Myla By Moonlight

by Inez Kelley

  Balic and Mactog chose to grab an hour or two of sleep in the prince’s tent, each jabbing at the other about age and long nights. Their easy friendship reminded Taric he had a repair to make. He slipped from the tent without another word, his hand cupping his burn scar. Myla.

  The troop had been awakened by the night patrol and since full dawn was not far off, Taric set his men to breaking camp. They would head back to Thistlemount at daybreak. He approached Bryton, who was sitting beside the crackling fire pit.

  “You’re not resting?”

  Bryton shook his head before sipping from his cup. “I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”

  Taric lowered himself to the dirt near the fire. They locked gazes and Taric was the first to look away. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Bry, and I’m trying to make it right but I can’t be sorry. I love her too much for that.”

  “How do you make it right?”

  “I make her human…all the time. There has to be a way.”

  Bryton gaped at him as if he’d just announced he could shoot stars out his ass. “You’ve had some hare-brained ideas in your time but damn it, Tar, this is the worst. Shouldn’t you have tried to do that before you screwed her? Just in case, I don’t know, it doesn’t work?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’d have bonded either way.” Rolling his tongue around his cheek, he shrugged his shoulder. “So are you going to help me or ride my ass about it?”

  Yanking the tie from his shoulder-length hair, Bryton scratched his head as if his brains had poison sumac. He sniffed, rubbed his chin and looked at Taric. Face turned back to the fire, he shifted his jaw, wobbled his head and sighed.

  “Might as well help. Can’t be any worse than the time you talked me into asking what the word ‘cunnilingus’ meant at the state dinner.”

  Taric’s laugh snorted out crudely. Bryton joined in and their friendship healed.

  ab

  Love. The word circled around Myla’s essence like a river current tossed with a million stars. How many types there were, she mused, caressing each memory. She had been created from a mother’s love, selfless and giving, risking everything for her child. A father’s love was both protective and hopeful, yet it had a gruffness to mask the gentle side. Deep friendship carried love past blood ties but the emotion raged just as faithful. Taric had shown her a different variety, the love of king and country. It commanded respect and loyalty, offering solidarity and belonging in exchange.

  Each form of love had a joyous, lasting effect and yet none were the feeling that swelled in her when she thought of Taric. She felt all of them in one swift rush of exhilaration but even they were inadequate. She loved him more than herself and would give all that she was just to make him happy. Always, she had protected him, hoping her efforts would assure his future, and she would never cease. The tenderness his smile brought had been hidden behind her bluster when it seemed too raw to examine. No other person provoked such devotion, such commitment in her. Watching Taric filled her with a sense of pride and reverence unmatched in her limited scope of life.

  But there was more, more that she longed to have words to express. The love a woman holds for a man defied description and her silenced voice could find no expression. His love humbled her, forging softness in a heart that beat only for him. If the need arose, she would forfeit her existence for him without thought or breath. He was her everything. His touch thrilled her body, his laugh tickled her joy, even his anger filled her with a need to make things right. Making love with him was sweeter than strawberries, hotter than a bonfire, more beautiful than a starry night.

  The night sky with countless specks of magic strewn on a bed of onyx velvet stretching farther than the eye can see, just out of reach and filled with a beauty which has no language. Yes, that is my love for Taric, endless, magical and beyond my world. A sight I can see but never truly have.

  She’d bonded with Taric as surely as if their bodies and souls had become one. Above his heart lay the mark of her destructive touch. Her love had stolen his future, his kingdom’s safety and his line’s continuance.

  Grief and guilt washed over her in a bloodbath of heat. He might not ever father a child, but he could find another woman to be his princess, to crown as his queen, who could give him an illegitimate child to preserve his kingdom. It had been done before. History bore proof of the technique’s success.

  Myla had learned about love. It often required sacrifice. Taric could go on with his life if he were willing to let her go. He had no other choice, nor did she. She loved him too much to see his future shattered. She could not ever go to him again as anything other than his guardian.

  If she could cry in mystic form, Myla would have sobbed. Her nonexistent heart broke in wretched misery.

  Atop Falcon, half a league from Thistlemount, Taric gasped and clutched his searing side. His hand came away wet, and cold fear shot through him. Myla.

  ab

  Taric tossed the small packet of letters on his father’s desk and crossed his hands behind his back, gripping his knuckles tight. He hadn’t been inside the castle for ten minutes and was already near defiance. This Elora and Council of Elders shit could wait. His father could wait. The end of the world could wait. He needed to see Myla. Something was wrong. The slicing pain that had shot through him channeled fear throughout his soul. His well-healed scar wept salted liquid and his terror grew by the moment.

  Balic lifted the folded parchments and thumbed through the slim height. “Which letter?” Without words, Taric took the stack, rifled through them and pulled out one near the top. He tossed it on the desk and resumed his post, lips tight.

  Balic noticed. “Where in the letter? I don’t want to invade your privacy more than necessary.”

  “You taught me well, Papa. There’s nothing in those letters I’d be ashamed for anyone to read. I keep my personal life personal even in correspondence with a woman.”

  A smirk tilted Balic’s mustache and he settled into his chair. “Even in a marriage proposal?”

  “As I said, it was a business proposition, not a love match. Elora is…she’s very sweet and lovely but…a cold hearth has more spark.”

  “Then what has you so tense?”

  Taric blew out a breath and lowered his head. Keeping secrets from his father had never been easy even when he knew it would end up with a sore behind and no supper. “I need to call Myla out. Something’s wrong.”

  Golden brows shot upward in sudden perplexity. “Myla? Are you in pain?”

  “Not now. But I’ve never felt this before…and my scar is wet.”

  “Wet? Then call her. After last night, nothing she does could shock me.”

  His lips parted to say he’d prefer to call her in private but his father leaned back in his chair and fixed him with an expectant look. Taric hid his sigh and called for Myla. As usual, he felt nothing from her leaving his side, but her face appearing before him filled him with joy. Then he noticed her tears.

  “Myla?” His hand stretched out to her.

  She stepped back and kept her eyes on his shirt. “You call and I obey. I bid you good day, my charge.” Her emotionless words elevated his fear to panic. It took every ounce of his strength not to pull her close in front of his father.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Her lids closed slowly and the delicate lines of her throat rose with a swallow. “Do you have need of me, my charge?”

  Her char—what’s happening? Fright lodged in his throat like too-thick soured porridge. “Yes, I need to know what’s wrong.”

  Her catlike eyes darted quickly to her left, at the king who sat and studied the byplay, before focusing back on his shirt. “As always, I am fit and ready to do my promised duty.”

  It was no answer yet she hadn’t lied to him. Like a too-tight twine around a hay bale, Taric snapped. He grabbed her wrist and jerked her from the room without a word. His breath charging out like his gelding’s after a run, he stomped from the library and pull
ed her into the alcove. She shrugged off his hands and stepped away when he went to embrace her.

  A chill began in his gut. “Myla, what the hell is going on? Why are you crying and why is my scar seeping tears?”

  Deeper than the emeralds in the crown, her eyes raised to his. Silver lined her lashes, spiking them to outline the green before slipping over pale cheeks. Iridescent tracks marred her cheeks and he longed to kiss the sadness away.

  Her lips quivered, vibrating her words. “This is wrong. We are wrong.”

  “Wrong? No, Myla, we are right. Nothing has ever felt as right as we do.”

  The back of her shaky hand pressed to her mouth, she whirled to the hall. A passing servant halted her abruptly and her shoulders butted into Taric’s chest. She shrank from him with a sob and his heart plummeted. Shoulders hunched and palms held out, she scooted along the wall to avoid touching him and huddled in the corner.

  Her sniffling filled the tiny space and Taric stared in horror. This was not his fierce, deadly guardian. This was a woman desperate to escape a man, and his stomach shuddered at being that man. Last night she’d clung to him, called his name as she climaxed beneath him but now she couldn’t bear to touch him?

  “Myla?”

  She transformed from woman to warrior. Her trembling halted and, swallowing her sobs like a soldier, she righted her stance and looked him full in the face. Dread plucked at his soul. Shielded behind her bravery, she stared at him, daring him to approach. A pain began deep in his chest. This was his protector. This warrior had no mercy, no softness in her. She was battle-ready and prepared for any challenge. Something cold and distant brewed in her gaze that reached to him, penetrated his skin and whispered through his bones with winter frost.

  “Taric, listen to me and hear my words. I love you with everything that I am but we cannot be. I am not real, not real enough. I cannot be your princess. I cannot carry a life. I cannot give you a child.”

  Words froze in his gaping mouth. The chill in his gut spread higher, encasing his heart and burning with an icy sting. His lips spoke her name but there was no sound.

  “You swore to me and are honor-bound to not command me against my wishes. Do not call for me again. I shall always guard you but I cannot be with you. Ensure your line in name, marry a widow and claim her child. Teach him to be your heir. Save Eldwyn as you were born to do. Know that I watch from within and shall always love you.”

  “No!” His voice rushed back on a January squall, shrieking from a croaked throat. Grasping her arms, he pulled her close and she cringed as if he burned her. She turned her face away, soundless tears dripping to his arm. “I’m bound to you, Myla. You! I can’t love another, I don’t want another. We’ll find a way to keep you here, to make you human. There has to be a way. Let me find it.”

  With military precision, she removed his hands one at a time and stood tall. Tears fell from her lashes like summer rain but no other emotion clouded her face. “I cannot exist in your world because I am not human and never shall be. I am a spell, words and herbs and magic formed to keep you safe. I can be no more.”

  Numb with frigid dread, Taric shook his head. He wouldn’t let her words soak in, wouldn’t let them be true. “You’re not just a spell, you can’t be.”

  “It is all that I am. Farewell, my prince. I hope you never have need of me but I always watch. I keep my vow and do my duty. You are never alone.”

  Lilac haze filled the alcove, slipping through fingers that reached for nothing. Salt misted his lips like he stood before the ocean. Myla had kissed him goodbye.

  Chapter Eight

  Balic paced the library, reading the elegant swirls of Elora Marchen’s handwriting. The girl had a pretty hand and, it seemed, a sharp mind but she was clearly terrified of her legal father. If only she knew what an unstable butcher he was. Disgust thickened his tongue and he lowered himself into his chair.

  Taric walked stiffly into the room, going directly to the unlit fireplace. Barely sparing his son a glance, Balic stacked the letters. “You should have no trouble denying her claim. She’s quite emphatic in her refusal, in a flowery, girlish way. Still, I don’t trust Marchen farther than I can piss into the wind. Take them all, mark each passage where she says anything about the proposal.”

  “I’ll do it tonight.” The words came from far more distance than across the room and Balic looked up. The wide span of Taric’s shoulders stood even with the mantlepiece he crossed his arms on. His chin rested on his wrists.

  As always from this viewpoint, Balic smiled. Taric’s hair was lighter than his own deep honey gold yet bolder than the sunshine of Tarsha’s. It was like he’d borrowed from them both, blended the tones and invented his own shade. His son had done that feat many times over, blending traits and claiming them for his own. He’d grown into a fine man and Balic was so very proud of him, had chosen his name well—Taric Batu, Star’s Gift. He was everything Balic had wished for on a long-ago star. Did all parents feel this way when studying their grown children?

  The stiffness in Taric’s spine started a trickle of unease. “Are you worried about the Elders’ Council?”

  “No.” A deep breath sang noisily. Taric stepped away from the hearth but did not turn. “But I might not fight it.”

  “What? Of course you’ll fight it.” Confusion flared but was pushed aside by anger. “You have no choice. If you don’t contest it, she wins Bridal Retribution and you basically forfeit the crown you’ve yet to claim. You will fight it.”

  “Papa.”

  Did his voice really stagger? What had happened with his guardian when he’d dragged her from the room? Was he hurting? Concern wiped the anger from his mind and he pushed from the chair. “Taric, what’s wrong?”

  “What if I choose a bride who…isn’t exactly proper? What happens then?” There was something hidden in those words Balic couldn’t discern. Taric whirled to look at him and the agony etched on his face stabbed Balic’s belly like a knife. “What if I tell you I…found my bondmate and she’s not what you expect?”

  “I expect nothing but that you love her.” He licked suddenly dry lips. “Have you found your heartmate?”

  With a nod, Taric sniffed and swallowed hard. “What if she’s…a farmer’s daughter or a barmaid? What if she’s a widow with two children already?”

  The barely controlled ache in Taric’s voice frightened Balic more than anything he’d ever known. Stepping forward, he kept his eyes on his son’s face, silently offering comfort. “If you bonded to her, Taric, if she is your heartmate, I don’t care if she’s a paid whore from the lowest tavern in the land.”

  “What if she’s not real?” The whispered question explained everything and destroyed the same.

  “No.” His eyes widened but his vision pinpointed until the only thing visible was the torment on his child’s nodding face.

  Taric watched the blood seep from Balic’s features, his jaw loosening on its hinge and his eyes filling with disbelief. The frosted numbness of Myla’s farewell began to fade, flooding him with a hot ache and a hotter anger.

  From the center of Taric’s chest, boiling heat inundated his body. He’d had enough. His bondmark threatened the crown, Elora threatened the crown, Marchen threatened the crown and he had yet to inherit the damn thing. The Elders’ Council had the power to change his destiny, Myla had changed his destiny and Marchen could change it at any moment with one well-placed arrow, but he couldn’t change a damn thing.

  Balic spun on one foot and stalked to the window, hands clasped tight behind his rigid back, and stared out at the courtyard. In the wavy glass Taric could only make out smudges of reflection but he could guess what was written there. The loss of the throne meant nothing in comparison to losing his monarch’s, his father’s, respect.

  “I’ve disappointed you.”

  “No.” Balic’s murmur was thick and gruff. For several moments, he stared out at the roses swaying in the wind. When he turned, Taric’s stomach lurched to find matchin
g eyes filled with the first tears he’d ever seen there. “You could never disappoint me. I just hoped you’d be spared the pain of loving someone you can’t hold. At least I had four summers and got a son. I can’t give even that to you. I wear a crown that doesn’t have the power to keep my own blood from the despair I know too well. It might as well be worthless.”

  “Worthless or not, everyone seems intent on taking it from my head when I’ve never worn it.” Hands running through his hair, Taric widened his stance and planted both feet for a battle. He crossed his arms defiantly. “But they’re going get a fight if they think I’ll give it away so easily.”

  “Fight the Council and the Marchens, I agree, but how do you plan on fighting something that doesn’t exist?”

  “Myla exists!” His voice louder than he intended, he didn’t wait for a reprimand. He dropped his fisted hands to his side. His ranted volume increased as he paced. “She bleeds, she eats, she sleeps…she cries. She loves me as I love her and I’ll find a way to make her real. I refuse to believe it can’t happen. If a scar appears out of nowhere and a burn can hold a jaguar then, damn it, there has to be a way!”

  A chuckle drew his eyes to his now-smiling father. “You have your mother’s passion. Nothing could stop Tarsha when she set her mind to something. Telling her it was impossible just made her more determined. If there is way, you’ll find it.”

  “Help me.” Taric crossed to the desk that separated them, leaned on the glossy top and locked his gaze on his father. “Tell me who trained Mother. Who do I go to with my questions?”

  “Her teacher died before you were born and Tarsha had far surpassed her knowledge by that time. I don’t know of anyone who had the level of talent your mother had.”