Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  "He has repeatedly denied the existence of a female in his past. Is she shrewish or somehow displeasing to the eye? Would she shame him?"

  Taroch stopped to consider. The woman was not of their race, but he'd accepted any mate Preece would have taken would not be Waniand. He'd told Preece as much, knowing the man had lived in virtual seclusion here in Glacia afore, the rarest of Waniands amongst foreign races. A pariah.

  The woman today had spoken courteously, dropped her gaze in appropriate humility at times, yet been brave enough to meet Taroch's royal stare and hold it when directly questioned. He'd seen no evidence of a shrewish nature.

  As to the question of form and face, how should he reply? Honestly, as ever. "I could see only her basic features. She is swathed in bulky garments, her hair modestly covered. Her eyes are violet. Her lone remarkable offering. Her other features appear consistently balanced. Mayhap she is grossly fat beneath the muffling."

  Vulpina tittered. A musical sound. Taroch smiled even as he reproached her. "We must not laugh at my cousin's embarrassment over a fleshly lifemate. Some warriors recommend humping overlarge buttocks. Some say the rutting is - " - "

  He wisely did not complete that statement. Vulpina's eyes had darkened threateningly. She was an extremely jealous female. The one quality undesirable in a queen. "I must find my cousin," he ended lamely.

  "Do that."

  But instead of leaving, he abruptly pulled Vulpina into his arms and gave her a hot, brazen kiss. "My blood warms when you give me that fiercely possessive look. I will be in rut again soon, do you gaze upon me so."

  Vulpina growled and nipped at the soft flesh of his throat.

  Moments later, the king went off in search of his cousin, heading first for the weapons yard. Preece spent hours in unrelenting arms practice. Many of the other warriors sparred with him regularly and flourished under his instruction, but none had bested the erstwhile Warmonger yet. Privately, Taroch was slightly abashed at having a Lord High Chancellor who spent most of his time shirtless, reeking of sweat and dried blood.

  Still, the upcoming tournament at least had brought a spark of interest to Preece's eyes. He seemed otherwise steeped in ennui. But the unexpected arrival of a lifemate - if, indeed, that's what the female was - must terminate Preece's cool apathy. Few things could snap a warrior's control like a woman.

  Mayhap her appearance was a blessing, Taroch thought with a grin as he beckoned to a scullery maid. "Take his customary draught of cool water to my cousin in the tilt yard, and tell him I need to see him at once." The girl hurried off, her backside twitching beneath her skirts.

  Oh yes, Taroch would be going into full rut any day now. He could already feel the distinct tingling in his loins. The thought of his cousin succumbing likewise amused him. Preece had been able to snort in derision as the other Waniands around him itched and howled after females.

  But if this female truly was Preece's lifemate . . .

  Taroch's smile widened. His cousin had quite a surprise waiting.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Preece was actually glad Taroch had summoned him.

  After the insurrection and coronation, Preece had agreed to take the position as Lord High Chancellor only so long as Taroch also allowed him to serve as military advisor.

  In Preece's hard-won opinion, years of Waniand oppression and scorn could not be erased merely by the reinstatement of a Waniand upon the Glacian throne. Indeed, Preece feared Taroch would not long be able to hold it, unless they proved to the populace that these young fearsome Waniands would be neither defeated nor ignored. Preece had recommended a royal display of power and unity.

  The council members decided upon a grand tournament, which would be held in less than a sennight.

  Preece had been practicing nearly every waking hour the past weeks, yet it seemed his instincts and reflexes would not cooperate to best serve him when he needed them most.

  He'd been troubled again by the erotic dreams. He'd diligently spent hours with a sword in each hand, parrying, thrusting, feinting, yet a vague unease distracted him. Just enough to be lethal. A warrior had to keep his mind focused, his thoughts solely on the foe at hand. He could not let his mind wander to night demons and sensual pleasures. He must not spill his seed, for it weakened his sinews and heart, wasted his most valuable resource.

  He needed to be strong, to fight demon visions with his mind and other warriors with his body.

  By Satan's forked tail, but Preece was glad he'd never spoken of his strange visions. Had Lockram been with him still, Preece might have told his longtime friend about the dreams. But he could not admit his deficiency to Taroch or any of the other Waniands. How could the men follow him, continue to train with him, if they knew his wits were hopelessly scrambled?

  He gratefully drank the cold water the servant girl offered, wiped his torso with his soiled tunic, and donned the chancellor's robe the maid held out to him. Preece inwardly hated being clad in the pretentious garment, but Taroch was exceedingly stubborn about his chief advisor looking the part of a noble sage. Preece snorted as he slipped the robe over his head and strode quickly toward the keep. Taroch was fool enough still to value sages. He'd never placed utter faith and trust in one like Bourke.

  "There you are. We have visitors," Taroch offered in a low voice, tossing his arm around Preece's shoulders.

  The vague, niggling unease surged threefold. Taroch used that brotherly gesture when determined to sway Preece to his way of thinking on some topic or another...or when he sought to stress their kinship for the benefit of strangers. His words and manner now suggested a bit of both.

  So the opinion of their visitors mattered, on some personal level that could ultimately also matter to Preece. Who the devil were these strangers, then? Fighting men from Dredonia? Emissaries from the northern provinces?

  "I've had a page show them into the solar next to the great hall. They are clerics from Dredonia...from a place called Axcroft. Their superior sent me a letter of welcome and goodwill. He also sent a woman with a petition for clemency. She has been with the monks for long months under political asylum. She feared Cronel."

  Preece grunted and shrugged the arm off his shoulders. That a female should have sought a haven from the late bastard polydact was unsurprising. "Cronel misused females, particularly those of other regions."

  "Nay, this one was banished by Cronel. This is her rightful birthplace."

  Again Preece gave a grunt of disinterest. Normally he should have heard the woman's plea, in the course of his duties as chancellor. Was Taroch chastising him for spending so much time at weapons practice?

  "I devote hours to arms practice because I'm to serve as your champion in the tournament," Preece reminded his cousin. "Do not lapse into complacency. Your foes will try to defeat me, as the first step in besmearing your right to the crown. Do not let carvings in the throne falsely assure that your place upon it is secure."

  "I know you speak the truth," Taroch replied, pausing in his sure strides. His voice dropped. "The woman claims Cronel banished her for refusing to wed Velansare of Greensward. She avers she took you to husband, instead, and proclaims herself your chosen lifemate. She is a Yune, I believe."

  Preece choked on his own tongue, momentarily unable to think of a response to such an outrageous statement from the king's lips.

  Taroch scowled at him. "We spoke long ago of the possibility you had taken a mate not of our kind. Is her race why you've disavowed such a union? I would know from your own lips, First Preece."

  A direct blow from the strongest steel would not have sent Preece reeling as Taroch's words did. Some Yune bitch claimed to be his lifemate? Of all the possible races, a Yune, the most sought-after of all females?

  "I disavow such a union because none exists! I've not taken a lifemate, on my sword and honor, Taroch. How can some bitch dare to - " - "

  "Becalm your ire," Taroch chided. "I had to ask. Vulpina warned the girl's claim might be naught
more than skillful weaving of local gossip and a desire for coin or some sort of recompense from an ignorant new monarch. The clerics with the Yune appear genuine, but I cannot be certain until I've sent word to their superior and receive his answer. Look you through yon peephole and tell me if you know this female. Mayhap she has reason to seek reprisal for some slight or past encounter."

  Preece could scarce believe it, the utter audacity! For some lightskirt to pose amongst clerics, and make such a boldly false claim! He pressed his face to the wall and strained to catch a glimpse of the strangers in the adjoining chamber. He espied one monk, two. Another was speaking in low, soothing tones to someone he couldn't see. If that damned fool pouring wine would get on with it, and move aside...

  Just then the man did, and Preece went granite still.

  The harlot was...He rubbed his eyes, pressed his face to the wall again and peered closer. His mind was certainly playing a cruel jest on him now, for at first he'd thought --

  Satan's prick!

  She was completely, chastely clothed, the only skin visible being the center of her face. She looked up at the monk and Preece saw her eyes. His mind screamed. His body tensed in immediate reaction. He tried to deny the faint nimbus of light around her. Light that could not come from the solar window, as she sat in the furthest place from the only source of daylight. Light like that which suffused her could not come from the window, in any case. Ambient daylight 'twas not purple.

  Helplessly, Preece began to stammer that he did not recognize the woman. "I know not why she'd come here...why she would say - I can put no name to that face," he choked out. His knees felt perilously close to giving out beneath his weight.

  He could barely make out Taroch's grim visage beside him. It was as though gazing upon the purplish glow surrounding the demon in the next chamber had robbed the hall of its own illumination. Preece was in a dark tunnel, gasping, lost, clutching at his vitals in terror.

  The woman who haunted his erotic swevens had now invaded his waking hours. He'd lost the very last of his wits. He was doomed. He ought not to fight at his peak performance level, but allow some lucky knight to put him out of his misery during the tournament. At least he could suffer a glorious defeat, not allow the others to discover the miserable truth.

  The Ataraxians must have put some secret curse on Preece's male parts, only pretended to heal him. His groin swelled even as Preece closed his eyes and fought to sponge the gleaming she-devil from his mind's eye. The tip of his man lance threatened to bend and snap off as young Vandlast's lance had broken in the stone passageway. Or mayhap Preece's lance would make a new peephole.

  "Are you unwell?" There was genuine concern in Taroch's voice.

  Preece quickly seized on the offered excuse. "I did not sleep soundly yestereve. With all the weapons practice, I am overtired with a pounding in my skull. Not so unusual, since my injury last year. A few hours alone in my chambers. I shall be fine by time to sup this evening," Preece muttered, departing as quickly as his tottering legs would allow.

  He could not collapse here in front of Taroch.

  He could not admit he'd seen a glimpse of hell.

  He had to stay strong, defeat all comers in the tournament. He had to secure the crown that now sat so precariously upon his cousin's brow. Waniands had not survived these long decades, come such a distance, forsaken everything to take back the ruling status that was rightfully theirs only to have a lone madman among them jeopardize their cause with his idiot's ravings.

  Preece had to forget he'd ever seen the bedamned witch.

  **

  "Kindly forgive the delay," Taroch requested as he handed one of the monks a sealed parchment. "I've penned a missive to your abbot. I ask that you deliver it with all haste and send back his answer."

  The monk nodded, then bowed. The other men likewise made gestures of obeisance. All save the one called Fense, who lifted the woman's hand to his arm and drew her forward. "Your Highness? About Lady Preece's pardon?"

  "Ah. I'm glad you asked," Taroch replied in half sincerity. He would grant the political pardon, but he did not relish discussion of the more sensitive subject that would surely be broached. He poured himself a goblet of wine and pulled a signed writ from his tunic.

  "This is a royal pardon, excusing any and all transgressions against former rulers of this kingdom. I have no reason to support Cronel's edicts. The lady was born here, and as I'm given to understand by my privy council, her father had a long record of service to the realm. She may reside anywhere within the Unified Glacian Realms she wishes."

  She lifted her gaze to his face and Taroch immediately reassessed his opinion of this stranger. He'd told Vulpina the girl was not ill favored. That mayhap her form was too fat, or even too thin. That she was ordinary.

  But a courtier had whispered that she was Yune, that always they were willowy and thin, considered by men of all races highly desirable bedmates.

  Now Taroch saw gossip in this case ran truer than his initial impression. The daughter of the former ambassador was anything but ordinary. Deep pain welled in the depths of her violet irises. A strangely urgent flush lit her peachy cheeks, and her teeth nibbled at a lower lip that looked sweet as a ripe summer plum.

  Only the veriest fool would denounce such a beauty and bar her from rolling in his bedsheets.

  And while Preece was unfathomably stubborn, Taroch knew the harsh warrior was no fool. Something was amiss here; Taroch could taste it.

  "Sire," the woman said at length, "I do not know whence you came before your arrival here in Glacia. I heard someone proclaim you were from a land near the place called Ataraxia."

  "An islet not far from its main shoreline, aye."

  "Have you not heard of a warrior like yourself called Preece, the Warmonger?"

  Taroch silently cursed his bloodlines. At this moment, he would open the royal coffers to be able to speak a simple, soft-hearted untruth. But he could not lie outright, so part of the truth would have to do.

  "I have heard of many such men. In our tongue, the clan name Preece means 'he who makes battles.' There are several warriors here of that clan. None, however, professes to be missing a lifemate. I am sorry I cannot aid you."

  The last words were truest of all.

  Taroch inwardly winced when he saw the effect they had upon her.

  Twin beacons of faint hope had lit her amazing, gemlike eyes. Now they'd gone dark and empty. He could offer no explanation, for in truth, he did not understand the mystery here himself.

  He was certain she referred to his cousin, First Preece. He felt it with a certainty that seemed to come from deep within his bones and sinews. He would wager every jewel in his crown there was a connection between his recalcitrant cousin and this beauty.

  Yet Preece had steadfastly denied knowledge of her, insisted he could put no name to her face. And Preece was trueblooded as Taroch himself was, son of King Tal. As incapable of deliberately speaking falsely as Taroch or any of the high clansmen were.

  Besides the fact that a trueblooded high clan warrior would never forsake his lifemate. To do so brought an immediate death sentence and every warrior knew it.

  A single teardrop glistened on the woman's face as she dropped into a curtsy. "Thank you, Your Majesty. A long and peaceful reign. I...Fense? I - " - "

  "Yes, madam. I understand." The little monk hurried her out of the solar.

  One of his brethren reached for the pardon. "Brother Fense is extremely fond of the Yune. She has been a boon to us, sewing and copying texts. She told us of how a monk long dead had encountered proud Waniand rulers in this realm some centuries past. I think discovering that passage encouraged her hopes her husband had somehow survived. And Fense married them at an inn, knew the fellow himself, you see, so he also prayed she might be reunited - " - "

  "What is this? Why did no one tell me this afore now?" Taroch demanded.

  The monk dropped to his knees. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. We meant no disrespect. You yourself sai
d that no man here was missing his wife, so - " - "

  "I do not care what I said!" Taroch roared. "I do not always know what I'm talking about, a failing I endeavor to rise above. Fetch that fellow back here without delay!"

  Long moments passed, then the one called Fense came scraping and bowing back into the solar. "You wished to speak to me, Your Royal Highness?"

  "That other monk claims you performed a marriage between the girl and a Waniand called Preece. When and where was this, and why did you not offer proof of this union?"

  The monk was young, despite his balding state, Taroch realized, as the wiry little fellow straightened his spine and let the hood of his robe fall back. "It was a year or more gone, in Dredonia. There was no document signed at the time, due to unusual circumstances, but I dutifully registered the marriage in the records at our abbey. To be forthright, Sire, I did not expect we would find the lady's errant husband."

  Ah, so he knew something was awry with the union! "Why is that?" Taroch snapped.

  "The man was condemned to die. According to Lady Preece, he was spared beheading by a firedrake, who flew him to distant tropics. I am genuinely fond of the lady, Sire, but I am also aware that such a fantastical tale can hardly be true. Mayhap the man lost his head upon the block that day," the cleric mumbled with a sad shrug, "and she cannot bear to accept it. I sent missives to this land she speaks of, Ataraxia, but received no sensible answer, merely some rambling missive about a golden fellow and boars in a forest. I fear her husband perished. Mayhap in time she will come to accept it."

  But she should not, Taroch silently protested, for it was untrue. He started to form a carefully-worded reply when the cleric spoke again.

  "And, in truth, Sire, we did not expect that you would give much credence to her plea of marriage. I was told by her bridegroom - a most fearsomely disagreeable, if handsome fellow, whose comeliness I now see is universal amongst your kind - that you do not acknowledge our sacred bond of matrimony. Marriage," he clarified.