Lord High Chancellor, was he? She could scarcely credit it. The realm's highest-ranking judge and civil official. Who would take the word of a perfidious Yune female over his?
Moreya tore away her excess garments, unwilling to swelter beneath layers of cloth a second longer. She removed the restrictive wimple, but kept a scarf tied over her hair, recalling the niches she'd glimpsed in the high mountain passes. Furious as she was, she dared not risk another swarm of firedrakes over the Inner City.
She waited near the well, forcing herself to sit quietly and unobtrusively. No easy task, when she longed to pace, throw market wares in every direction, and rant to anyone who passed by.
Instead of ranting, she forced an air of meekness when Fense and the other monks rode up. She thanked them for their escort, untied her chest of belongings, and accepted the parchment with Taroch's pardon. Then she calmly informed Fense that she would remain in the capital until she decided where to go next. She asked that he extend her appreciation to the abbot, but reminded them all that the monks need no longer assume responsibility for her welfare.
"Lady Moreya, the king asked that I obtain a copy of your marriage record from the abbey. He sends Abbot Zadok a message requiring swift reply, so it should not be more than a fortnight or so before - " - "
"Excuse me," Moreya interrupted, turning away from the agitated friar. She knew Fense might take affront, but she truly did not care where his explanation was leading. Inevitably, back to Preece. A topic she did not wish to discuss.
And two large men in hauberks had lumbered into the square. They stood dickering with a merchant over a dagger and whetstone. Their topic of conversation interested her greatly. She addressed the pair, who were garbed like seasoned fighters. "Did you say aught about a tournament to be held hereabouts?"
The older of the two soldiers nodded. "A grand competition like that of olden times. Waniands are born fighters. They love to spill blood. The new king seeks to fatten his coffers with tourney fees. First matches are to be held Tuesday next, on the heath yonder. Final rounds by Thursday."
He pointed to a wide open area beyond the last row of shops and market stalls.
Fense broke in. "Er, mistress, the king has offered chambers for the night inside the keep."
Moreya offered a shrug. "Take them. I'll find something here."
"Where?" The monk's eyes rolled, sweeping past the taverns and inns that fronted the market district. "Surely you don't mean to take a room in a place such as those?"
The younger fellow at last settled upon a price and paid the vendor for the dagger. His friend shook his graying head at Moreya and the clerics. "The inns here along the square be full up, each and all. Mayhap you could share a tent. Any number of folk will begin pitching tents around the perimeter of the lists come dusk."
Fense's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. "My lady, you know what sort of 'folk' he means, do you not? Keg masters, dicers, camp followers...all manner of misguided souls! You cannot remain amongst the depraved - " - "
"Here now!" came a loud male voice from behind Moreya's shoulder. She turned to find a hefty man pushing past the blade vendor's stall. "You've no grounds to insult the lot of our citizenry with your preaching. Some of us are devout believers and...Why, a Yune! A Yune lady is welcome to a place in my good tavern. I'll make space for the likes of her."
He all but shoved Fense and his timid brethren aside, then seized Moreya's hand and brought it to rubbery lips. "Abel Duitt, at your service, my lady. Owner of the Fatted Goose, and no finer establishment is to be found w - " - "
"Can! She's few winters enough to be your daughter!"
At this shrill pronouncement, the fellow Duitt dropped Moreya's hand and spun to face a ruddy-faced woman. "I was merely offering her a roof o'er her pretty head, mother. She's here for the tournament and - " - "
"As is everyone else about."
"She needs but a modest bit of space, and if your worthless nephew hadn't promised our garret to his threadbare friends without two coins to rub together, we'd be full to the rafters."
Moreya couldn't help but smile. These two were better entertainment than some of the acrobats and minstrels performing across the square. "I'm sorry, but my own funds are low. I can't - " - "
"She's Yune, mother! Look upon her fair figure, those eyes like two gleaming purple gemstones, and tell me we'll not sell thrice the ale and wine of Bumgaard."
The innkeeper's wife grabbed both Moreya's hands, squeezing them in her own. "That's my man Abel, but we hail him as Can. Duitt, you see! You'd never guess such a thick-looking skull could hide such a quick set of wits, but that's my Can." Now her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's right, you know. Free room from now 'til tourney ends. My nephew won't be using the garret, as Can said, and with a Yune smiling in the taproom . . ." The woman's eyebrows rose suggestively.
"There you have it!" Can boomed with a hearty laugh.
Moreya made a snap decision. These folk seemed kindly enough. She pulled away from the older woman and approached Brother Fense.
"I was serious, Fense. You and the others should take the king's generous offer. After all, you need a place for this one eve only. You'll be off tomorrow. They'll stable your mounts and feed you. Go. I'll be fine with these people. Like a niece or daughter."
Fense studied the tavern owners critically, then sighed. "You should come back to the castle with us, Lady Preece. I hadn't wanted to tell you this, but your husband's there. He's not well, but, I think honestly, were you to remain as a guest of King Taroch for a time, Lord - er, Chancellor Preece would make a faster recovery."
"Dear Fense." Moreya swallowed, blinking eyes that suddenly were misted with tears. "You've done so much to help, everything you could in the matter of my marriage to Lord Preece. I know he renounced me."
"Mistress, did you not heed? I'm to get proof of the marriage! The young king harkened well. I was granted audience with him in your husband's chambers. Preece is addled, Moreya. Truly. Bemused in some fashion. He did not recall having met me afore today, either. Mayhap the torture affected his reason. Beseems his tumultuous past has disrupted his memory."
Moreya hesitated, then decided Fense was a close enough friend to be told the hard truth.
"He swore out a statement in Greensward and had it sent to Queen Vela. In it, he vowed he'd only wed me to prevent my marriage to Prince Velansare. Preece claimed I was part of some evil scheme concocted by Cronel. He asked Queen Vela to grant my freedom as his mercenary fee. She took most of my dowry. I don't know what portion he saw, but note, Fense, that somehow an outcast mercenary has become the second most powerful man in my home realm. It appears to me his reason has stood him in excellent stead."
Poor Brother Fense was truly at a loss for a reply.
"I am free to live in poverty. He is rid of me and lives in opulence."
Fense seemed to shrivel before Moreya's very eyes. She was truly sorry for the pain she'd caused him, sorry she'd destroyed his illusions about the Waniand. Fense tried to see the good in everyone and everything. Moreya would miss him.
"My lady, I do not know how to answer such an accusation."
"'Tis not your deed to answer for. Fare thee well. Take my donkey. Give the abbot and the others my best wishes for long life and good health." Moreya turned to where Abel Duitt stood waiting. "I don't have much beyond what's in this traveling chest. If I could have your garret for a sennight, I'll gladly offer labor in exchange. Perhaps I could mop tables or fetch victuals from your kitchens."
As they made their way toward the Fatted Goose, Moreya smiled up at the kindly fellow toting her chest. He'd just set it down inside the door when a quartet of boisterous young knights came in behind them. "I'm sure you can use an extra set of hands," Moreya said, nodding in the direction of the new arrivals. "Looks as though you're to have a bustling evening."
After several hours on her feet, toting pewter mugs of ale and platters of meat, Moreya was so tired she could have slept propped in the cor
ner next to Mother Duitt's twig broom. But she crept up to the attic and its sour-smelling straw mattress, noting the surroundings with a rueful smile. Once she would have been appalled to find herself in such quarters. Now she was so weary, the thin straw ticking seemed fluffy as a cloud.
Her exhaustion was so complete, she'd no strength left to think about Preece or the morrow. Which was just as well. She didn't want to end up weeping herself to sleep. She'd done that oft enough in her cell at the monastery. She was finished sobbing over the Warmonger.
She rolled over and let her mind wrap around a single thought. Her night of menial labor left her weary to the bone, reeking of spilt ale, and had left the soft skin of her palms chapped and reddened. She must look like a bedraggled beggar, which she supposed, in a sense, is what she was.
However, she was at least an uncommon beggar, in possession of an interesting bit of information gleaned whilst sopping up ale. Fighting men talked quite freely while deep in their cups, and several wagers were placed that evening. Most on King Taroch's champion - who'd agreed to face any and all challengers in the upcoming tournament. A warrior knight called by some Preece, the Warmonger; by others Lord High Chancellor; and by others still, the name of awe and mystery: The Royal Blade.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The tournament's third day opened with night mist still lingering deep within the mountain cirque. The royal castle and Inner Glacia's citadel lay cushioned by a wispy blanket of fog that promised to lift by mid-morn, when the heralds would blow their trumpets to announce the first joust in the final matches.
Already Moreya heard the sounds of competitors stirring. Ostlers were busy in the stables readying mounts and saddlery;, shopkeepers and vendors began rolling out their carts, overflowing with tempting foods and pretty wares. Minstrels tuned lyres and tested flutes while the whetstone in the market square screedhoned a fresh edge on daggers and swords. The odor of freshly-baked bread clung to the entire bustling square, and Moreya took a deep bite of her own hunk as she gazed about.
As she'd expected, this morn the local armorer was too harried to pay even scant attention to the willowy young squire who came to fetch the hauberk of fine-gauge mail specially ordered for his mysterious master.
No one gave the "lad" chomping on a hunk of bread a second glance. Moreya had hired a village lad to order the chain-mail shirt several days before. He'd advised that his master was no a large fellow, thus could not carry the bulk of thick links. His master also needed a short dagger and sheath. He'd sent his lackey to pay for the special order with a peridot as large as a walnut.
Moreya felt an odd ruefulness when she'd bartered away the gemstone. She'd assumed the feeling was a touch of guilt about her resolution. Certainly she was glad to rid herself of the green stone. She was still puzzled as to how it had come into her possession to begin with. Touching the stone also caused a vague disquiet. She should have been relieved to place it in the armorer's palm and watch his eyes widen in surprise.
And she was, but felt uneasy, too.
Not that she hadn't traded terrestars for essentials or clothing before. Mayhap because she'd never traded them for weapons. But she did now, just as she'd bartered in the past for coin or garments, in order to survive.
Preece left her no choice.
She tamped down the low whisper of self-reproach in the back of her mind and focused again on the facts. She was deeply, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him. She was his lifemate and lawful wife, joined by arcane ritual, religious ceremony, and civil law.
He'd told her faithlessness was nigh impossible, and she knew he'd spoken true enough in that regard. Glacia's main city was overrun with menfolk of every size and description, but she'd been unable to summon feminine interest in any of them. Inn patrons winked at her and openly sought her favors, but she'd spurned one and all.
She could think of one man only. He was imprinted in her blood, her very soul. He'd betrayed her, renounced her, disavowed knowledge of any espousal between them. He'd told her the ultimate lie, in making her believe Waniands were incapable of falsehoods and deceit.
He'd promised her a future wherein they would be together, bear and raise children. He'd promised her a life in the sun.
Then he'd taken her virginity, helped bring about her arrest and banishment, cost her most of her dowry, and risen to a position of prominence...while she was left to fend for herself. First with the monks, now as an indentured tavern servant.
The only accurate truth he'd spoken was how completely she would be enmeshed by the Waniand lifemate bond. For months she'd railed against it, prayed for an end to it, searched her soul and the night skies until at last the answer crystallized in her mind. It had taken his cruel renunciation at the castle for her heart to accept the inevitable.
She knew what must be done. There was no way around it.
The only way a lifemate bond could be severed was for one of the pair to die.
**
He should not fight this day.
That knowledge had been the first thought in Preece's mind when he'd awakened after a fitful night's sleep. He'd trained hard, driving himself to spend endless hours on the practice field, swinging a broadsword or mace in each arm until the muscles cramped and his whole body shook. He'd practiced on horseback with the quintain, broken half a dozen lances during practice jousts with accomplished knights of the Glacian realm. Yet he wasn't ready for combat this day.
The purple she-devil of his dreams had him unsettled and half aroused.
He'd thought his rutting cycles had ended in Ataraxia, but now wondered if his injury and recuperation hadn't simply thrown off his natural cycle. He itched and burned, felt the familiar low heat in his belly that signaled the onset of rut. This time, with the damned dark erotic dreams tormenting him for weeks, he was bound to experience a particularly violent season. His blood was already reaching a fever pitch.
Any trueblood with half his wits would avoid bloodletting now, for the heat of armed combat only bestirred hot blood further. Which could prove unintentionally lethal. Fighting also spurred nearly relentless sexual arousal.
On both counts, Preece knew ignoring the signals his body sent his brain now was utter folly.
Then there was the nagging mental distraction of the mysterious female who'd falsely claimed to be his bride. She'd gone to the citadel - so castle spies reported - and had taken a chamber at a local inn. The tavernmaster boasted of having a Yune beauty working in his taproom. His coinbox overflowed from the influx of knights and wayfarers eager to gaze upon Yunish charms.
So it seemed she'd abandoned her claim to Preece's name and support. Almost too easily. Preece did not trust this apparent alteration in her schemes. Taroch hadn't yet received written proof that a marriage was recorded in the annals at Axcroft Abbey. Preece still had not learned who might be behind the plot to discredit him.
Mayhap he should have been glad the slut had taken herself off to peddle ale and her peach-tinged flesh to whichever strangers had coin enough to purchase her favors. Yet somehow he was not relieved. He was vexed at the thought that if she truly was his wife, she'd dared conduct business in Inner Glacia like any other common lightskirt. It infuriated him all the more to think she plucked customers from the very ranks of fighting men he'd lured to the realm with posted notices of a tournament!
Buckling his scabbard around his waist, Preece took a last glance around his private chambers. Following the competition, he'd confront the bitch and settle an amount upon her to leave Glacia permanently.
He had enough responsibility, serving as high reeve to Taroch, without having the ever-present worry that the Yune might reappear with some further outrageous pretext. He had enough disturbance to his sleep with the nocturnal visions still taunting him, the hidden worry that he was neither the usual trueblooded Waniand nor typical human male. He didn't know if his potency had been fully restored or if he'd been left sterile by the torture he'd suffered. Or whether the Ataraxi
an healers had helped or further harmed him with their hermetical care.
He did not need that particular Yune woman within five hundred leagues of his castle or his life. He had to be rid of her, once and forever.
But as he strode onto the lists at the clarion call, he told himself none of those concerns mattered. He would not think about the girl, his dreams, his personal struggles. He was not here as Kaelan Preece, but as the king's champion. A high clan Waniand leader, born and bred to fight. Make war and claim victory he would. So that no man, whatever his race or belief, would dare question Taroch's right to the Glacian throne.
Taroch's reclamation of the Glacian crown had been prophesized long ages past. Preece's role had been foretold, as well. He was meant to aid his cousin in taking and holding the throne of the icy lands that had once been a Waniand stronghold and now would be again.
For this reason Preece had been spared when his parents were slaughtered. This glorious fight was why he'd been saved from the executioner's axe, why a wizard had spent years training him in Waniand lore and dark mysteries. Even if Preece left no offspring, he would fulfill his divine purpose today. He made a sweeping bow to his monarch and turned to acknowledge the first challenger.
**
Moreya saw her chance after the sixth round of ground combat. It was late afternoon, but nightfall was still hours away. Preece had fought valiantly, proving himself as adept on horseback as he'd been riding his great battletahr. He'd ridden in several jousts before unseating a wily opponent, who rolled into the dust and came up swinging a poleaxe. The two men fought like demons, neither willing to give nor seek quarter.
Preece had emerged victorious, only to face another swordsman, then a tall Aldean wielding a spiked mace. Preece was still on his feet, but near exhaustion, the strain evident to all who watched the spectacle. Men switched their wagers from favoring the Royal Blade to heavy odds on the next challenger. An oddsmaker got into a loud disagreement with several men-at-arms, which caused a delay in the proceedings.
Biondine, Shannah Page 22
