She was very glad she'd opened the door to speak with him, for she doubted his prowess as warrior not one whit. But she also knew he was no slathering beast. He harbored no malice toward her. In fact, she would almost go so far as to suspect he liked her.
That thought brought sleep easily.
The door to the woman's bedchamber shut. Preece collapsed with his back against it. He slid to the floor and wiped a hand over his head, allowing the oversize cowl to tilt back enough to admit a draught of cool air. He felt as though he'd climbed a glacier. His chest hitched with every breath.
He'd seriously misjudged the situation here. Misjudged the Yune female.
In the throne room, she'd worn a shapeless gown he couldn't even describe, beyond the recollection it was some drab brown or wheaten shade. He'd run his sword through her skirts, yet he couldn't now name the precise hue of them. He'd scoffed at the rumors about Yune women, refused Bourke's amulet, assured himself and everyone else there was no cause for concern.
Then she'd opened her chamber door and unleashed a maelstrom.
The faint glow he'd detected in the throne room emanated from a magnificent head of gleaming violet hair. It spilled down over her shoulders and waist, reaching clear to the back of her knees. The gleaming mantle matched her iridescent eyes. Which he'd mistaken for gray that afternoon. Ha! Never gray, not even blue, but a remarkable deep violet. Amethyst and crystalline. Warm-cold as the gems themselves.
Her flesh was not peachy like that of most Yunes, mayhap owing to her father's Glacian blood. But her shape was lithe and willowy, wraithlike and supple. He had only to close his eyes and he could see and hear her again. Asking his forgiveness, standing there with her hand extended.
Even though she knew.
She knew what he was. She'd asked about his cycle. She'd stood there and smiled, saying she hoped they might become friends.
Women who were not of his blood did not treat him thusly. They did not offer friendship and smiles. Nay, they cowered, whispered behind their hands, looked elsewhere, pretended they did not see the black cowl. This he'd come to accept. Just as he'd come to accept the markedly different lore of his race, the rigid rules of his existence. The Ancient Ones left tablets and scrolls behind. Mystic tomes filled with sacred cabals, rites and rituals, the mysteries of olden ways. Preece had studied Waniand lore and understood the arcane ways of his race.
So by all natural order, this should not be happening to him. Not now...and not with this noble female. She was young and mayhap foolish, green to the ways between females and males. He was not.
He'd find a way to quell his fascination. He would not permit himself to indulge in unseemly thoughts. Thoughts of how she'd stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the torchlights in the passageway, holding out her hand to him. Smiling with her lips and eyes as the tips of her breasts pressed against her thin gown. How they and her gleaming mantle of flowing tresses had all but begged for a male's caressing touch.
He should not have even been aware of such things out of season. That he was could only be the accursed woman's own fault. Had she no sense of proper decorum, no maidenly coyness?
Damn her.
If only she hadn't sought him out, hadn't smiled at him. Hadn't stood there, glowing. But she had. And he did not sleep a wink that night for remembering.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
Cronel's castle sat within the bowl-like cirque formed by a ring of steep glaciers. The crags technically divided Inner from Outer Glacia, though no travelers now recognized a border marking as they passed through the narrow gorge between peaks.
The two realms of Glacia had once been distinctly different, with separate rulers and customs, before a long and bloody battle engineered by Cronel. Moreya had been a babe when Cronel defeated King Bobos and acquired the larger expanse of Outer Glacia - beyond which lay the dark realm of Dredonia.
Dredonia.
The name itself evoked images of gloom, murk, misery...the name suited the barren, nearly forsaken expanse of open flatland. Rabble and outcasts from the other known realms inhabited Dredonia's crude mining camps. Beyond the dark mining pits themselves lay rough settlements comprised of brothels, smithy huts, clapboard taverns and alehouses.
Dredonia's primary race was a dark, diminutive people known as Raviners. Once little more than bands of roving nomads, Raviners now worked in or controlled most mine operations. They owned many of the gaming and whoring establishments or trading posts within the Dredonian realm, and still conducted frequent raids beyond her borders.
They had an innate fondness for theft and pillaging. What Raviners wanted, they took. They were also competent with grazing animals of every description, natural shepherds and cattlemen. Their skills allowed them to both tame wild griffons and breed them in captivity.
Raviners attacked from the backs of horses, goats, and musk oxen, then augmented ground raids with winged griffons plummeting from the skies. Few travelers made it across the breadth of Dredonia without losing some belongings to Raviner raids.
The knowledge they'd entered Raviner territory had everyone tense as Moreya's journey reached its third day. Outer Glacia's rolling foothills lay far behind them now. Ahead the terrain stretched bleakly, dotted with sparse vegetation and few signs of human life. What passed as a roadway was hardly more than a rutted vacant tract. Moreya knew it was unsafe to venture from the closed coach for more than the briefest moments to attend to personal needs. She even slept within its confines. Glaryd made a pallet beneath it. The men took up encircling positions around the coach and pack animals each night.
Within the dark coach, Moreya lay awake, wondering about Preece.
He slept very little and seemed to prefer the night watch. He dined alone, rode well behind the coach most of the time, and spoke only when necessary. He did not ride a horse, as his men did, but mounted a great tahr specially trained for battle.
Preece was a tall man, and few tahrs had the requisite shoulder height to accommodate human riders. But his was gigantic, with black hooves and legs emerging from a shaggy coat of silken brown fur. The beast's massive, curving horns could slash a foot soldier to pieces, which Lockram assured Moreya the tahr had done more than once in the heat of battle.
Preece chose the giant cousin of a goat because the tahr was faster and more nimble than any warhorse. His battletahr could pick its way through large rocks or along narrow ledges. It could leap gorges and chasms of up to twenty feet. It was - like its master - courageous, strong, and tireless.
How Preece managed with but a few hours' rest without flagging, Moreya did not fathom. He seemed almost too alert. Once she ventured to crack open the coach door a few inches late at night. He came instantly to his feet and surged forward, demanding to know what was amiss.
Nothing. She'd merely wanted some night air. He hovered nearby until she lied, claiming she needed privacy for a few moments. The dark cowl moved like one of the deep night shadows beneath the canopy of starlight. She made a harmless observation about their progress so far, and won only a curt dismissal back to her bed.
The Warmonger remained an enigma. But then, so was Moreya's intended bridegroom.
She knew little of Greensward, its rulers, or its populace. Her father had seldom spoken of that realm. Naturally enough, since it lay so distant from Glacia. He'd rarely ventured to Greensward. That he'd gone recently, intent upon arranging a betrothal, without discussing the matter first still rankled. Moreya no more fathomed his last diplomatic laurel than she did his unexpected, ignominious death.
But understanding came in a flash of horrible insight later that third evening, as the travelers stopped for the night.
They had obtained lodgings in a decrepit inn. Though she should have been tired enough to drop off quickly, Moreya found she could not sleep, and thought to get a cup of milk from the kitchens. She crept down the dimly-lit back stairs barefoot, clad in her night rail, hoping the men would be so engrossed in drinking and dicing in the taproom
, none would realize she'd left her chambers.
As she reached the bottom riser, Lockram's voice halted her progress.
"Can you believe Preece has us taking a Yune to wed the prince regent in Greensward? Why that sodomite would even go through the pretense of taking a wife is beyond my ken. Any woman would be wasted on that one, but a Yune!"
"Say you're jesting, friend!" someone answered overloudly. "A Yune bride for a man who prefers hairy buttocks and a stiff prick? Queen Vela must hope to change his leanings."
"Could be," Dugan replied, belching. "The woman we bring is but half Yune, yet comely enough to stir any man's blood. She'd get a few lances hoisted here, which is why we wear these ugly amulets. A sorcerer enchanted them. They ward off Yunish beguilement."
"Too bad, eh, young Sieffre?"
The youngest knight's voice faltered slightly. "Actually, I don't favor her. Her hair is blue. Can you imagine her nether grove - bright as a patch of wildeberries? I prefer what's between a wench's thighs to be pink."
This brought roaring laughter and the scrape of benches on wood flooring.
Moreya dashed back up the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest. Her father had once dismissed a pair of house guards for misconduct. It was a few days after their dismissal, that Moreya heard the vague whisperings of other servants, as they spoke of the "sodomites." And after much prodding and pleading, Drix had finally confessed to Moreya what the word meant.
Anthaal had long suffered an aversion to unwholesome acts and men who engaged in them. So how could he have betrothed his own daughter to the prince regent of Greensward, when it seemed plain his lewd preferences were common knowledge?
Moreya fought back hot tears of mortification and anger. Her father had often despaired of making a good marriage for her. That much was true. But her affliction was nothing so awful as this prince's! She could love, honor and obey, have an ordinary existence, so long as she remained indoors. Within a hall or bedchamber, she could please a man and be a fitting wife. And like most young maids, she hoped for children one day.
But she'd be fortunate to beget even one babe if she wedded a sodomite.
Lost in her dismaying thoughts, she slowly moved along the hallway to her own chamber. But before she reached it, she noticed Preece's door. It was closed, while the rooms of the other knights sat vacant with their doors wide open.
Preece was not with the others belowstairs, of course. He did not drink and carouse. He did not socialize. He was alone in his chambers, perhaps without the damnable cowl. That thought fanned the flames of her ire.
Fie, the Warmonger had been hiding more than his misshapen face!
He'd likely been smirking beneath that accursed cowl of his from the very first. Pretending concern for her well being, knowing all along he was taking her to Prince Velansare, who would not want her, however desperate his mother was to change his preference. How Preece must have enjoyed this pathetic farce. And sad jest it was. A Yune maiden whose outward appearance was said to be so enticing, men wore bat hindquarters to ward off her allure...sold into marital slavery to a man who couldn't care less if he ever gazed upon her flesh.
What a cruel, vicious jest. And hardly amusing to Moreya.
She'd been courteous, genial, and forthright. He'd been a sneak and a liar.
Without a second's hesitation, she burst into Preece's chamber.
A tall man stood with his back to her, naked above the waist. He'd been washing his upper body at a basin. He straightened and turned, groping with one hand for a cloth.
Moreya dashed to where his towel lay and snatched it before he could. Then held it clutched to her chest. "You are the most - "
The words died on her tongue as the larger realization dawned. This stranger had to be Preece. Her shock was so complete, at first her mind denied that the person before her could indeed be the Warmonger. But she knew better. This was his chamber. This man was tall, young, lean and supple of build. Common sense told her he could be no one else.
This had to be Preece, the Warmonger.
But he was beautiful.
Not simply correct in form and feature, but ruggedly, yet ethereally, fair. Silver-blond locks fell in a thick sheen to broad shoulders. His physique was that of a seasoned warrior, all hard muscle and sinew.
Still clutching the towel, she took a step back. She still could not get over the shock. Here stood the monster of the cowls.
He looked like a heavenly angel fallen to earth.
His mouth was exactly where a mouth should be, and firmly set in a hard line. Yet she saw at once his lips were sensual; his chin and jaw, smooth and square. The flesh of his cheeks and brow was unlined. His eyes were framed by pale lashes and brows that winged slightly upward at the outer corners.
His eyes.
They snapped with fury, but that registered second. What she noted first was their color. The same whitish green-blue of northern ice, the core buried in the heart of every glacier. Icy cold and burning hot at the same time.
Why in the name of the Great Creator did this man hide his visage? Unless to keep women like her from swooning. Or mayhap drooling!
She numbly offered the towel. He took it and began drying his face and neck.
She watched the towel erase the droplets at the hollow of his throat. She stared as little rivulets ran down a smooth chest to his flat belly. The man had not a single freckle nor ounce of excess flesh on his frame, but several scars on his chest and upper arms. Except for those signs of his hard profession, his body rivaled the perfection of his face...and stirred an odd sensation as she gazed upon him.
Whatever had come over her?
She'd heard the tales of Yune women supposedly weaving spells over their mates. Were Yune females also susceptible to mating enchantment? If so, Preece must have cast some unwanted entrancement upon her. Her anger had melted; resolve to do battle evaporated. She could barely recall why she'd entered his chamber in the first place.
"You're handsome!" She croaked the accusation, then flushed. Why in the Lord's name had she blurted that out? She was here to speak of Velansare.
The fury in his eyes changed to astonishment. "What? Are you ill, Lady Fa? Why have you come? Is something wrong?"
"Yes. You lied. About everything." She heard her voice, the words coming in quick little pants. She tried to slow down, make sense. "That is wrong, because I do not deserve treachery. I was kind to you. I tried to befriend you and your men. And in exchange, you deceived me. You're beautiful. And callous."
He merely stared. Moreya was too wound up to stop now.
"You laugh at my expense, and I'll not abide that." She straightened her shoulders, realizing only then they were hidden beneath a tattered spare blanket she'd pulled from her bed as a temporary cloak. What a picture she must present, bursting in here dressed in only her shift and a moth-eaten blanket. Enchanting, right enough.
"I do not laugh at you, and I have told no lies," he answered slowly. He seemed to choose his words with care. "Waniands do not speak untruths. It is not our way. Your thoughts have become addled for some reason unknown to me."
"My thoughts are clear at long last," she snapped. "Look at you! You're the most incredibly handsome man I've ever laid eyes upon, yet you allow everyone to believe you're a monster. I expected you to drool into your own eyebrows!"
"What?"
Moreya abruptly decided against retelling the tale of the mouth in the center of his forehead. Repeating that would hardly refute his claim that her mind was addled.
"You're taking me to wed a man who prefers knights to ladies. He doesn't want me or any maiden. Your men are belowstairs laughing about it. I heard them speak of the great irony, a Yune bride for a twisted sodomite. It's true, isn't it? Prince Velansare is unlikely to father children."
Preece flung the towel aside and released a heavy sigh. He glanced at the dark tunic thrown over the foot of his bed.
Moreya stepped forward to block him from donning the useless garment. "Don't bother
. It's too late to hide your face now. I know the truth. You lied about being deformed and you lied about Prince Velansare - Well, mayhap not an actual lie in words falsely spoken, but you obscured the truth. That's but another manner of lie."
"I've heard rumors about the prince," Preece acknowledged. "But talk is not the same as truth, no matter how pernicious. 'Tis said he enjoys the company of both males and females, but I cannot confirm that. I've yet to meet Prince Velansare."
"Well said, Warmonger." She was still seething, despite his calm reply. "Indeed, talk is not truth. Look at you. They said you were malformed from birth."
"I am Waniand by birth."
This was not said in defiance. Moreya studied his face and hair. She had heard Waniands were tall and light of complexion. What she hadn't known was how breathtakingly handsome they could be. "Waniands are said to be pale. You are beyond that, almost so ethereal as to be angelic."
"Now you laugh at me. Your own cruel jest." He skirted around her to jerk on his tunic. This time he did not raise the great hooded cowl. He kept his face averted as he tidied his belongings near the washstand. Moreya watched him and a new thought appalled her.
"You are ashamed of such beauty? Your race? How can you possibly be ashamed of being Waniand?" Dear Creator, had the warrior never seen his own reflection in a mirror or pond?
His gaze slid to the door. "You are Yune. You cannot understand."
"I do not understand much this night. I do not understand how any man so well favored can hide himself in shame. I do not understand why my father would pledge my troth to a man who'll never be a fitting husband, but I begin to see how he was able to make a royal match. What woman of royal blood would accept Prince Velansare? I've neither home nor family, thus, no choice. There is not a living soul I can trust. I have been forsaken even by my own father."
Preece frowned. "I'll let no harm come to you."
"You bring me to the true monster. I could...pay you well not to deliver me to him."
Biondine, Shannah Page 3
