Once Upon a Castle

by Nora Roberts

  Niniane huffed. “These are your noble heroes? They look like common brigands!”

  “These men are soldiers to the core. Here is Cador of Kildore, their leader.”

  Although his clothing was as worn as that of his companions, Cador wore it like a badge of royalty. His bronzed and windburned features were intriguing, with more than a hint of the hawk in them. His hair caught the late-afternoon sun, gleaming like gold. There was fire in his dark sapphire eyes, determination in the set of his firm mouth, strength and authority in every line of his bearing.

  Niniane sighed romantically. Here was the very man for Tressalara. A king among warriors. Well done, Illusius! Aloud she spoke differently. “If that is the best you can do, I suppose we are stuck with him. At least he is experienced and willing to fight to restore the princess to her throne.”

  Illusius chewed his lip. That was something he was still working on.

  It could prove a bit tricky, and he wasn’t quite sure if he could pull it off. The highlander might not want to risk throwing his lot in with the Amelonian rebels. That didn’t bear thinking of. If he failed, Niniane would rub it in for the next hundred years.

  He felt a nervous flush rising up his face and vanished himself before she could notice.

  3

  “Mmm! Roast dumplings and onions.”

  Tressalara inhaled deeply. After failing to obtain a horse and taking many detours to avoid Lector’s troops, she had needed five days’ to reach the edge of the Mystic Forest. She was cold and tired and hungry. She hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon, when she’d tumbled into a stream and lost her last morsel of bread and cheese, and her empty stomach grumbled. To make matters worse, her boots were still not dry.

  The glowing lights of the tavern at the edge of the woods, and the tantalizing smells emanating from it, drew her closer than was wise. The forest was ancient, and little sun penetrated through the thick leaves, but there was scarcely any vegetation to camouflage her movements here.

  The tavern was filled with men in leather vests and worn clothing. Their prominent cheekbones and light eyes marked them as strangers to Amelonia. Highlanders from the border, if she was any judge. Dangerous men, like the outlawed Cador of Kildore, who raided the borderlands and whose name was used to frighten mischievous children.

  Tressalara hugged her arms to herself against the chill. Toward morning she might double back to the castle’s stableyard through one of the secret ways. Old Philbin would surely outfit her with a cloak and blanket, saddle and tack and one of her own horses. Meanwhile, she had to find a safe place to sleep for a few hours and some food to warm her belly.

  She had thought that she might find shelter in a farmhouse, exchanging chores for a night’s food and snug lodging in the hayloft. Instead she was turned away time and again: too skinny, too soft, too young. Of course her dirty and disheveled appearance didn’t help the situation.

  But those were not the true reasons, she knew. Lector’s spies were everywhere, and strangers were suspect in these unsettled times. It was not so much the doors slamming shut in her face that had wounded Tressalara to the quick, but seeing the fear and suspicion in her subjects’ faces.

  Amelonia was not the happy kingdom she had always thought it to be. She realized that her people’s troubles had not grown in only five days. As her father had aged and withdrawn into his personal spiritual quest, Lector had abused his authority. Now that he had usurped control of the kingdom, fear of his retribution had placed a stranglehold upon the land.

  Tressalara ground her teeth. She would do everything in her power to vanquish him, even at the cost of her own life. If only she could have reached the Andun Stone before she’d had to flee! With it she would be invincible—if she could only learn the secrets of its powers. Unskilled attempts to use them would result in a terrible death. One of her first objectives would be to get the magic crystal into her possession before Lector found its hiding place. Tressalara’s determination was strengthened by her discoveries of his wickedness.

  She had gleaned enough information from the various bits and pieces she’d overheard to know that a ragged group of rebels lived in the Mystic Forest, and that their numbers were growing. If she could reach them, all her immediate problems would be solved. But if she meant to gather a true army to lead against the usurper, she must first see to herself. That meant food now and shelter later.

  Taking a deep breath, she crept through the trees toward the tavern.

  Inside the Crown and Acorn the air was dim and smoky from the torches and cookfires. Frequented by merchants and travelers, as well as people from the nearby farms, the tavern was always busy. Tonight it was as full as it could hold. Several men with the look of highlanders sat near an open window. Their leader, a lean, hawk-faced man with tousled hair like spun gold, sat slightly apart from the rest. Rough clothing hid his hard warrior’s body but could not disguise his air of command.

  At the moment all his attention seemed focused on his trencher of food. He tore off a tasty bit of roast fowl. “Have an eye to the fellow in the russet cloak, Brand. Chain mail hidden beneath his padded tunic.”

  His older companion, a husky fellow with a soldier’s build disguised by simple woodcutter’s garb, lifted his tankard for a quaff of ale. “Aye, I’ve been watching him, Cador. King’s man.”

  “No. Lector’s man.” Cador leaned forward casually and lowered his voice. “I have an informant inside the castle walls. He says that King Varro is not ill, but dead at Lord Lector’s own hand. The usurper intended to marry the princess and claim the throne in his own right. Now, my man reports, the princess is missing. Rumor says that she changed herself into a bird and flew away.”

  Brand made a surreptitious sign to ward off the evil eye. “By Saint Ethelred’s toes, I cannot fathom why you want to mix in our business.”

  Cador’s face hardened to stone. “Do you not?” His vision dimmed, clouded by memories of returning to his lands to find most of his family slain in one of Lector’s border raids.

  Before his companion could reply, Cador gestured for silence. He lounged back against the wall beside the window frame, seemingly at ease, But his light blue eyes held a glint that Brand recognized. His own hand moved instinctively to the sword hidden beneath his patched cape. Cador had some trick up his sleeve.

  The window was so close that Tressalara could almost touch it. Her mouth watered at the sight of the trencher just inside. Succulent roasted meat dripped hot juices into the thick slab of bread beneath. It was too tempting to resist. Quick as a flash of light, she reached out and stabbed a large chunk of meat with the tip of her knife.

  Quicker even than that, an arm shot out, and a strong hand clamped around her wrist like an iron band. It jerked her forward, and another hand grasped her other wrist. As she fought to squirm free she was inexorably drawn across the windowsill to sprawl on the trestle table inside. Brand relaxed. No danger was likely to come from this hungry little knave.

  Cador inspected the dirty urchin with peeling, sun-reddened skin and stained clothing. He smiled wryly. “Well, well, what a scrawny little fish I have reeled in.”

  Tressalara uttered a curse she hadn’t realized she’d even known and struggled upright. “Unhand me!” Her wrist ached, but she could not pull free from her captor.

  Her tone of defiance surprised Cador. He hadn’t expected it from such a young and slightly built boy. Grabbing Tressalara by the shoulders, he forced her up against the wall. “Do you know what the penalty for petty thievery is, lad?”

  Although she sensed the danger in him, she glared back defiantly. “Aye. Ten lashes with a knotted whip.”

  He frowned. “Your information is long out of date, stripling. It is the loss of the offending hand.”

  Tressalara opened her mouth to protest. Then she read the truth in his eyes. How had matters deteriorated so desperately? “Lector again,” she spat.

  Instantly Cador’s hard hand covered her mouth. “Watch your tongue, lad,
or they’ll have that, too!”

  Tressalara was unable to move. It wasn’t fear or even the strength of her captor that held her in thrall, but his aura of masculine presence. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her knees felt wobbly. It took her breath away. She had never experienced anything like it before. Her helplessness transformed itself into anger.

  He pushed her toward the bench. “You interest me. Sit down and tell me your name…and why a healthy if somewhat spindly youth has to steal his supper rather than work for it. If I like the answer I will buy you a meal.”

  All Tressalara’s desire for food was momentarily forgotten. She bit her lip, trying to obliterate the tingling memory of his firm and calloused palm against her mouth. By the saints, the man was strong! She took in a breath and let it out in a rush. “My name is Trev. I tried to find work. None would hire me for fear I was a spy.”

  At Cador’s signal, a tavern wench came over, bearing another trencher overflowing with meat and dumplings. She set it before Tressalara. “Looks like ‘e could use some fattening up.”

  The enticing smell of the food almost brought tears to Tressalara’s eyes. Her stomach rumbled so loud the others heard it. She was mortified. Cador leaned down, a flicker of laughter in his eyes.

  “Hungry? Help yourself. Oh, but one little question first.”

  Turning his back to the room, Cador picked up her fallen dagger and stuck it into the table. It quivered in the wood, light reflecting from the golden hilt and the cabochon amethysts engraved with dragons.

  “An interesting bauble for a starving lad. And rather inappropriate under the circumstances. I imagine it is worth a good deal.”

  The tension was thick. Tressalara had no choice but to tell the truth once more and hope she was believed. “It belonged to my mother,” she said with quiet dignity. “A gift from the king.”

  Cador tipped back his head and laughed. “An unlikely story, yet I somehow believe you.”

  Brand rubbed his chin. “And I. Though who would have thought it of Varro. The man appeared too devout a husband to keep a doxy on the side. He seemed besotted with his lovely queen.”

  Tears of rage and loss sprang to Tressalara’s eyes. She coughed, pretending it was the smoke of the hearth fire. She dared not defend her innocent father’s reputation, though, or it might make them question her identity further. Cador clapped her on the back, far harder than she deemed necessary.

  “Eat up, lad. You have earned your supper. I have need of a quick fellow to help care for our horses. Would you be interested in joining us? We offer plenty of food, a few coppers for your purse, and enough adventure to fill a dozen scrolls.”

  She hesitated. Perhaps she could use the situation to her advantage. She could hide in plain sight, keep an ear out for news of her adversary, and try to discover loyal supporters for her cause. No one would suspect that a humble groom was the missing princess.

  “The lad looks too soft and puny to ride all day and sleep on the hard ground at night.”

  She fixed Brand with an angry look. “I can ride like the wind!”

  “Oh? And where is your horse, then?”

  That silenced her. Cador looked amused.

  Brand set down his tankard again. “What a shame that the Princess Tressalara has fled the castle, Cador. Otherwise you might have used your fabled charm and had a feather bed to share with her this night, instead of a flea-bitten mattress at a common inn.”

  Tressalara went rigid. Cador!

  There was only one man by that name: Cador of Kildore. Her first reaction was shock to find herself sitting beside the outlaw reputed to be the most dangerous man in the Four Kingdoms of the West. The insult to herself registered a few seconds later.

  The outlaw chief laughed at Brand’s quip. “Perhaps it is just as well. I prefer a more winsome and willing tavern wench to the crown princess. Word is that she has the temper of an angry wasp and the face of a troll!”

  Stung, Tressalara set down the tankard of ale that she’d been served. “You are wrong, sir. I have heard it said that the Princess Tressalara is a gentle and comely maid.”

  Cador slanted a look her way. “Yes, lad. And pigs fly.”

  “But she is still the rightful ruler of Amelonia,” Brand said quietly. “Lector will never sit upon the dragon throne.”

  His words, which fell into a sudden silence, the sign for which the spy had been waiting. The man in the russet cloak jumped up, sword drawn. “Death to Cador and the rebels!”

  At his signal, Lector’s men-at-arms stormed into the inn, and a wild melee broke loose. Tressalara had no time to see more than Cador and Brand lunging across the room, weapons in hand. Quick as a wink she was out the window and running for the stables.

  She said silent thanks to Jeday and her old groom for teaching her to be resourceful. The second stall held a fine mare, a roan with a white blaze on her forehead. The bonus of a black and silver cloak in the saddlebag was a pleasant surprise. She threw the saddle and bridle on with ease of practice and tightened the girth, then swung herself up.

  Cador and his men had found reinforcements in the others at the inn. Lector’s men were being pushed backward to the door, but it was an unequal fight. More of Lector’s troops were pouring out of the woods. Cador and his men were doomed.

  Wisdom urged her to flee toward the main road. Something else turned her back toward the inn. Tressalara convinced herself it was the opportunity to do Lector a bad turn—and if the usurper was busy fighting outlaws, he would have less time to concentrate on finding her.

  Wrapping the black and silver cloak around her, she rode up to the front door, where a soldier stood guard against any escapees. “Ho, there! I am a courier sent by Lord Lector. Follow me!” she shouted. “The Princess Tressalara is escaping on horseback along the river road! All troops are enjoined to capture her!”

  Round and round the inn she rode, calling out her “news.” Their captain, hearing her cries, called retreat. They scrambled to the wood where they’d hidden their mounts, then rode off after Tressalara.

  It had been years since she’d ridden through the Mystic Forest, but Tressalara’s memory was excellent. She led Lector’s troops a merry ride through myriad twisting paths, luring them ever deeper and doubling back until they were totally confused in the darkness.

  When they were hopelessly lost, she dropped back and threw off her cloak, then grabbed the branch of an overhanging tree. Her riderless horse ran on. She clambered over to a wider limb and sat hidden in the foliage, her legs hanging free. She was worse off than ever now, for the soldiers would recognize her face if they spied her again. Her hands were scraped from the bark, she had no place to go, and an army was looking for her.

  She had never felt so alive.

  At the sound of approaching hooves from the road behind her, she drew her legs back up and waited breathlessly. The rider reined in beneath her. Moonlight filtering through the dense leaves showed a hawklike face haloed by golden hair. “Cador!”

  “You are a fool, young Trev, but I have never known a braver fool!” He held out his arms for her to jump. “Come. There is no time to waste.”

  She hesitated, but sounds from near at hand told that Lector’s men were returning. Tressalara jumped.

  He caught her easily in his strong clasp, wheeled his midnight-black horse about, and set off at a gallop. She felt secure and sheltered, protected by his presence, despite their peril. He seemed to know the forest well, running through the velvety stretches beneath the most ancient trees and avoiding the scrub and brambles under the younger growth. Then they reached the open meadowlands deep in the heart of the woods.

  Urged on by Cador, the great gelding flew across the wild heath as if it had wings. Tressalara’s blood sang with the excitement of adventure. Every sense was alert, and her whole body tingled. In the distance, light reflected off the dark waters of Mystic Lake, the place where legend said the Andun Crystal had been found in ages past. As they neared, a luminous mist rose from
the lake’s surface, trailing like gauzy veils along the ground. The black trees sighed and whispered. Tressalara could almost tell what they were saying.

  Her journey with Cador took on a dreamlike magic as they raced beneath the stars. She didn’t want their wild ride ever to end. Cloaked by night and moonbeams, temporarily insulated against grief and weariness, she would have been perfectly content to continue on this way to the ends of the earth. The heat of Cador’s hard body seeped into hers, warming her against the chill night air.

  Encircled by his strong arm around her waist, pressed by the force of their speed against his wide chest, Tressalara should have felt safe, at least for the moment. Instead she had the uncanny feeling that she had never been more in danger.

  4

  The apprentice sorceress Niniane stepped back from her gazing ball in satisfaction. “I must say that went very well!”

  Illusius preened. “I told you that Cador would save the day.”

  “Cador? It was Tressalara who saved him and his men from the soldiers. Without her—and my magic—they would all have been lost.”

  The apprentice wizard drew himself up to a great height until he seemed to fill the cavern from floor to ceiling. “Enough of your boasting!”

  “Are you trying to frighten me?” Niniane waved her arms and turned into a spinning wheel of flame. “Let us see who is the greater magician, then!”

  Not to be outdone, Illusius changed to a whirlwind and blew her flames out. Jars rattled on the shelves and fell to the cavern’s floor, spilling exotically colored powders across its width. Niniane was too incensed to notice. She became a great wave of the sea and swept the whirlwind right off his invisible feet. Illusius grabbed at a shelf and pulled it down in his wake. Bottles and flasks broke open on the floor, and sparkling liquids mingled with the powders to produce a burgeoning foam.

  Niniane reformed and scrambled to separate the items. She bumped heads with Illusius in her haste. “Oh, no! My love potions! My hate potions!”