Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  "I was told my father had entered a pact during a visit to your realm. I've not seen the betrothal contract itself, and my father never advised he'd considered an alliance with your son."

  "I told you exactly what was to come, Moreya Fa!" Cronel bellowed.

  "You told me your wishes, Sire," she corrected. "None of us can know what will come."

  Queen Vela's eyebrows lifted. She gave her son a pointed look and then turned to Cronel, who'd turned purple and seemed about to burst. "This is no modest, biddable girl. It sounds as though she's indeed taken a Waniand sword into her scabbard. And probably enjoyed it."

  "Mayhap," Cronel snapped, his eyes fastening on Moreya's face. "I call for the deaths of the three who attempted to flee with her. She is my subject, thus my property, now damaged and unsuitable for its intended use. She will be taken back to Glacia under guard. I shall decide her fate there."

  Glaryd made a strangled sound and edged closer to Moreya. Moreya turned to find one of the Greensward guards clutching his privates. He crudely mimicked the "intended use" he'd put Moreya to. Glaryd hissed at him like a wet cat.

  "Silence!" Vela commanded. She glowered at the captain of her royal guards. "Remove that lout at once."

  As the troublemaker was dismissed, Cronel addressed Moreya and the assembly.

  "You have not only dishonored your father, Lady Fa, but caused a spectacle that shall not soon be forgotten in this realm or our own. Perchance you shall be banished to a remote convent, wherein to contemplate the black sins upon your soul. If no nuns will abide an avowed harlot in their midst, I shall be forced to find a lowly station for you in my court. No nobleman will accept you now, but I am certain there must be some position menial and abasing enough to stamp out the wantonness - "

  He never finished his sentence. Glaryd darted forward and grabbed the dagger out of Queen Vela's hands. With a wild shriek of rage and frustration, Glaryd flung herself at Cronel and plunged the weapon into his neck.

  A geyser of blood spurted onto a screeching Queen Vela. Prince Velansare bolted from his chair beside her. He tripped, careening backwards. Guards rushed to prevent him from falling off the high stage.

  A guard in Cronel's purple drew his sword. Moreya screamed in helpless anguish as she watched him slice Glaryd across the chest. The maid collapsed. Onlookers began shouting and jostling. Guards fought to control the crowd.

  The mood had been ugly from the first, but now the unexpected assassination of a monarch turned the ugliness into a thirst for more carnage. Anarchy threatened. The many-fingered ruler sprawled dead, awash in his own blood. His advisors shouted in heated argument with the Glacian guards, while the soldiers from Greensward dusted off their prince and surrounded their nearly hysterical queen.

  Moreya pushed past one man, then another as the guards were diverted by onlookers trying to climb onto the stage. The executioner hefted his blade in ominous warning.

  Overhead, the skies abruptly darkened as immense shadows obscured the sun. Pandemonium broke out.

  Angry rioters became frantic potential victims, fleeing for their lives. Guards and ordinary citizens alike began trampling anyone in their way, panicked at the sight of three great firedrakes circling above the execution platform.

  Preece strangled a nearby guard with his chained wrists. Lockram followed suit, struggling to disarm another soldier. He overpowered the guard, knocked him off the stage, and hacked the chains binding him to Dugan. "Free Preece!" Moreya yelled, ducking as a sword nearly smacked her in the face.

  One firedrake plunged, talons open and grasping, to snatch Preece and Lockram. Moreya tried to rush forward, but someone grabbed the back of her kirtle. She pulled harder and the cloth ripped, baring her shoulder and part of her bosom, but she could not break free.

  Several guards raised their lances as another dragon spiraled down toward the stage. Dugan picked up a fallen sword and turned it on a guard, only to be impaled by a lance cutting through his spine. A huge stone pelted the guards trying to fight off the firedrakes. Lances cracked. Bones snapped.

  Moreya whirled and clawed at the man who held her. He wore Greensward colors and snarled as her nails raked his face. "The accursed bitch has lost her wits! Help me!" One of his comrades turned at the shout.

  "Nay, let go, you fool! The dragons will take me and leave in peace. They've come for me. Let me go!"

  She yanked again and once more heard cloth rend. Either the tearing of her kirtle, which left her bared to the waist, or her seemingly mad words had stunned the guards momentarily. Moreya spotted a clear area on the platform and lurched toward it, but not fast enough.

  She was blindsided by a guard, who flung himself bodily at her. Both of them went down sprawling. Her wrists were seized in a painful grip. Other hands clutched at her long hair, and she was quickly surrounded by Greensward guards. They dragged her down the steps and tossed her into a hay cart. The driver cracked his whip and spirited Moreya out of the city.

  Moreya had been brought from the dungeon up a winding stone stairwell, along a corridor, into an austere chamber in the Royal Palace of Greensward. By her own estimation - admittedly imprecise, as she'd been insensible at least part of the time during the harried journey here - four days had passed since Preece and Lockram had been swept aloft by the dragons.

  Or more truthfully, by a wizard masquerading as a dragon.

  Had they already reached the shores of Ataraxia? Moreya wondered. But before she could ponder the question, a door opened and Queen Vela swept into the room. Alone.

  "My son has gone to Glacia," the queen announced without preamble, as if Moreya missed the royal whelp and had even the slightest interest in his whereabouts. She fervently hoped he'd fall victim to an avalanche while crossing the mountain ranges.

  "Cronel's men have taken the body home for burial rites. Velansare will attend the funeral and meet with the high council in your homeland. He demands recompense. I demand truthful answers. There is no one else to hear your words, daughter of Anthaal Fa. I alone hold your fate in my hands."

  What exactly did she mean? If an attempt to frighten Moreya, it was not altogether successful. She'd already reasoned the monarchs of this realm would have had her slain by now, if death were the sentence upon her.

  "I do not know what more I can tell you. En route here, I decided to wed my Waniand escort. We are wed in the church and lifemated in the custom of Waniands. I had no wish to marry your son."

  Vela smoothed vast, glittering skirts. Then she reached into her bodice and pulled out a tied scroll. "This was on my tray of food the evening prior to the tribunal. I discounted the words as the ravings of a desperate madman, but did not realize until I saw him myself that the statement came from a Waniand."

  Again Moreya was at a loss. "I do not fathom what difference his race makes, unless you refer to the belief that Waniands are incapable of falsehoods."

  "Indeed. But you imply such is not the case. Do you say the tale set down here is a lie, then?"

  Moreya recalled Preece begging for an audience or permission to get a message to the queen. She could only surmise he would have fabricated some wild story to absolve Moreya of any culpability for what had taken place.

  Save yourself. She could still see the commanding look in his one eye, hear the words in her brain.

  Instead she had saved him.

  Love and duty made a woman do things that made little sense. Like speak the bold truth now to this heartless queen, who'd probably hang Moreya for it.

  "I heard my husband speak falsely once only - when the guards came to arrest us. He told them he'd forcibly abducted and raped me. He lied to spare my life. It is part of his racial code not to speak falsely; however, it is also part of his code that a warrior must sacrifice his own life to save his mate's."

  Vela unrolled the parchment and studied it a moment. "According to this, your marriage to my son might well have cost Velansare's life. And mine, as well. Your husband has here sworn that Cronel sent you knowing tha
t your presence causes dragon besiegement. They would have attacked during the traditional wedding procession across the meadow beyond our gates and slain every person save you."

  Moreya closed her eyes against the horrible images swirling through her mind.

  Vela pressed her advantage. "He requested that I spare your life, such boon being his mercenary fee for service to the royal thrones of Greensward. He asserts he entered into carnal union with you expressly to forestall the royal marriage and admits treachery against Cronel. He swears Cronel's purpose in sending you was to weaken Greensward so he might vanquish it."

  Execution would have been easier to face than this. Moreya bowed her head, refusing to reward Vela with any outward reaction.

  "I confess, I laughed most heartily when first I read this," Vela went on. "But that was before dragons attacked the stage." Against her will, Moreya raised her face and met Vela's hard stare.

  "I am not young," Vela said, narrowing her eyes even further. "I have seen dragons in the distance, watched them break through the clouds or circle a mountaintop. But I have never seen them swoop down to pluck humans from a place guarded by ready swords and lances. You summoned those reptiles. Your presence drew them, just as he warned."

  Moreya saw no point in challenging that assertion. "Yes."

  "You used them to aid your husband's escape."

  Fool that she'd been. "I cannot force them to do my bidding, but I hoped they would save him."

  "Portions of this Waniand statement, fantastic as they sound, have been proven to be true," Vela concluded. "I see no reason to doubt the rest. The fat bastard tried to use you to murder my son and myself. But your maidservant seized my blade and killed him. There is justice in the outcome, do you not think?"

  Recalling Glaryd's tale of mistreatment and permanent scarification, Moreya thought the fat king's end had been richly deserved - and far too quick. "I cannot feel pity for the dead king."

  Vela smiled. Moreya might have guessed bitterness would please the queen. Vela then shook her head and seemed to muse aloud.

  "I've a dilemma, though, daughter of Lord Fa. I cannot return you to your native land. His reeves believe you ordered your maidservant to kill the late king. For all I know, mayhap you did. I care not, but neither can I allow you to remain here. Velansare's pride would never condone it."

  Moreya's mind raced, reviewing the tumultuous events of the past fortnight. She hit on a possibility. "There is a monastery back in Dredonia called Axcroft. A monk from there performed my marriage and said he'd enter it in the records of his order. I could seek political asylum from the brothers there. Unless you would provide a vessel and crew so I might continue on to Ataraxia."

  Vela laughed so hard she choked. "A vessel and crew? For a known traitor implicated in regicide? You will be spirited away from the palace this very eve. You may take your trunks of garments; however, the chest of precious stones stays behind. Forfeited by the House of Fa as dowry for whatever maiden does become the next princess of my realm."

  Moreya swallowed. In truth, she was benumbed and beyond caring about material goods or tomorrows. But Vela would expect dismay at her harsh decision. "All the terrestars, Your Majesty? Might I not be - "

  Queen Vela interrupted, waving impatiently. "You are in no position to make further requests of the throne. I shall provide armed escort to the abbey you mentioned. That is all. May the Creator speed you upon your journey," she pronounced, shuddering. "And may you take the swarming firedrakes with you."

  Moreya smiled now. "They will likely follow me, all except for that very large, grasping one with the verdigris scales. He can be unpredictable. Changeable as the night wind."

  "Ha! May it blow him and this entire distasteful episode away, like ashes from a balefire," the queen snapped. "Savor my leniency, but do not test it. Farewell, Yune."

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bourke had never been so tired in all his four hundred and eighty-seven years.

  Of course, a goodly portion of those years spooled out while he remained inert, silently awaiting the next turn of human events. Waiting did not sap his strength. Adroitly shaping human events wearied him. 'Twas the purpose of his powers, but also what withered and wasted him.

  His burden remained ever baneful.

  The filaments woven into the great destiny had been threatened. Counter-weaving, deliberately altering the warp, would have eliminated much of the risk. But so, too, would it have destroyed human options. Bourke had been left no recourse but to split his quintessence into fragments, then recoalesce. A feat he'd not attempted in a long epoch.

  Now he noted the results of his work. The immortal weave no longer showed a rend. His splices held.

  Moreya had safely reached the small monastery, after selling most of her bridal raiment for traveling coin. The escorts Vela sent to lead her afield rode back even now to Greensward Palace. Bourke placed a weak spell upon the Yune, making her temporarily invisible to reptiles. It should remain unbroken until she ventured back to Glacia. Moreya was tenacious, a worthy mate to Bourke's stubborn, adopted son.

  Who, as ever, proved recalcitrant.

  Bourke had assumed the guise of a dragon and flown Preece and his cohort to Ataraxia. He'd cloaked himself from human sight, hovering over the Waniand's sickbed until he detected the glimmer of necessary anger that would heal Preece. Lockram had already rallied and remained at his friend's bedside. Bourke would return to Ataraxia soon...once he casually tickled matters in Glacia.

  An interloper there had used forged documents falsely naming him Cronel's chosen successor to claim the crown. Bourke recognized this particular life-force as one suited to embodiment as a busy meadow spider or drone bee. The fool now revered as King Leif was a useless human whose forgery was the lone achievement he could claim in his miserable lifetime.

  He presided over Cronel's funeral, surrounded himself with corrupt privy council members, worked at depleting the royal coffers, and had invited Velansare of Greensward to remain indefinitely as a royal guest.

  Drone bees made very foolish rulers. The sodomite was arrogant, but not stupid. Not every baron and noble in Glacia embraced their new ruler. Every new king inevitably ascended to his throne amid grumbling. Velansare's presence might unsettle things further.

  Which was all to the good, for a dramatic shift was inevitable...soon. After Preece was once more hale and contentious. Ready to fulfill the promise of his name and bring war.

  Velansare waved a dismissive hand at the Glacian emissary who'd escorted a clutch of maidens to his royal guest chambers. "These will not do at all."

  The emissary clapped his hands, signaling the silent ranks of court beauties. They dutifully filed out without so much as a murmur or backward glance.

  "I've shown you the only two remaining Yune maids available, Your Highness," the man intoned when they were once again alone. "Along with any number of excellent Glacian and Aldean candidates. King Cronel favored women of superior beauty or excep - "

  Velansare snorted. He'd been within these castle walls a fortnight and knew precisely the sort of females the late monarch favored. "He preferred wellborn lusty sluts. I do not require a Yune bride. Their exotic appeal was my mother's stipulation. My own tastes run toward a more...earthy type."

  "Ah," the emissary nodded. "Good family lineage and excessive facial hair."

  In Greensward, anyone who dared speak such words to the prince regent's face would have died for that transgression. His predilections were routinely indulged, yet Queen Vela demanded everyone feign ignorance of the truth. Velansare found honesty on the topic refreshing.

  "Fie, but 'tis just as you say. Still, my inner cravings aside, Greensward law states there must be a royal heir before I can ascend to kingship. I need a brood mare."

  Velansare idly toyed with the velvet sash about his waist. "Not some highborn harlot wont to pant neath a man nightly after vespers. My wife need not be a rare beauty, but should be wellborn, attuned to the w
orkings of politics and regal matters, and less...eager than the maids you brought thus far. Someone modest and retiring."

  "Ah." The fellow scraped the floor with a flourishing, dramatic bow. "I understand, Your Highness, and shall reassess the available maidens on the morrow. But . . ." He coughed as though clearing his throat. "It occurs to my mind that you may be feeling rather listless. After your long journey, the funeral mass and coronation, audiences with his new Royal Majesty and the high privy council. Your spirits might improve after a quiet respite here in your chambers with a tray, rather than another appearance in the great hall. I shall send someone to attend you here."

  Velansare's pulse quickened. The man had finally seized upon the quickest way to rid the realm of their unwanted royal visitor. Placate his whims, whatever they might be. And Velansare didn't have to ponder long to decide his current whim. He'd taken notice of his surroundings.

  "There is a young advisor I saw in the throne room with some of the council members. Clean shaven, fair of face, tawny haired. A young lordling of sorts, would he be?"

  "I believe you speak of Sir Sieffre Bryston," the emissary replied, looking ill at ease.

  "Is there a problem? You did offer to send me someone for a 'respite.'"

  "I hesitate to recommend that particular fellow. He's not been at court overlong and I'm not certain he is...worthy."

  An odd way of hinting he didn't know if the lad would agree to a dalliance. "Do you know naught of his family, his connections? Certainly he was fostered by someone highly placed or - "

  "He only just returned from your own realm, Your Highness."

  So had direct knowledge of the debacle there, Velansare reflected. All the better. "He was soldiering for Cronel?"

  The emissary flushed. "I would venture to affirm so. But the circumstances are rather unusual in his case, and I do not think - "