She could only keep silent, well buried beneath obscuring garments, and secretly pray they might safely reach their destination. What reception awaited them was yet another troubling matter.
She could only hope she'd be granted the royal pardon the abbot requested in his missive, a pardon to end her exile from Glacia. She had two terrestars left, a fact that partly befuddled her. She'd always kept the pink stone hidden amongst her garments, not with the other terrestars in the jewel chest. Which explained why Queen Vela had not confiscated it.
But Moreya had discovered a green one beside it. A peridot.
She couldn't recall ever seeing it until she'd inventoried her garments in her cell at the monastery. She'd checked her stones in Dredonia, when she'd selected the one to give Preece. She was sure the peridot had not been there, prior to her arrest.
Yet to have obtained it afterward was impossible.
She'd barely escaped the firedrake attack upon the tribunal in Greensward with her life. She'd had no brief instant in which to scoop up a new stone, had been fighting with the guards trying to break free from the moment she first saw reptiles darken the sky.
So where had this troubling green stone come from?
She gave up trying to solve that riddle, and averred to sell it as quickly as possible. Once she'd cleared her name, she could barter for her own passage to Ataraxia. She had to find out what had become of Preece. As weeks turned into months without word, Moreya perversely became all the more firmly convinced he was very much alive somewhere. She also believed, without knowing why, that circumstances somehow prevented him from sending word to her. He was enmeshed in something.
That same mysterious something kept him from sailing back to Greensward to confront Vela or the prince regent - who'd recently wed an Aldean woman of little comeliness and even less courtesy...if the rumors that had reached the market square outside Axcroft Abbey were true.
Moreya sighed in disgust. She knew better than to trust gossip. Even the report of a Waniand ruler might be false, or a gross distortion of fact. As Moreya and the monks headed into a scraggly wooded area to encamp for the night, she warned herself not to pin too many hopes on the story of a Waniand monarchy.
Certainly she ought place no faith in Waniand largess.
Glacia's new king might be just as surly and unapproachable as Preece was toward strangers. The new ruler could refuse her and the monks audience, even refuse admittance beyond his gates. He might be a dreadful person. Or absolutely opposite in nature to her missing husband and lifemate. Who could guess?
How much of Preece's choler was inbred, how much the effect of living as an outcast mercenary?
Against her better judgment, recollection of the prejudice against Preece buoyed Moreya's heavy heart. Mayhap the new ruler would be pleased to learn that at least one Glacian had treated his kinsman with dignity and respect. He might even repay Moreya with the same and grant her petition for a royal pardon. After all, her failure to wed Prince Velansare had not been in defiance of this Waniand king, but a predecessor.
Predecessor.
That word conjured questions about King Leif, who'd held the throne only a matter of a few moons before relinquishing it to invading Waniands. From whence had such invaders come?
Waniands were rare throughout the known realms. This Moreya's father had reported, and she now knew firsthand. She'd seen how they were shunned and derided. But word of an invading army aroused suspicions. Could there be a hidden stronghold in one of some realm? Or could an unknown land be populated by the ancient race? Was it possible, then, that Preece could be amongst his own kind?
Her stubborn will took over her musings. She must close her eyes, sleep, forget him. She had enough problems of her own for the nonce, without conjecturing about his.
Yet she might as successfully imagine the ground dissolving beneath her as she slept, the earth itself swallowing her whole.
That was as likely as forgetting Preece. She could never forget.
**
Taroch scowled at Jareth. "You still have not mastered the written language?" He heard the irritation in his voice and reminded himself that they'd not inhabited this icy realm so terribly long a time. Jareth had always been a bright fellow, quick to learn new tricks. But understanding the written language of Glacians was harder than learning to speak the tongue. His cousin had proven a better weapons trainer than language tutor. Not surprising, since Preece was first and foremost a mercenary.
Nay, had been a mercenary.
His sworn oath of fealty and allegiance bound him for five winters to Taroch and the needs of the new monarchy. He had no reason to sell his sword now, for Taroch had named Preece Lord High Chancellor of the Unified Glacian Realms.
A noble title, one befitting his cousin, for in truth, Preece might have had as much right to the throne as Taroch. The crucial difference between the men was Preece evinced no desire to wear the crown. He was world-weary and beyond even that...distanced from events in a manner Taroch couldn't quite absorb and comprehend. Physically tired? That seemed unlikely. He grew stronger and bolder with each passing day. Bored? Preece might have named any price, yet hadn't sought personal reward for himself after aiding the clans in reclaiming the throne. He hadn't even sought the chancellorship, but Taroch had insisted upon it.
Preece was the sole Waniand amongst the enclave clans who could read and speak fluent Glacian; the only Waniand known to many of the Glacian nobles; the Waniand whose dark reputation preceded him and had grown to mythic proportions since he led the assault upon the royal castle.
Taroch still reflected upon the scene in the privy council chamber that portentous night with some amazement. Several courtiers, castle guards and pages had voluntarily surrendered their weapons and wills, professing admiration for the stern Waniand who had once walked these same royal halls neath a dark cowl.
Preece had been just as stunned, for he'd never believed any Glacian regarded him with more than disgust.
More surprising still, to all of them, was the discovery that many men of Glacia, some even within its royal castle walls, now openly admitted to being partly of Waniand blood. They'd all known the races intermingled, but now they had men of flaxen and golden hair and beards with blue or gray eyes admitting they had ancestors of the ancient race. With Taroch and Preece, the former tyrant king's so-called "Royal Blade" on the dais, men were wont to stop hiding their heritage.
That Preece had won the respect of such mixed bloods still unsettled him. He knew some of the men, had ridden with them upon occasion or fought at their sides in Cronel's endless campaigns. They had not forgotten, either.
For even though now officially installed as Lord High Chancellor, many stubbornly referred to him as the Royal Blade.
The Blade was busily sharpening his broadswords and honing his skills in preparation for the upcoming tournament. Taroch would not summon Preece to read some missive from a Dredonian friar. He barked at Jareth to spell out what he could.
"If I read this aright," Jareth responded, "the monks have brought a woman here with them. She was declared an enemy of the old king, Cronel, and was afraid to return to Glacia. But she belongs here...was born here...to the king's own ambassador. Her father is now dead. Her husband is missing and believed dead. By the monks. She does not agree." He looked up at the king and shrugged. "They want you to formally forgive her transgression."
Taroch could see no harm in that, particularly as he had a soft spot for young maidens since the birth of his infant daughter. Vulpina would want him to grant the lady's request. "I will see them. Have the woman and her clerics brought to the throne chamber."
Taroch had ceased using the old marble-floored chamber where the obese polydact had conducted his audiences and hearings. First Preece had such a powerful aversion to the room, he'd convinced Taroch there was wisdom in altering much of how the kingdom would be ruled - beginning from the very chamber wherein the throne sat. Now it loomed before the great hearth, in the chamber that
was formerly the royal hall.
The previous throne room was now the private chamber of the royal family. Vulpina liked the marble floors, and was pleased when a screen was erected to cordon off a nursery for their newborn child.
The rooms occupied by both fat Cronel and lazy Leif now belonged to the man who'd wrested power away from them. To the victorious Warmonger had gone the spoils. The High Chancellor lived in a suite truly fit for a king. Taroch smiled, amused again by his own wry sense of justice.
Whatever this ambassador's daughter had done to cause her fall from grace with a predecessor could only heighten her esteem in Taroch's eyes. He liked her already, and he hadn't even met her. Still, he wouldn't allow her or the clerics to sense easy victory. If he'd learned anything from his cousin, Glacia's redoubtable Warmonger, it was the value of showing the world only part of the whole truth at any given time.
**
When the page appeared at the gate telling the guards to admit their party, Moreya's knees nearly buckled with mingled terror and relief.
The new king would see them. She would have a chance to plead her case.
During the past few days of travel through Inner Glacia, she'd heard many tavern tongues, and the tales they wagged over had Moreya quaking to her very core. According to the local populace, the band of Waniands who'd taken the Glacian crown were led by a warrior raised in the realm. A man once known to the monarch he ultimately betrayed in an act of brazen defiance. A Waniand condemned to die for that defiance, yet who'd escaped to wreak black vengeance.
The dark knight, they called him. Warmonger, the Royal Blade.
It was unclear how he'd amassed a Waniand army or financed a revolt. All anyone could swear was that he'd either escaped the grave, or risen from it - to snatch the crown right off King Leif's head in his own royal bedchamber! Only the Waniand of the dark cowl would be so insolent, so successful in his mockery.
It sounded just like Preece.
What did not sound like him in the least was the rumor he'd gone from leading the insurrection to donning courtly robes and serving as the new high chancellor. Moreya knew from her father's explanations that the high chancellor was the most powerful and respected judge in the land.
Preece threw his fist and broke furniture. She could not imagine him silently nodding and assessing the claims of various petitioners, imagine him adjudicating complex issues or resolving conflicts without violence. Mayhap all of this was but a case of mistaken identity. Hadn't Preece said all men of his race looked essentially alike?
Not at all certain the answer could be that simple, Moreya swallowed and trailed after Brother Fense. The page escorted the group to the great hall. Moreya remembered the chamber well, but now it held fewer long trestle tables and housed the intricately carved Glacian throne. She moved closer to study the carvings.
"Did you know these symbols were carved by my forefathers?" a male voice abruptly inquired.
Moreya stopped staring at the elaborate chair and gazed instead at the man standing behind it.
Lord of Heaven and Earth itself, but he resembled Preece!
She had tried to prepare herself for whatever she might find here. She'd bolstered her resolve with pragmatic reasoning. But reason was no proof against the vision before her eyes. Another saintly, breathtakingly beautiful male face. Pale blue eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, long argent locks. A combination so like Preece's, Moreya could only stare.
Brother Fense discerned the reason for her silence. He stepped forward to cup her elbow. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing quickly, "Lady Preece has been in exile for long months. She has awaited news of her husband, to no avail. Being faced with the noticeable resemblance between you and her missing spouse, she is - " - "
"I resemble a man who abandoned his mate?"
"Lifemate," Moreya heard herself mumble. "But he did not abandon me, Sire. He was taken away by . . ." Nay, she could not tell him that! She must appear witless enough, without launching into an incomprehensible tale of a shape-changed wizard.
She started fresh. "He was captured and taken to a distant realm. He was also banished from this realm, as I have been. We displeased King Cronel by ignoring his edict that I wed Prince Velansare of Greensward. I married and became lifemate to Preece, instead."
The young king barked a command in a strange tongue, and two more tall blond warriors appeared. They conferred with the monarch in hushed tones. There seemed little point to their hushed whispering, since Moreya and the monks could not understand their language. The page abruptly gestured for them to follow him.
"You are to follow him and await my instructions," the king said. Then he turned and quit the chamber.
Moreya threw Fense a questioning look. The monk shrugged and inclined his head toward the other clerics, already hastening after the royal page. "Our visit has either stirred unusual interest or unwittingly insulted the monarch. We can only wait, and pray 'tis not the latter."
Moreya nodded and fought to regain her composure. Even after hearing a Waniand warrior was the new Glacian ruler, she hadn't been prepared for the sight of Taroch. He stood so tall, was so pale and well favored - nay, the bitter truth was he so closely resembled Preece she'd been temporarily stunned. And was all the more disheartened to realize that large numbers of these handsome people had been deliberately slaughtered.
By tyrants like Cronel.
She trailed behind Brother Fense, not seeing the back of his dun woolen robe. Ignoring details of the solar in which she and the monks had been left to wait. Her vision turned inward, recalling the last time she'd gazed upon Preece. Beaten and chained, humiliated, his features all but unrecognizable after severe beatings and torture. Cruelty ordered by Cronel.
Once she had lived such a sheltered life, she'd envisioned all men to be like her father...genial, effusive, open-spirited. But the girl who'd naively believed in human kindness had learned much darker truths about the ways of men. That they would maim and kill in pursuit of power. That they could desire other males above females. That they were capable of utter devastation, wicked plots, lies, abuse, viciousness she never would have suspected possible.
A sudden chill stole over Moreya. Their audience with King Taroch had ended abruptly the moment she announced she'd wed and been lifemated to Preece. The king knew something significant. The chill deepened as she realized what had escaped her earlier notice.
The king's throne was located now in the great hall, not in the marble-floored throne room where she'd first met Preece. Taroch had studied them with keen interest lighting his intelligent eyes. Blue eyes several shades deeper in hue than Preece's. She'd seen intelligence and curiosity in the new king's eyes. Not haughty disdain, no definite air of superiority. The feeling here inside this keep was formal and disciplined as ever, but not vainglorious.
Things had definitely changed in Glacia.
And mentally reviewing the list of sins men might commit, she recalled one which would be difficult for the new ruler. He was Waniand; therefore, he would not speak falsely. Preece had lied only the once, with Moreya witnessing his prevarication about raping her. He'd told the bitter truth to the queen in his secret message.
And now, after so many months of confused and lonesome silence, Moreya feared she would have her answer as to what had become of her missing husband.
The man who'd wed her to spare royal lives.
Even though she'd told herself a dozen times or more he'd likely died from his injuries, or chided herself that their escape plan had been ill-conceived, - with far better odds for failure than success. E - even though after all that had befallen her, she'd be a fool to even care what had happened to the bastard called Preece the Warmonger, she still needed to know.
Despite repeated appeals to sanity and reason, despite the need to mend her womanly pride, she had now glimpsed his brethren. Seen again the ethereal, powerful, entrancing Waniand physical beauty. And remembered. Too much, too well.
The pang of loss was fresh and ra
w once more.
**
Taroch paced impatiently, irritated that his lifemate seemed preoccupied by the nursing demands of their greedy infant, instead of focused upon the fact that they faced a personal crisis. "Vulpina, you told me Zade was positive he has a lifemate. You yourself insisted this, more than once. In all this time, he never appeared to go into rut, although he gave me personal reasons which might explain his difference from the rest of our males."
"Yes, and we cannot rush to take this woman's words as fact. That she comes with a band of clerics proves naught, for all might be no better than troubadours with costumes and clever tongues. Word spreads quickly after a rebellion. Always with change come those who seek to profit by it, oft claiming to have been wronged in the past."
"So you assert she misspeaks."
Vulpina swaddled the babe and tucked her into the center of their wide bed. She scowled at Taroch. "I merely preach caution. The tale of your cousin's exploits is hardly fresh. Anyone might have heard it. Have other nobles not traveled here to meet with you and your chancellor, spurring fresh rumors that might have spread into Dredonia and beyond?"
Taroch hated to admit that often Vulpina was more sensible than he was. Yet that practical side to her nature was what caused him to offer her lifemate status years before. She had the requisite ability to stir his blood, but nice asscheeks alone were not enough. He'd wanted a mate he could rely upon.
Vulpina was as sensual and sharp-witted as her forest vixen namesakes. Wily and bewitching. He spoke quietly now and waited for her reaction.
"I've sent them to the solar annexing the hall."
Vulpina offered her warmest smile, the one that said he was not such a thick-headed dolt, after all. "The one with the secret viewing hole. Very good. Find Preece and have him take a look. One glance will provide the answer to your dilemma."
"Aye." Taroch quickly crossed to their bedchamber door and was about to exit the room when he heard her voice, slow and thoughtful, behind him. He paused, listening intently. At such times Vulpina could offer gems of wisdom.
Biondine, Shannah Page 19
