by Inez Kelley
“Tomorrow.” Crusted with slumber, his voice was heavy and slurred.
“Yes, sleep now. Call for me tomorrow and I’ll come. Rest, my prince. Sleep and know you are never alone. Always am I with you.”
Dreams nearly claimed him but the command drifted from his lips. “Return, my guardian. Return beneath my heart.”
Lilac swirled around him, fingering his face with hazy caresses before sinking into the bliss of his soul.
ab
Sharp teeth bit into his cheek. Rousing to wakefulness, Taric yanked his head away. A golden comb lay on his pillow. He had a vague recollection of burying his hand in mahogany silk, combs springing loose and spilling over his knuckles. The memory dimmed beside the taste of her tear-stained kiss.
Myla.
He’d fallen asleep holding her, her re-entry into his soul waking him just enough to propel him toward the bed. He’d collapsed facedown on top of the sheets, his mind already filled with dreams of her. A deep sigh escaped as he rolled to his back, hair comb in his hand. It was solid, real and very heavy, designed to grip the thickest locks. Myla had returned to him but her accessory remained behind. A frown dipped his brow and he examined the problem he’d mulled last night.
How could he keep Myla with him, for always?
His fingers strayed to the scar where she rested. Myla was always with him, but he wanted her with him in his world, real and alive. There had to be a way. She’d shortened her words after spending extended time with him, extended emotional and physical time. Did that mean she became more human the longer she spent outside him? Would she be able to remain outside for a full day? Longer?
While he shaved and dressed, his mind poked and prodded ideas and theories. He simply didn’t have enough answers to questions and knew of only one way to find them. He left the chamber in search of his father, the hair comb tucked in his belt.
Lunian sat in the antechamber at her rack stitching a new tapestry, her delicate brow wrinkled in concentration on a specific stitch. Only ten summers older than he, her light youthful hum drew a smile. The sweet but feisty brunette matched his energetic father well and Taric welcomed her presence in the castle. He waited until she pulled the dull green thread from the design then cleared his throat.
She turned with a welcome smile. “Taric! You’re looking better. Come in, sit.”
“Thank you but I’m looking for my father.”
“Balic rose early. After you left him last night, he didn’t sleep well. Too many memories, too many uncertainties. You’ll probably find him down in the west field. He often trains with the youngers to keep his bones from creaking.” Lunian leaned closer with a conspiring somberness. “I think he’s afraid he’ll suddenly awaken one day to be an old man.”
Taric grinned. His father had little to fear. He appeared no older than his youthful bride and still could put most men on their rumps during training. “Then I’ll be sure to point out any new gray hairs I find in his beard. He hates that.”
“You’re still the scamp you were as a child. He tells me such far-fetched tales of you. You didn’t really convince Bryton to try to fly using a bedsheet for batwings, did you?”
“Well, he healed quickly and barely has a limp now so it ended all right.”
Her hearty laugh pealed like bells. “And you wonder where Balic gets the few silver hairs he has. One day you’ll face some mischief your son has brewed up, and then Balic and I will sit and laugh while you sprout your own gray hairs.” She jammed the needle into the tapestry, gathered her full skirt and strolled to him with an easy grace. “But that is for later. Now you need to eat. I doubt you took time last eve to fill your stomach and I could do with a bite myself. Will you keep me company?”
Their friendly conversation flowed openly while they ate. Lunian bantered with him in comfortable familiarity, often jabbing at him with Bryton-like spunk. She was becoming more friend than distant stepmother and Taric welcomed the growth. If this was what having a mother was like, he liked it.
It wasn’t until he pushed his plate aside that she turned concerned eyes on him. “He won’t say it, but your father worries. Marchen grows bolder and more cruel each summer. Each time you ride out, Balic doesn’t sleep, he paces the floor and haunts the parapet watching for you.”
Taric chewed a stray bit of bacon and kept his eyes on the table. “He saw to my training, Stepmother. I won’t let him down.”
“Taric, your failure isn’t his concern. It’s your injury or death which terrifies him. I know it’s not manly to admit it, but you’re his only child and to lose you… Please, for him, be careful. I love him, and when he aches, I ache.” She reached across the table and gripped his arm. The strength in her hand took him by surprise. “He loves you.”
“I know.” Gruffly, he pushed away from the table.
She shook her head and snorted. “I will never understand men. They can behead an enemy, whip them within an inch of sanity or torment a friend until they come to blows, but a mention of love between one another and they bolt like a scalded cat.”
“Meow.”
His tease erased her grave face and her laughter rang against the stone as he left the hall. He did indeed like this new stepmother.
Balic was training with the youngers on the west field. The barely teenaged troops tried to harness youthful energy into dutiful training. It wasn’t an easy task, Taric knew. He hadn’t been spared the same grueling challenges they were going through now.
Balic wore no mark of his sovereignty but still carried himself regally. Unafraid to sweat alongside boys of fifteen to encourage them to work harder, to push through the pain and feel pride when they emerged with bruises and calluses, he still commanded respect with a look. Taric hoped one day he could be half the ruler his father was.
“Sire!” he called with formality.
Balic turned his eyes briefly at the shout, but it was a second too long. The gangly lad he’d been sparring with cracked him across the back with a cotton-wrapped club. The king went down hard.
Taric ran, as did most on the field. The wide-eyed youth dropped his chin and stared in horror at the crumpled monarch, unbelieving he’d just hit the king. Balic was still lying on the grass when Taric and Mactog reached him. He lay there laughing. Breathing a sigh of relief, Taric offered his hand and pulled his father to a stand.
“Trumot.” Balic grinned at the still-stunned man-child. “You keeping hitting that hard and one day you’ll end up champion of Taric’s guard. Well done, son. You saw an opening and took it without hesitation. Well done.”
Now beaming from the praise, the lad scampered after his troop mates to the next exercise. Mactog grumbled a few choice words about old men who couldn’t keep their minds engaged learning to knit rather than disturb his training schedule, but he clapped the king on the back before joining his students.
Balic turned to his son with a breathless grin. “Either the youngers are hitting harder or I’m getting older.”
“I think now is the time for diplomacy and I’ll pick the stronger boys.”
“Good man.” Balic wiped sweat from his eyes before strolling back toward the well beside his son. He glanced at Taric with narrowed eyes. “You want to pick my brain. I recognize the look. You have that same gleam in your eyes you had when you’d look at puzzles as a child.”
Taric snorted. “I like puzzles but only if they have an answer. And yes, I’m looking for answers I hope you can give me…about Myla.”
“Myla? Don’t know that I can help you much there. Mactog has spoken to her more often, though not since your training began. She scared him shitless when she appeared out of the blue. It seems she felt he was too lenient on you in the lists. It wasn’t enough that you train as a soldier. You had to excel for her, be pushed and molded and challenged until you far surpassed your peers. You can thank her for most of your bruises that first year. She was a fierce taskmaster and spared no pity.” Balic drank from a dipper, the water streaming down his short golden g
oatee. He returned it to the bucket with a hard thump. “I’ve only spoken to her once and that was nearly thirty summers ago.”
“When?”
“You used to tell me stories about the pretty lady who sang songs to you at night. Your nurse was very competent but far from pretty. So one night, I sat in the nursery and waited. I thought maybe…I don’t know, I wondered if it was Tarsha.” Balic’s face was trained on the young men running laps around the field ground carrying large grain sacks but his vision was unfocused.
“Most of the night there was nothing. Just before dawn, a voice from behind me told me to go to bed. I turned and there stood a beautiful dark-haired woman in a red gown. She told me her name, said Tarsha had sent her and that she would always guard you. Then she sat on the side of your bed, stroked your hair and whispered a sweet song in a language I don’t know. I watched her turn to smoke and she… I knew then Tarsha had kept her promise. She’d kept you safe. Her greatest fear was Marchen hurting you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
Balic grunted. “You were barely talking. That was the only time I’ve seen her and you stopped talking about her. Except the night of the Minstrel’s Feast. She frightened you then.”
“Yeah.” Taric’s voice softened in recollection. At six summers, he’d been determined to be viewed as a man. The naiveté shamed him now. Balic had sent him to bed long before the celebrations had ended, irritating him and making him feel like a suckling child. Rebelliously he thought to light the fire in his chamber himself rather than wait for a servant. He struck flint to tinder and watched in horror as his winter tunic sleeve began to smolder from a stray spark. Myla appeared and smacked at his arm until the clothing lay cool but the skin underneath stung from her blows.
“Taric! Never play with fire. You are too young and it is too dangerous.”
“I can do it!” he spat in defiance.
She glowered at him more harshly than his father ever had. Her eyes glittering like glass, she gripped his wrist. The flint crashed to the floor. Her words slipped with icy anger down his back.
“You cannot and will not attempt this again, do you hear me? I will keep you safe but do not waste my energy on stupid, childish actions. You will have far too much need of me in the future. Do not add protecting you from your own stubbornness to my duties. Behave yourself.”
She had left him before a cold hearth feeling juvenile and humiliated. But he had not tried to start a fire again until he was much older. Last night, he’d started a fire of a different type and it still scorched his blood.
“Papa, do you know the spell Mother used to create Myla?”
Balic studied him, a deep wrinkle between his brows. Taric forced himself not to fidget. “No. What are you looking for?”
Avoiding the question, Taric posed one. “Was Mother trained…as a sorceress? Or was she born to magic?”
“Both. Like you were born a prince but had to be taught to fight and to speak, the customs, the laws, the ways to judge fairly. Magic was in her blood but it had to be harnessed.” His wrinkle deepened and Taric turned away, watching the soldiers as well.
It was easier to talk if he didn’t have to see the growing unease on his father’s face. “Then is my blood half-magical?”
“I suppose. You mother was… Tarsha is recorded as the most powerful sorceress of our age. So I did watch when you were a child but never saw any inclination toward the art from you. Despite my aversion to the craft, I would’ve seen to your training had you shown some talent in that area. Taric, what’s going on?”
“I’m still working through some things. I’ll tell you when I can explain it.”
“That sounds suspiciously like the same thing you said when you shaved Bryton’s head to see if his hair would grow back the same color.”
The childhood memory slammed into him and Taric barked with laughter. And then both he and Balic were slammed to the ground by a huge black cat. The massive jaguar laid her body over both of them, her hot breath moist against Taric’s chest. When his eyes blinked the spinning stars away, he saw the fletched arrow imbedded in the support post of the well roof, directly where their same-height heads had been.
“Thank you, Myla,” he gasped, struggling to sit up.
Balic pushed at her haunches, freeing his legs with a curse. “Damn it, Mactog, which idiot lost his arrow?”
“That would be Ivor again, sire,” the trainer wheezed, running to them. “Are you both all right?”
“No, I’m damned pissed off and now my ass is sore!” Standing, Balic ripped the arrow from the wood and pointed it at a grimacing adolescent. “You’re a menace with that damn thing. You nearly took out two lives with your carelessness. Mactog, keep him away from those bows or so help me, I’ll use him as my next target!”
Whirling in fury, Balic froze at the sight below him. His son, heir to his crown and joy of his heart, sat ruffling the neck fur of the largest black cat he had ever seen. There appeared to be an easy affection between his son and the deadly animal, which he assumed was normal. Well, as normal as a grown man sitting in the dirt with a jaguar in his lap could be. Obviously, Taric no longer feared his guardian. The animal pushed its great head against Taric’s chest in play, nearly knocking him over. He merely laughed, grabbed fistfuls of ebony hair and shook the cat’s ears. From between wickedly lethal fangs, the cat’s pink tongue licked at Taric’s face.
“Stop that. I prefer the other Myla do that.”
A paw the size of his head swiped at him with gentleness, messing his hair. Only then did Taric look up. “Oh, Papa, uhm…” Rising, he dusted his backside and blushed.
“I assume this is your protector.” Balic fixed the cat with a glare but she seemed unimpressed and merely blinked intelligent eyes. “Good day, Guardian.”
Her head bowed but she remained seated by Taric’s side, unwilling to leave her charge even now. Taric’s hand strayed to rest on her head, stroking behind her ear and she began to purr. Loud and low, it vibrated the air around them.
Balic stared. So this was the form that had freed his son from captivity and ended his brother’s life. He’d heard Taric tell the tale, believed him even, but had never imagined… How could the slender woman he’d seen in the nursery be so large an animal? The cat easily outweighed either he or Taric.
“I owe you my gratitude, Guardian. It seems my first wife chose her spell very well indeed.”
Rising, the jaguar padded toward him and he steeled himself not to step back instinctually. She merely nuzzled his hand. Her rough, broad tongue tickled his fingertips.
“I think she’s saying you’re welcome.” Taric grinned.
“Wetly.” Balic pulled his hand away but half-smiled at the animal. How many times had this being saved his son? Now, she had saved him, also. “The question you asked earlier? About the spell? I have no idea. Of everything we shared, Tarsha kept her magic close to her heart. She’d sent the midwife away to get word to me. No one was in the room when she spoke it except for you…and Myla. Maybe she could tell you.”
The cat canted her head, fixing glowing gold-green eyes on Taric. Balic could have sworn the feline looked hungry.
Chapter Five
Taric went in search of Bryton, Myla in feline form at his side. Balic had seemed unnerved by her misting to him as a child and Taric didn’t want to make his father uncomfortable by having her repeat the magic. He liked having her beside him in any fashion. They did garner some strange looks, prince and feline walking through the courtyard, but Taric supposed it did no harm. If anything, his reputation would be enhanced. What other future king boasted a great wild cat for a pet and did not even leash her to walk through his kingdom?
Snorting at his own whimsy, he found Bryton overseeing melee challenges, watching carefully for any mistakes. When his captain spied their approach, his eyes widened. Several soldiers turned to gawk but discipline had taught them to hold their tongues. For her part, Myla cast her mesmerizing gaze around and growled, remin
ding them to see to their training. The soldiers scurried to obey her loud but unspoken command.
“How goes the morning?” Taric watched a set of guards perform a maneuver, avoiding his friend’s face.
“All right. Falcon’s lame.”
“What?” His gelding had ridden hard and Taric had left him in the capable hands of the stable master. Now guilt befell him.
“Nothing serious. Most likely a bruised ankle from our lengthy ride but he’s been set to rest for two days. You’ll have to use another mount.” Taric nodded and Bryton bit his lip. “Sorry about last night. Didn’t think to knock.”
“It’s all right.” Shrugging off the discomfort, Taric caught Bryton’s eyes. The stern look was not expected. “Nothing happened. Stop looking at me like I slept with your sister.”
“My sister wouldn’t have your royal ass and you’re playing with fire, Tar. She’s not real.”
“Really?” He squatted beside Myla, stroking her long back, and looked up to his captain in challenge. “Feels real.”
Bryton’s lips opened to speak but a horn blast shrilled the morning—the battle call. Every soldier on the field took off at a run, Taric and Bryton in the lead, Myla before them. Her long form ate the distance in powerful leaps but she never moved far from her master’s side.
Balic stood in the open double doors of the grand hall, parchment in hand. Taric skipped two steps at a time until he reached his side. Myla crept behind him, pressed against his leg. The king grimly handed him the report without a word.
Taric skimmed the sparse words and his stomach clenched. Marchen had gone too far this time and had taken Luta with him.
“Today we mourn.” Balic’s voice rang over the assembled crowd. “Nine leagues to the south, on the borderland of Claverham, there was a village called Istimar. It is no more, thanks to the enemy’s torch.”
“Survivors? Were there survivors? My sister lives there,” called a cracking voice from one of the youngest soldiers.
Balic drew a breath, his gaze falling on Mactog. The wizened trainer moved behind the young lad. Taric witnessed the maneuver and pinched his lips tight.
