD DO TO KEEP HERSELF FROM humming as she rode along. She did smile on occasion, for no reason at all, and she found herself staring more often than usual at the back of Lyr’s head. More than once she willed him to look back at her, to smile—as she had fantasized that he could—to give her a nod that no one else would understand.

  But the only time he looked at her was at the urging of Segyn, for some reason. And even then, there was no expression of softness on his face, no acknowledgment of what they had shared last night—and this morning.

  Perhaps the events of the past few months had changed her outlook on the world, but it seemed a waste not to embrace such wonders as the pleasure of physical love. Lyr had warned her sternly that no one else was to know of their liaison, and he had assured her it would not happen again. At the time she had nodded agreeably, but in truth she did not understand why. He was not promised, not as of yet. She was betrothed to a monster, but that was not of her choosing so she should not be bound by that promise. They were free for now, and they were wonderfully compatible. So why did he insist that there could be no more?

  It was very wanton of her to wish for more, but she could not deny that she did. Perhaps those wishes alone would tarnish her heart, but she didn’t think so. How could something so beautiful be a sin? How could the joining of two people, two souls, be anything less than pure?

  Lyr didn’t love her, and she could not say that she loved him either, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some enhanced level of caring in what they’d shared.

  And would share again, if she had her way. She’d lived a meek life, and look where it had gotten her! It was time to take the chances she had never before taken, to demand that which she knew to be right.

  When they stopped to allow the horses to rest, she casually made her way to the edge of the road, where Lyr stood alone. “It’s a lovely day for traveling,” she said, her voice loud enough for the others to hear if they wished to listen.

  “Yes, it is.” He turned and looked at her, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a touch of pain in his piercing eyes, eyes which were more narrowed than usual, as if he were looking into the sun.

  “I’m much the better for my night in a proper bed.” Her smile was innocent as she rocked up onto her toes and back down again.

  The pain in Lyr’s eyes increased, and she could not help but notice that the deep blue of his eyes was the color she had always imagined the sea to be, though all she had was a hand-colored picture on which to base that assumption. Would she ever see the ocean? Would she ever dance? Would she live to love and bear children and laugh without fear?

  Rayne took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Do you know what I have learned from my time as Ciro’s prisoner, from my days when I thought I was doomed?”

  “I have no idea, but I imagine you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear or not.”

  She didn’t allow his dour mood to dampen her enthusiasm. “Every day is a gift. Every day, Lyr. We cannot live our lives based on what we plan for tomorrow or next week or next year, because those days might never arrive. Life is meant to be lived to the fullest, to be grabbed with joy and wonder and…and embraced.”

  “When did you come to this enlightenment?” he asked dourly.

  “Very early this morning,” she confessed, “as you were kissing the back of my knee and trailing your fingers—”

  “Enough.” He lifted a hand to emphasize the single word. “We did what had to be done and that is all.”

  “We did much more than was necessary, Lyr Hern, and you know it. Do I frighten you in some way?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Were you…displeased?” She knew he had not been, but wanted to hear him say so himself.

  “No, but—”

  “You are so dedicated to your duties as Prince of Swords, I imagine you often neglect Lyr Hern the man.”

  “They are one and the same,” he said.

  “Are they?” she asked. “Truly?�
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  She would’ve asked more questions, but Swaine joined them to inquire about the route they’d take that afternoon and into the next morning. Apparently there was an alternate route to the one they’d traveled on their way to her home, one which might be a day or two quicker. Rayne knew that revealing the nature of her relationship with Lyr to his men would without question end all possibilities of more, so she allowed the subject to drop almost entirely.

  “Every day,” she said simply, and then she walked away.

  Behind her she heard Swaine ask, “Every day what?”

  “I have no idea,” Lyr responded convincingly enough. “You know how the woman rambles.”

  Rayne could not help but wonder if their new route would take them into more villages, where there would be more inns and more beds—and privacy. As long as his men were watching, Lyr would reveal nothing of his feelings for her or for anyone—or anything—else.

  TO THOSE WHO DID NOT KNOW OR ACCEPT THE NATURE of the war at hand, it appeared that Prince Ciro had returned home to comfort his ailing father. Arik, drained of much blood but still possessed of his soul, hung to life by a thread—but he did as Ciro instructed when his recently returned son pushed into his weakened mind.

  Arik told the priests that his illness necessitated a passing of the throne to his son, and they agreed. Father and son made a few public appearances from the balcony outside the emperor’s chamber, where Arik passed a scepter with trembling hands, and a priest placed a crown on Ciro’s head.

  It felt good.

  When Ciro had come to Arthes, he’d expected to find more resistance among the people there, but he quickly discovered that there were many who chose to turn a blind eye to the truth. They did not believe what they’d been told. They did not believe that a demon could possess their prince. They wished only to live their simple lives undisturbed by politics, and he allowed that foolish wish to continue. For now. After he won, after all the armies that opposed him were defeated, they would discover the truth for themselves. By that time, it would be much too late for resistance.

  Ciro continued to study the priests at his leisure, in no hurry to oust them all from the palace. There were only a few pure souls among them, and many of the souls he glimpsed were almost as dark as his own. Those were the ones he would call to his side as his power grew.

  Emperor Ciro walked past those of his Own who guarded his father’s newly appointed chambers. They bowed, as was right and proper, as he walked through the door to the small, plain room which was intended for a minor servant.

  His father sat in a small hard chair, bound tightly even though any movement was increasingly difficult for the rapidly aging man. It was important that the former emperor not forget who was in power here, that he not begin to think that he might have a chance at escape.

  If the former emperor were able to speak freely, those Columbyanans who were so anxious to dismiss the idea of evil in the palace would believe. That could not happen.

  Alone with his father, Ciro pulled up a chair and unbound one feeble hand. “How are you feeling today, Father? Poorly, I see by your color and the fading light in your eyes.” Ciro pulled his father’s thin wrist to his mouth and nipped the vein there, licking at the blood which seeped out too slowly. The old man didn’t have much to give.

  Except the soul, which Ciro was saving for later…but not much later. As soon as he had what he wanted, the old man’s soul would be his.

  The former emperor sobbed as Ciro tasted, a shadow of the man he had once been, the shell of a rebel who’d taken the throne from his legitimate half-brother.

  Ciro didn’t take too much blood, as he was not yet ready to remove his father from this world. There was still much to be learned from the old man, who had thus far been able to hide any knowledge he possessed. There was strength in the old man still, but it wouldn’t last.

  Arik would die broken, with nothing left of the man he had once been.

  “I can take your soul at any time,” Ciro said as he laid his father’s limp hand on his lap. “It is gray, tarnished by the lives you have taken and the lies you have told, darkened by your thirst for power and your willingness to start a war to get what you wanted.”

  “I did what was best for Columbyana,” Arik whispered, as a whisper was all he had the strength for.

  “You did what was best for Arik, you selfish bastard.” Ciro smiled. “Now, let’s move on to the current war, shall we? Where is your army, Father? I imagine they’ll be here soon enough, but it would be nice to know when they might arrive so I and my men can be prepared. None can challenge me for the right to the throne as you challenged your brother, but I imagine there are those who will fight me in any case.” If he knew precisely where the army was located, he could place his Own between them and Arthes. With luck, they’d never reach the palace.

  He expected some kind of protest from his father, but the old man remained still. In fact, there was an unexpected jolt of life in the shriveled body.

  “What are you thinking, old man? What has you believing there is even a shred of hope that I won’t win this war?”

  Was it his imagination, or did his father attempt to smile?

  Ciro grasped his father’s chin and yanked the old man’s head up so their eyes met. He felt the demon rise up, and knew his own eyes turned black as night. “Tell me.”

  He pushed into the old man’s brain. Feeble as he was, Arik fought hard to hide his thoughts. The former emperor began to ponder on days past to conceal anything of importance. He thought of Ciro’s mother, and another woman Ciro did not know. He thought of Ciro as a baby, as a child, as a young man untouched by demons. He thought of red-berry pie, and jokes told to him by a minister of finance with whom he had been friends.

  Ciro pushed harder, trying to make his way past the memories to see the present, to see what made the dying man smile.

  He grasped his father’s throat tight. “Tell me what I need to know. Show me what makes you smile when the loss of your very soul is at hand.”

  A few words trickled through, as Arik began to tire. Brother. His own brother, Sebestyen, who’d been dead all these years? No, Ciro’s brother…a half-brother he had never known existed.

  Babies. Whose babies? Whose? Sebestyen’s sons.

  “There were no babies. Sebestyen’s whore and his get are dead and have been for a very long time,” Ciro whispered as his grip tightened.

  Arik closed his eyes. A peacefulness settled over him quickly. He spat out one, slightly garbled message. “You are not emperor. You are not my son.”

  And then he was gone. His soul, his life, his memories, and his knowledge. Gone.

  In anger, Ciro picked up his father’s body, chair and all, and tossed it across the room. Arik felt nothing. Arik was gone sooner than Ciro had intended, leaving annoying and unanswered questions in the wake of his departure.

  Brother.

  Babies.

  FROM A DISTANCE, THE VILLAGE LOOKED NOT SO DIFFERENT from any other. It was only as they drew close that Lyr sensed a wrongness. All was silent. Too silent. As they rode closer, he saw that many of the buildings in the village had been burned, and no attempt had been made at repairs.

  As they rode down the main street, he realized why. There was no one left to make those repairs. If anyone had lived through whatever fight had taken place here, they’d departed long ago.

  Months ago. Remains had turned to bones. Weeds grew among the ruins. Lyr possessed no psychic powers, but he could feel to the pit of his soul that in this place a terrible thing had happened, and this plot of land would never be right again. No one would build where this village had once stood. No one would so much as try to make use of the wood that remained of the few buildings that had not burned.

  It was a ghost town, and they’d best ride straight through.

  It was Swaine who asked, “M’lord, should we search for usable supplies?”

  “No,” Lyr said crisply. “We want nothing that comes from this place
. Keep riding.”

  He wanted to look back to see how Rayne was reacting to the scene, to the charred remains and the bones, to the heavy air of wrongness, but he didn’t. He didn’t dare let on to her or anyone else that he was concerned about how she might feel at this moment, or any other.

  His plan was to ride straight through without stopping, to emerge on the other side and leave the damned village behind. He would not so much as glance back.

  Rayne had other plans.

  First he heard her gasp, and then he heard the collective protest of his men. All of them shouted. No. Don’t. It isn’t safe. Lyr turned about to see that Rayne had already slipped from her saddle and was running toward a corpse that lay half in and half out of the doorway to what might’ve once been a public house. A skeletal arm was outstretched. Fire had burned away clothing and flesh, but the afternoon sunlight slanted down at just the right angle to sparkle on a wide gold bracelet and a golden ring which dangled on bone.

  Whoever had done this—Ciro and his Own were the likeliest culprits—had not been concerned with taking valuables. The bracelet and ring would be worth a small fortune to a farmer or a shopkeeper, but they had been left on the victim as if unimportant. If anyone had stumbled across this scene in months past, they’d run from it without looting the bodies. Anyone who passed by here would sense the same wrongness which had been so apparent to Lyr.

  When Rayne dropped down in front of the corpse and sobbed, Lyr knew what they had found. Her father. He dismounted and walked toward her, touched by the sobs but unable to show it, wishing desperately that they had taken a different route. She already knew that her father was dead. There was no reason for her to see what had become of him.

  “Get back on your horse and forget what you’ve seen here,” he said, his voice low and steady.

  He was prepared for Rayne to argue with him, but he was not prepared for her to jump up and hurl her body at his, holding on to him and sobbing even harder, clutching at him as if she’d fall to the ground if he pushed her away. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. This was highly improper, and his men were watching.

  There was nothing he could do but put steadying arms around her and offer comfort. Offering comfort was not his strong suit, but he did the best he could. He patted her back, then ran a hand up and down. He murmured a senseless “It’s all right,” when nothing in this world was all right at this time and they both knew it.