by Inez Kelley
In this land, peace had always permeated his soul, no matter how bloody the battle. But now, now he worried. Was his sanctuary to be endangered even on his native soil? Was everything he knew to be threatened? Disquiet rumbled in his mind like a hungry bear and he thrust away from the window, away from his fears.
He crawled onto the bed with a long sigh. He hadn’t gone to bed this early since he’d grown whiskers. Although in bed, he did not sleep. He fingered the scar, tracing the tear over and over in a rhythmic flow, and his thoughts filled with Myla…of Myla and her presence in his life.
He didn’t often think of her. She simply was. He had no memory of a time when he hadn’t known the battle-ready beauty. She hadn’t changed or aged, always wearing the same cherry silk chiton, her hair pulled back in gold combs and left to stream down her back in ripples of mahogany. Like the fire she was born from and the warrior passion in her spirit, the exotic red silk embodied her power and her strength. The hue it leant her lips was something he had overlooked until tonight. Just like he’d never noticed how it offset her dark hair and made it shimmer like moonlight on a night-darkened river. He’d known his guardian was a woman, a beautiful one, but he’d never felt drawn to her as a man.
Slender as a water lily, the strength in her muscles belied by feminine curves, she was not the fearsome bodyguards his father possessed. King Balic preferred beefy warriors with strategic training and hardened eyes. Myla’s eyes kept their cat shape and color even in human form.
Human. A flash of her blood-stained hands manifested before his eyes and he blinked it away. How could Myla bleed? Was she really human when apart from him? Could she die? Was she alive? Did she know his thoughts while sleeping beneath his skin? Could she sense his turmoil, taste his fear now?
Linen whispered as he rolled to his back, an arm flung over his eyes. All he really knew of Myla came from Myla herself. He could still recall the first questions he’d asked her…and the first time he’d seen her kill for him.
At not quite six summers, Taric had been nothing more than a child pawn in an erupting war of territory, so his bloodline was worth capture. His estranged uncle had kidnapped him in the night and stuffed him in a deep trunk for transport. He stayed in the cramped fetal position for two days, feeling infantile when he wet his pants, but he was given no release for even the most basic of needs. Through bouts of tears, he heard her voice through the wood urging him to be brave, be strong and believe she would save him. The guard wasn’t gone, she whispered, only asleep and she couldn’t free him just yet, but soon.
When he was finally freed from the crate in a damp, dark room, Myla was there dressed in homespun. She warned him to be silent with a wink. She played the maidservant to a set of burly, scarred men who bound his fragile wrists in iron. His body quaked with the sudden use of stiffened muscles and he nearly fell. One guard jerked him upright, shaking him like a rag doll.
Sounding like a nagging underling, she berated them for bullying a child and produced a set of threadbare but clean clothes for him. He moved awkwardly from being in one position for so long and hated that she peeled wet fabric from his clammy skin. He wasn’t a baby in a diaper even if he felt like crying now.
Myla chucked him under his chin, murmuring, “Princes and soldiers do not cry.”
He sucked back his tears and firmed his lip, determined to be brave. The men scoffed before yanking her from the room.
She returned minutes later with a jug of cold buttermilk, a loaf and some apples. His belly roared when he saw the golden fruit and it was all he could do not to rip the offering from her hands. She allowed the guard to grope and fondle her in exchange for feeding the “poor lad” some food. Taric ate as fast as he could so that the dirty man would stop touching her but his stomach cramped from being empty and he had to slow down.
“Half, Taric, eat only half,” she warned.
The guard laughed and told her to let the brat be while he nuzzled her shoulder. Myla reached up and used her delicate bare hands to snap his oak-thick neck. He crumpled to the floor and she rifled through his clothing for the keys to the manacles, not sparing a glance when Taric sobbed. He had never seen a dead body and stared in horror.
Once she’d released him, she tucked the leftover food in his too-large shirt and grabbed his hand, dragging him up a dark stairwell behind her. Taric’s tender, abused muscles protested the exercise but he tried to be fearless for her. They made it to the top of the stairs before coming face-to-face with the man responsible for his capture.
“What are you doing, wench? Let go of him!”
Myla thrust Taric behind her protectively and glared at his uncle. “You may choose to defy your brother anyway you like, Arnon, but you will not involve a child. Emerto Marchen shall never harm Taric. I will not allow it.”
“Allow… Who in the hell are you to tell me what to do? Get away from the boy, you bitch.”
“Taric is going home to his father,” she stated firmly.
“Of course he is…when I’m damn good and ready to let him, whole or in pieces, and no spread-legged whore can tell me otherwise.”
His uncle charged her. Myla shoved Taric down three stairs so he never knew exactly how it happened, but when he looked up, the man named as his godfather was grappling with a massive ebony jaguar. Her midnight coat shone sleek and glossy. Her fangs and claws swiped and snapped with bloodthirsty aim. In a blink, the jaguar stood panting, jaws clamped around the lifeless neck of his kidnapper. The cat threw the body aside and padded to nudge Taric’s hand, smearing iron-scented wetness along his fingers. Now-gentle teeth snagged his sleeve and he numbly followed the beast through a dark kitchen and into the night.
His young eyes had to struggle to find the feline shape, which blended with the shadows in the courtyard. A smooth head butted between his thighs and powerful shoulders shimmied into place. He gripped her neck and she sped into the moonless black with him atop her shifting back. When his fingers could clutch no more, she slowed and he fell from her. His five-summer-old tears coursed over wind-roughened cheeks. The last sob eked out and he looked up at his guardian standing before him like a sentinel.
Like a pillar of strength, she waited. Her dark green eyes held no condemnation but no pity either. She simply scanned the darkness for danger and allowed him his youthful fears with a quiet patience. Her grace and calm soothed him and he gulped the last liquid shudder.
“Who are you? Where did you come from? Every time I see you, you’re helping me or keeping me out of trouble.”
“My name is Myla. Queen Tarsha created me as a gift for you the hour you were born. She asked that I keep watch over you and keep you safe.”
“How do you know when I need help?”
Long graceful fingers reached to touch his belly and despite his tears, he was enough of a child that he giggled at the tickling sensation. Her eyes flew to his face in surprise and a confused wrinkle marred her brow. “Why do you laugh?”
“It tickles.”
“Tickles?” Angling her head to the side, she questioned. “What is that?”
“It just…feels funny. It makes me laugh.”
“Then I shall not touch you there.” Myla folded her hand before her. “The mark on your side? That is where I rest when you have no need of me.”
“In my tummy?”
“Something like that.” Her grin wide, she looked deep into his eyes and Taric felt older, more grown-up just from her appraisal. This first true smile calmed his fears, made him feel more secure than her mighty cat had. She meant him no harm and, although not sweet, she wasn’t so frightening anymore. “Dry your tears, my young prince. We have far to go this night yet. Your father and his men camp over the ridge. He was coming for you. Eat and then we will go to him. The food should not cramp your belly now and you will need your strength to hold tight. Can you be brave a little longer?”
“Myla? Are you magic? Papa says my mother was a sorceress.”
Her eyes shimmered in the faintest s
tarlight when she cocked her head a tiny bit, listening to the night. “Magic-born, yes. Now hurry, eat. You are still growing and we must use the night as best we can.”
“You talk funny.”
Her laugh was like wind chimes in the night and it warmed his juvenile belly. “I speak in the cadence of magic, young prince. Formal though it is, it has a beauty all to itself.”
Dawn was just an hour old when he climbed once more from the jaguar’s back. The cat lay on its belly and panted for one minute before the air rippled and Myla took its place, kneeling on the cool earth. She gripped his bony shoulders and pointed to a pathway through some tall pines. “There. A few paces beyond the tree line you will find King Balic preparing your rescue.”
“You’re not coming with me? Papa’ll want to meet you.”
“I know your father and he knows of me. You are never alone, Taric.” Tapping his ticklish side once more, she winked. Then in a mist of violet, she was gone. His side had burned for a second as she drifted into him but it hadn’t hurt. It had felt…right.
Myla always felt right when she returned to him. Had she returned to him for the last time?
“Be safe, Myla,” Taric whispered into the night and allowed sleep to descend. Without awareness, his arm crossed his belly and his palm cradled her resting spot. “You’re never alone either. Be safe.”
ab
Myla came to awareness in slow degrees. As always, her first move was to reach out with her mind and sense where her charge was and what state he was in. Anxious, restless and safe were the strongest images she could perceive but buried deeper was fear mingled with curiosity. Taric had not left his chamber even though he had been tempted. If she had lips in this state, they would have smiled at his determination to abide by her request.
Bathed in restful blackness, she had neither eyes to see nor ears to hear but knew exactly what was transpiring in his world. Images and sensations flowed from him and took form in her spirit, showing her all she needed to keep him safe. He was eager and hopeful regarding something he’d planned. Bryton had been with him recently, the presence of a dear friend lingering in his blood.
So too lingered the unease and duties of a man born to a position he accepted but did not relish. She’d watched him grow from tiny babe to rambunctious child to cocksure teen. But the man he had become made her most proud. He knew his obligations and the impact he could and would have on thousands of lives. His future was not preordained, yet he had the makings for a king of legend. Myla intended him to see that future hale and hearty. That was her destiny.
“Myla, come to me. Show yourself, my guardian.”
At his call, her essence itched and she flowed toward the rich sound. Light grew in eyes that took shape and his figure formed before her vision. Within a breath that filled her now-solid body, she scanned the immediate area for danger and found none.
Instead, her master stood beside an overburdened table spread with a fine cloth of icy blue. Torchlight caught his golden hair and shimmered with a flaming glow against the deep port of his tunic. His bare arms were free of adornment or blemish but seemed carved from the very rock of the walls. The muscles twitched in impatience as he clasped his hands behind his back. Concerned brown eyes raked her from forehead to toe.
“Myla! Are you well?”
With her, he kept his speech as formal as hers, a fact she held dear. Nodding, she smiled to relieve his mind. “As you see, I am fit and prepared to do my duty.”
His broad shoulders slumped and his breath streamed out of curved lips. “I was so worried about you.”
“Never fear, I told you I would be well. You will always be protected under my watch. I will never leave you unguarded, Taric.”
“It wasn’t fear for me, Myla, it was for you. You bled. I’ve never seen you injured.”
Uncertainty made her drop her gaze from his. She had gotten sloppy. The barmaid should have been easy work. But once she’d been kicked back, Taric had put his arms around her. Something had stirred in the brief seconds his touch embraced her, something shocking and thrilling that distracted her from the task at hand. Before, any touch she’d shared with Taric had been fleeting and fast, aimed at removing him from harm. Enveloped in his hold, her senses had scattered and focused on the feel of him rather than the danger. She should have known the woman had a second knife strapped to her thigh. The mistake had nearly been too costly.
“With you, I am as human as any you may pass in the hall. I can bleed and even die unless I return to my magical form. Do not fear for me, Taric. I am well suited to be your guardian despite my flaws.”
“I’ve never doubted your abilities, Myla. But if you can bleed, then you can eat. I asked the cook to make us a meal. Will you eat with me and talk? There’s so much I don’t know about you. Please.”
So earnest was his request, she couldn’t think of refusing him. The array of foodstuff intrigued her. Many things she could learn and sense through Taric but flavor was not one of them. She could name each dish but had no idea of their textures or tastes. The choices on the table tempted her. What did bread taste like? Why did Taric prefer the oranges to the asparagus? The scents filling the air tantalized her and her mouth watered. What was it like to bite and not have blood coat your tongue?
At her small nod, his lips curled back into a wide grin, showing even white teeth and softening his face. A spark flickered in his eyes and her temporary heart began to pound. What was happening to her? She had seen Taric smile a hundred times and never before felt jittery adrenaline shoot through her. Ducking her head to hide her expression, she stepped to the table before him.
“This appears to be a banquet. Has your appetite returned to your younger days?”
Warm and rich, his laugh poured over her like a waterfall. He pulled a tufted chair from the table and waved her in place. “No, I don’t think any grown man can eat like a boy of sixteen for long. I wasn’t sure which foods you’d prefer so I may’ve been a bit…broad in my choices.”
She folded her body onto the seat with care, noting the smooth texture of the wooden chair arms. They were as solid as his had been when they encircled her waist. The stiff padded back reminded her of his chest cradling her wounded frame last evening and her breath caught. To distract him from noticing her reactions, she blurted out, “I do not know which foods I prefer.”
He sat across from her and cocked one tawny brow. “What do you mean?”
“I have never eaten so I do not know which foods appeal. I know you dislike stewed eels but have a fondness for braised lamb. And once you consumed far too many maple tarts and were abed for hours with belly cramps.”
Taric leaned one arm on the table and buried his chin in his palm, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “I remember that. I think I was only about nine summers or so. How did you know though?”
“When you are distressed in any way, I…listen, I suppose is the best way to describe it. You were in no danger but you were most uncomfortable. The moaning kept me concerned for a long while.”
There were no servants in the room so Taric served her himself. One silvered plate in hand, he selected a bounty of tidbits for her to sample and placed it in front of her. Unsure how to proceed, she waited until his own plate rested before him to take up her fork. He watched her expectantly so she speared the brightest object on the dish, a plump strawberry the size of his knuckle. Pink juice dripped from the tines as she raised it to her mouth. A springtime storm erupted on her tongue with a sweet river of pleasure and her eyes widened in delight.
“Oh! I do like this. It is like sunshine in my mouth.”
Chuckling, he moved the small dish closer to her. “Then eat them all. Enjoy, Myla.”
Throughout the meal, he asked questions. She relayed what she could although some things simply had no explanation. They spoke of his father and of Bryton, of the turmoil wreaked by the war and of what plans he had for aiding in the peace talks.
Myla ate all the strawberries. She also found many
of the delicacies to her liking such as the roast goose and crisp greens. She didn’t care for the pickled vegetables and when her nose crinkled, he laughed loudly at her, reaching across the table to touch her forearm.
Myla studied the man Taric had become. The weight of his rank had sobered the once-laughing youngster and a mature, coolheaded dignitary now sat before her. Although age had not yet marked his skin with grooves and ridges, responsibility had tamed the wildness of youth. Deep as the oldest oak, his eyes were wizened and his gaze perceptive. Not even the casual laughter he shared with her removed the mantle of royalty from his broad shoulders. The hand that one day would hold the ceremonial scepter still lay on her arm, relaxed and gentle but with a power that tingled her flesh.
He will be the finest king. If there is peace to be found, Taric shall be the one to discover it. Finding a balance within herself—to allow him to grow and become a soldier—had been difficult. So many times, she had to force herself to permit him to fail and learn from his mistakes. He’d been bloodied and bruised and ached with sore muscles, all while she watched and winced. But he’d become a soldier, a warrior who made her proud. Each time he rode into battle, she was poised, ready to leap, to defend but often he didn’t need her. He never counted on her rescuing him but she always would.
His hand fell away as she raised her goblet, the loss of his touch a near-physical ache. Deep red wine coated her tongue with sensual fruitiness and heated her stomach. Her eyes drifted closed to savor the experience.
“You like the wine.”
“I do.” Along with the drink, his voice flowed over her with liquid sensuality and she kept her eyes closed to savor that as well. It seemed little to take, simple words on the air, words that stirred longings too complex to be examined. With deliberation, she opened her eyes and modulated her voice. “Tell me, what of your hired assassin? Was Marchen behind her blade?”
