by Inez Kelley
“I’m not lying. I’m not ready yet, okay? I’m only going to watch, I promise.” The truth in his words eased her spine. His jaw shifted. “Would you get a message to Taric for me? He should know about this ward stuff and where Karok is in case I fail again.”
“Why do you care if you fail so much? Even if Karok lives, if you’re dead, your soul will fly from this plane.”
Strength flooded through his muscles, firmed his jaw and lowered his brow. A predator’s growl rippled through her essence, emanating deep within his magic’s core and powered by his honor. This was not a man bent on self-destruction but one solidly bound by a vow. He was, down to the very fiber of his soul, the King’s Captain and Eldwyn’s Might. He was a soldier with a mission. He would not be deterred.
“Salome, I took an oath and, despite everything, I still believe in that oath. I pledged my life to Taric and to Eldwyn. This is my homeland. I would die for her and have proven that many times over. Eldwyn deserves peace, and anything I can do to give that to her, I will do.”
Hope kindled. He still had his honor and that might be enough for her to reach him. Any aid she could give brightened her spirit. “Then give me your message and I’ll give flight to the fastest wings magic can summon.”
Her eager response brought his grin and he smoothed a bit of hair from her cheekbone. The gentle touch shook the marrow of her bones.
Taric fixed his sights on the chessboard. Under glass, the onyx and ivory players mocked the scream echoing in his head. Without thought, he lifted the dome and stared at the white pieces scattered about the square board. They’d never finished the game. Bryton had left midmatch to question the Skullman the guards brought in.
A rough inhale raised his chest. His hand trembled slightly, reaching to stroke the crenulated rook. The chess piece tipped slightly under his finger.
The rook falls and the king stands alone.
“If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, who is he?”
Domic Gerog’s question barely penetrated Taric’s turmoil. His answer was a low whisper. “The brother I never had.”
Gruffly clearing his throat, Taric palmed the rook and turned to the goldsmith. An ironic thought quirked his lip. Domic looked more king than he did at this minute. The older man wore rich forest velvet and fine cream linen, the gold braid catching the light and shining brightly next to his burnished skin. Even the gray at his temples spoke of dignity and grace.
Taric had been in the lists when the morning guard had told him a message came from the southlands, from a man with bright hair with a black streak. Sweat and dirt coated nearly every inch but Taric hadn’t thought about changing, just getting the news.
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, sire, just what I have told you.”
Nodding, Taric lowered into the throne and leaned on one high armrest. His thumb stroked his bottom lip. “What was his demeanor? Did he look well?”
“Stoic, determined.” Domic twisted his lips then sighed. “He looked fine but he acted a bit…distracted, perhaps. He was quiet for most of the night and left early the next morn. His falcon followed like it was on a leash.”
“Falcon? A bird?”
“Yes, sire. I’ve never seen one so loyal. He didn’t even use a lure to call it back, yet it never flew far from him. Remarkable control.”
Bryton had a bird? He hated birds unless they were smothered in gravy or fire-roasted with rosemary. Taric never could get him to hawk with him. Hawking wasn’t a true hunt to Bryton. He preferred his bow or a spear.
Soft footsteps brought his head up and a ghosted smile warmed his heart. Myla wore a gown today, a muted eggplant color that made her eyes vivid green. The youngers were off in the forests for training and, by his request, she wouldn’t leave the castle grounds. Domic bowed and her brow arched as she strolled to Taric’s side. She did not take her throne but perched on the arm of his. His hand caressed her spine.
“This is Domic Gerog, a goldsmith from Windmere. He brings word from our absent friend. This is my wife, Queen Myla.”
“My honor, Your Majesty.” Domic did not rise, keeping his low bow. Myla studied him with intense scrutiny.
“Yes, you have a great deal of honor.”
Domic nodded, his resonating baritone humble and touched. “I thank you, my queen.”
Taric dipped his head as his smile widened. She’d captured another admirer. Polite conversation filled a few moments, then Domic took his leave. Taric motioned to his steward and a slight nod let him know that the goldsmith would be rewarded for his information. He waited until the older man left the audience hall before dropping his head to the throne back. Myla stroked his shoulder.
“He brought news of Bryton?”
“And other things. Gamot is going to feel my royal boot in his ass and Bryton is not happy with you. But that isn’t what bothers me.” He opened his fist. The ivory rook stood tall in his palm. “He sent a cryptic message that isn’t so cryptic. The rook falls and the king stands alone.”
She took the chess piece as her gaze shifted to unfocused. “Fear not, husband. Bryton made a grave error.”
“What’s that?”
A feline grin widened her pomegranate mouth. “He forgot about the almighty queen.”
“How could anyone forget you, my love?” Taric chuckled and tugged her down to his lap. Myla’s gaze shifted from unfocused to glowing green. An unsettled spasm ripped through his gut. She climbed from his lap and stepped to the window. Her mystic sight trained on the clouds. “She comes.”
“Who?”
“Bryton’s deliverance.”
“She? You sent him a woman?” Taric gawked at her. “Oh, he’s going to hate that.”
“Quite the opposite,” she murmured.
The split window was huge, taller than two men and wide as his arm span, but the pulleys worked smoothly. She had no trouble pushing the right side open. A faint breeze carried the sounds of soldiers training, children laughing and the tanner yelling for his apprentice.
A falcon glided to a landing on the ledge. Myla angled her head, stepped back and swept her arm out in welcome. The bird launched into the room in a plume of lilac smoke. Taric’s eyes went wide and he stood. He’d never imagined another creature like what his wife had been. But then, Myla was once a jaguar, not a falcon.
A human form grew from the small feathered frame, a woman in dazzling orange. Her chiton was different from the one Myla used to wear, one-shouldered and fuller. Hair the exact shade of the falcon’s golden-brown coat spiraled down her back and large gray eyes looked around the hall. Myla rejoined him on the dais. The woman dropped to a low curtsy before them.
“King Taric and Queen Myla, I bid you good morn. I am Salome.”
Myla stayed silent, her studious eyes searching for something he would never understand. He stepped in front of the visitor. “Why do you bow to me? You owe me no allegiance.”
“I was called for your captain and serve him. Therefore, I honor you as he would, in respect for him.”
“Rise.” He studied her as she straightened. So this was Myla’s gift. She was tiny, small framed and nearly elfin in appearance. She didn’t carry herself with the same poised stealth Myla did but had a glow about her, a natural grace that for some reason made him smile. Thoughts of his captain erased the grin. “How is he?”
“In health. I bear a message from him.”
The message she delivered, the Skullmen’s location, the terror in the southlands, the magic wards on Karok’s body, jabbed into his belly with ice. Though her words were sweet, lyrical and tinged with music, they infuriated Taric. He paced, long strides slamming his booted feet hard against the marble floor. At one point, he held his hand up to halt her and slipped into his study, returning with two parchments crumpled in his fist. His waved hand continued her tale. He spread wide one paper and studied the drawings as she spoke. Myla growled, the low vibration of barely contained fury.
His finger tapped the triangle holdin
g the cat’s eye. “I never thought to read or describe each mark aloud. I’m sorry, Myla. I didn’t know you couldn’t see it.”
“That is how magic works. It loses potency if you see the trick.” Myla’s gaze sped over the markings and a high-pitched hiss seeped from her teeth. “This evil must die.”
“No argument, my love, and die he will. Salome, show me where.” She stepped to the map and pinpointed a spot nestled deep in the mountains. Her descriptions of the Skullmen’s hideout thrust his mind back to old history lessons. History was his poorest subject. Bryton was the one who’d breathed the tales of the past. Taric rubbed his forehead. The ruins sounded like some forgotten holy place. Perhaps there were records at Sotherby or someone who knew the old carvings could tell him more. Damn, he needed Bryton here.
“So what does he want from me?” Taric stretched back, the high throne pillowing his aching head.
Salome’s neck angled sharply, like a bird’s. “Nothing. He simply felt you should have this information should he fail. And he will.”
Myla’s gaze snapped up. “You have no foreshadowed knowledge. You do not know he will fail.”
“He cannot see the mark.”
“His powers are passive, a gift only. He can use his human strength. He’s a most skilled warrior.”
“I hope you are correct but I sense I shall not be in this world for long.”
A catch in her voice narrowed Taric’s gaze. Her sharp chin thrust out defiantly, bravely, but a shimmer of pain deepened her eyes to charcoal. Understanding twisted something under his ribs. She loved Bryton and was preparing herself for his death. It was a stance Taric knew too well.
Myla walked to her and took her hand. They spoke in words Taric could not understand, the sound like dueling instruments at a fair. Myla nodded, paused and dropped three notes lower. Salome’s jaw snapped tight and she blinked her eyes rapidly, the sheen of tears bright in the wash of morning light. Whatever answer she piped back closed Myla’s eyes in sadness.
Taric cleared his throat. “Ladies, I’m feeling a bit left out here. If there’s something I should know about Bryton, I want to hear it.”
“You already know how stubborn he is,” Myla grumbled. “Mule-headed fool.”
“He says the same of you.” Taric hid his chuckle.
“Ta!” A small wet smack on his shin yanked his head down. Jana grinned from her knees, tiny seed-pearl teeth shining.
“Where did you come from, little mouse?” He picked up the crawling toddler before she could dart behind the dais. “I bet your nurse is looking for you.”
Jana jabbered, all babble and baby talk, as her frantic nurse rushed into the hall. Flour coated her cheeks and gown, but the relief on her face was visible. “I’m sorry, sire. I put her down for one moment to get Batu out of the flour bin and, when I turned, she was gone.”
“The flour bin?” Myla asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty. The children wanted a snack and Cook is making maple tarts. I turned my back to pour them some milk and Batu…I’m having a bath drawn for him now.”
Taric fought a groan. His son was perpetually dirty or in the bath. He seemed to find messes and, if none were to be found, created them. If he survived until manhood with his skin intact, it would be a blessing. Taric handed off his ward and tugged her curls. She giggled at him.
“Cryssa, I told you, find someone you trust and feel could help you, and bring her to me. They’re too much for one nurse, I think.”
“Yes, sire.”
Salome took a step forward, awe and wonder clear on her face. “Is this Bryton’s child?”
“Yes.” The longing in her gaze tugged at his heart.
Salome reached out and drew one finger down the little girl’s nose. “Be at peace, little one. I wish you a long and happy life.”
Jana laughed and lunged toward her. Salome raised her arms but the nurse had turned away, holding the toddler tight. Salome’s empty arms fell to her side. Her gaze lingered after the child as they left the hall. Suddenly her stance stiffened and she drew a steadying breath.
“I must return to him. I bid you farewell.”
Lilac smoke enveloped her and a falcon leaped for the window. She was high in the clouds by the time Taric crossed the room to glance out. The bird rose toward the sun. Arched wings unfurled and she glided, sailing on an ocean of air. When he could no longer make out her shape, he turned and scowled at his wife. “Myla, what did you do?”
“Only what I told you. I called for a peacemaker.”
“A peacemaker, huh?” He crossed his arms. Myla studied the paper, her furtive glance at him dipped his brows. “Sounds like you’re playing matchmaker. And what was all that magic chatter?”
Myla laid the parchment in his throne and crossed to him. “Woman talk, about men and their desires. Things I am quite certain you did not wish to hear.”
“You’re right,” Taric mumbled. His eyes fell to the discarded chess rook on the arm of his throne. A bitter pang stabbed his chest and he rubbed it absently. “I feel helpless.”
“I may not be able to see that whimpering dog Karok, but you hold Bryton’s future in your hands.” She gripped his arm tightly and her eyes pulsed with mystic green. “Go, my heart. Take up your bow and go hunting through the darkness. The kiss must not land.”
Chapter Eleven
Sharp rock bit into his back but Bryton refused to budge, fitting the hide-wrapped spyglass tighter to his eye. The precarious ledge he crouched in afforded an almost eagle’s-eye view down to the front of an ancient temple. The crumbling reliefs and weather-worn stone held enough majesty to still command respect but the dried-blood splotches desecrated it. Bryton forced his gaze to the filleted body still spread along the marbled front. The girl would have been no more than fourteen. His jaw cracked from the force of his anger.
Is this what became of the females they took? What horrors had that child lived through before becoming some sort of pagan offering? Her blond hair shone like gold, a glorious top to a gruesome scene. A flash of Jana’s fair curls popped before him and his heart stuttered. This girl had been some other man’s child. The father in him screamed in agony. Fathers protected their children, would die for them, worked themselves to the raw bone to bring their children what they needed. The instant the midwife had placed that tiny screaming still-womb-wet bundle in his arms, he’d vowed to keep Jana safe. She gave back to him an almost pristine joy.
Jana didn’t walk yet, scooting everywhere at arrow-fast speed on chubby knees. She was fascinated with the most mundane things, the buckles on his boots, a dropped leaf, a blade of grass. Granted, she tried most things with her mouth and he’d learned to be vigilant, but the riotous laughter when she’d untie his shirt lacing or the wonder over soap bubbles humbled him. How innocent she was. To think another child had that innocence stripped away and then was gutted like a deer boiled revulsion and fury in him. Bryton swore no other father would lose a daughter to Karok and his band of vultures.
His knuckles tightened on his bow. If one Skullman left that collapsing church this minute, he’d plant an arrow through his worthless, stained hide. But none came. The air lay still and heavy, malice weighting the wind to a bare trickle. These hyenas preyed on the weak, on women and girls, for their own despicable pleasure. He’d feed Karok his own tongue for his crimes.
His eyes jerked from the torn body and traveled up the crude bird scratching. It did look like an eagle, one with spread wings and hard eyes. No wonder Salome had been moved to act. Just imagining her gentle heart seeing the horror before him cramped his gut. She was too naive, too tender, to view such ugliness.
Not so naive now. His chin dropped. There should be guilt for loving with her, for taking her innocence, but he couldn’t find any. Fates or destiny or some other force he had no control over had pushed them toward each other. Salome felt right in his arms, he felt right in hers. The pure devotion in her smile knotted his chest and he couldn’t draw breath. Only in the deepest, darkest regi
ons of his heart could he admit he loved her. That love felt somehow wonderful and terrible at the same time. He’d loved one woman and had failed her. He couldn’t fail again.
Careful to not displace the tiny rocks and pebbles lining the pathway, Bryton climbed down the mountain face, using hands and feet rather than more secure but more noticeable rope. An ache formed in his shoulders before he reached the ground but it suited his purpose. It kept him focused on the anguish he’d deliver to the Skullmen and their leader.
Of all the punishments he’d ever meted out, all the battles he’d seen and the warriors he’d killed, never in his life had he harmed a child. He’d never even spanked one. He’d never dealt death lightly and wouldn’t now. They deserved their sentenced penalties. That festering knowledge remained as he threaded a spool of silk onto a hook. He couldn’t stomach the idea of cleaning game right now and opted for fishing instead. The crystal stream lulled him with a peaceful cadence.
Thoughts rushed him—the bloody rags he was never meant to see after his father returned from battle, the liniment his mother rubbed into a stiffened shoulder on cold winter nights, her tears when Mactog was gone for too long without word. Mactog had done his best to shield his family from the ugliness of his position but even the most cautious man had to face this children growing up and understanding.
A strange memory welled. He’d been only nine and Taric nearly eleven.
“We’re gonna get caught,” he’d warned. Taric shushed him and crept closer to the balcony railing. Below, a trial was ending. They peeked over the glossy handrail. “What’s happening?”
“Sentencing,” Taric whispered. “One of Marchen’s soldiers was found guilty of rape.”
“Rape?” Bryton scrunched his brows. “What’s rape?”
Taric frowned. “Not sure. It has something to do with sex, I think.”
“Oh.” Sex was a foreign thing, something for adults that actually sounded kind of gross and messy. His eyes scoured the court, searching for his father while tense formal words boomed below. “I see your papa, where’s mine?”
