"Ah, Tristan. You act as if you care about her, and God help me, I hope it's true."
"Where is she?"
Raze swallowed hard, silently asking Bridey's forgiveness. "By now, I imagine she's in your brother's dungeons," he said.
Tristan's eyes fell closed. "No." It was a harsh whisper. But he opened his eyes again and probed Raze's. "How did it happen? Where was she captured?"
"She wasn't captured, son. She went there of her own free will, thinking it was the only way to ease the suffering of those narrow-minded fools she calls her people." Tristan rose quickly, shoving a hand through his hair and swearing. Raze went on. "She knew you needed time to prepare. She also knew you wouldn't take that time once you realized how bad things were in the villages. Children dying every day. Poverty and starvation, filth and disease. She thought that might end if Vincent had what he wanted. She says she surrendered to keep any more innocent children from dying, Tristan, but I think it's more than that. I think she did it for you, to ease the situation enough so you wouldn't go off half-cocked and get yourself killed."
Tristan shook his head slowly. "She knows better. Dammit, she knows I'll come for her."
"She swore us all to secrecy," Raze explained. "She was hoping you wouldn't find out until you'd had the time to prepare your army."
Tristan lifted his head, stared right into Raze's eyes. "But you broke your word to her."
"Seemed like the thing to do at the time."
Tristan nodded. "Thank you, Malone."
"You going to get her out of there?"
"Or die trying," Tristan said. Then he turned toward one of the many tunnels sprouting from this cavelike room, and shouted down it, his voice echoing endlessly.
Bridin fell to her knees where she stood. She couldn't fathom what she was seeing. Couldn't comprehend, or believe, or trust her own eyes. But when she met those of the woman again, she knew. Not why or how. But she knew.
"M... Mother?"
Maire smiled softly and lifted her arms. Bridin surged forward, flinging herself into them, hugging her mother hard as tears choked her.
Her mother wasn't hugging her back hard enough, though, and the rattle of those chains told Bridin why. She stepped back, swiping the tears away so she could see the steel cuffs around her mother's wrists, and the lengths of chain that connected each of them to the wall behind her. She couldn't move far at all, couldn't rest, except here on the floor with her arms held above her.
Bridin shook her head rapidly. "What is this? Why are you chained? Where have you been, Mother? What's happened to you? We thought you were dead! All this time we—By the eyes of the gods, Mother, your wings!"
"I know. I know. They're gone, like so much... But hush, child. There will be time. Plenty of time, I promise you that. We'll talk of all this later, but—"
"No," Bridin cried. "We'll talk of it now." She stepped closer to her mother, scanning her beautiful face, and then smoothing the wild, uncombed hair. "Gods, I'm so glad you're alive," she whispered. "I've missed you, needed you so." She hugged her again, kissing her face, relishing the feel of her mother's hands threading through her hair before she straightened away once more. "But please, I have to know how."
"Oh, my baby," Maire whispered. "Darling, I wasn't killed during that battle when you were so young. I was terribly wounded, though. Terribly. 'Twas Tristan's own father who struck me down. And he..." She closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "He took his sword... and..."
"He cut off your wings," Bridin whispered.
Her mother nodded, meeting her eyes again. "And left me for dead. I was very nearly so, and many who saw me lying among the dead thought I was gone. But I still had life in me. I'd taken a terrible blow to the head, and was only unconscious. Deeply, deeply unconscious. I knew nothing that happened, and only learned the entire tale later. Enrich of Shara—your Tristan's father—was also wounded in the fight. But his wounds were mortal ones. He lay dying in the castle, but still in command. He sent his sons into the field, with orders to gather up the dead and pile them all together, and then to burn them."
Bridin gasped.
"Tristan was very young then... but seventeen, I'm told. And it was he who found me there, and realized I still lived. He didn't know who I was, for he'd never seen my face. But he couldn't bring himself to pitch me into that fire, and didn't dare let on that I lived for fear his father would command him to do just that. A wagon was loaded with corpses, and Tristan himself placed me on top of that heap of death. And then he drove the wagon to the place of the burning. But he didn't go directly there. He veered from the path when he was out of sight of the others, and he wrapped my still body in his own cloak, and concealed me with shrubbery and bushes. He left me there, and went on to finish his grim task."
Bridin listened raptly, shaking her head. "Tristan left you there, alone?"
Maire nodded. "Yes, child. But he returned for me later that night, and took me far away, to a village well beyond the realm of his father. He delivered me to a couple there, and made them promise to care for me, and made them swear never to tell a soul. They gave their word, but only in exchange for the tale of where I'd come from. And he gave it to them, hoping, he said, that it would help later, if I became well again, to reunite me with my family."
A soft hand stroked Bridin's hair. "Tristan's father would have flayed him alive had he ever learned of his son's merciful actions."
"But, Mother, you recovered. Obviously. Why didn't you come to us, let us know?"
"It was months before I was well again, my child. My senses were all stolen from me by that blow to my head. I was blind, unable to speak, or walk. My memory had vanished. When I first regained consciousness I was a mere shell—an empty vessel. But gradually I healed. The first year my hearing returned. The second, my powers of speech. Sometime between the third and fourth years I began moving my arms and legs, and with a great deal of pain and hard work, I was able to walk again. My vision began to return during the fifth year, but the process was a slow one. Even now it isn't fully as strong as it was. And then, very slowly, my memories began to surface. I'd been living as a peasant woman in that faraway village for nearly a decade when I finally realized that I was, in truth, a queen."
She bent her head to kiss Bridin's tearstained face. "It must have... been a shock," Bridin said.
"To say the least. But I remembered you, my daughter. And your sister Brigit. And I knew I had to try to find you, to make sure you were all right. But then I discovered that I still wasn't whole again." She bit her lip, sniffed, met and held Bridin's gaze. "My magic was gone, darling. And it hasn't returned. I'm afraid it never will. I couldn't even pass through the doorway to the other side, though I tried when I learned that was where my family had fled. I was miserable, aching to be with you and completely unable to do so."
"But you knew we'd come back someday."
Maire smiled gently. "Yes, I knew that you would. So I returned to my home to live in disguise, as a peasant, and to await the day you'd come back. Alone, and powerless, I had no hope of ousting Tristan's family from the throne. And there was no urgent reason to do so, then. He was a good king, Bridin, and while he ruled there was peace. So I waited, biding my time and telling no one who I truly was. I knew you'd return and I'd find you, and together we would retake our land."
"And I did return," Bridin whispered. "But I failed. I didn't prepare properly, didn't take the time I should have."
"I'd only just heard rumors you were back on the day of your raid, Bridin. And then you were gone again, and I hadn't even seen you."
Bridin swallowed hard, nodding. "But, Mother, how have you come to be here, in the castle, in chains this way?"
Maire lowered her eyes. "Vincent exercises all of his kingly rights, child. He sent his men into the village to bring him a woman. I offered myself to protect the others, because—"
"Because you are still their queen, and they are still your people."
Their eyes met and a shared understan
ding passed from mother to daughter and back again.
"The same reason you've come here tonight, is it not?"
Bridin nodded.
"I won't ask you to turn back," Maire whispered. "I won't try to change your mind. Because I understand that this is what you have to do."
They embraced once more. "Before I go, Mother, I'll free you. You can go and join the others, help to rally forces and—"
"No, child. I'll stay here. Close to you, in case there's some way I can help." She smiled. "You know better than to argue the point."
Bridin nodded, and straightened away, and as she did, the crystal ball bumped against her hip, reminding her of its presence there. "Mother, if all of your magic has fled, then..." She took the ball from its pouch, held it up. "Then how do you explain this?"
"My scrying stone!" Maire's eyes widened and her lips curved in joy. "Oh, Bridin, wherever did you find it?"
"A Wood Nymph gave it to me. Her name is—"
"Marinda," Maire sighed. "Of course. She was... like a sister to me. There from the day you and Brigit were born, you know."
"No. I didn't know, she never told me."
Nodding, her mother reached out with one hand, and Bridin held the ball closer so she could touch it. "I filled this crystal with my magic, long ago. Its prisms... they seem to amplify it, somehow. And it holds the magic. Once imbued with it, it never fades."
"The ball showed me your face, and told me... in your voice, Mother... to go to the other side."
She nodded. "Just as I would have told you, had I been there with you."
"It said..." Bridin bit her lip. "It said that I would find the man I was to marry there."
Her mother smiled. "And did you?"
"No. Only Tristan." She sighed. "When this is over, I should go back and find him—"
"No, child. There's no need. He's here now."
Bridin looked at her mother, frowning and tilting her head.
"My magic may be gone, but I still have a knack for the psychic arts, darling. He's here. Trust me."
"I don't understand. What—" Her words were cut off, though, by the pounding of hooves from outside. Bridin closed her eyes, bit her lip. "I have to leave you now," she whispered.
"Take the crystal with you," her mother said. "And do not fear, Bridin. Go. Do what you must."
"Are you sure you won't let me free you, Mother? You can slip out by our secret way, and—"
"Go," her mother told her. "And take my love with you."
Bridin nodded once, and slipping the crystal back into its pouch, turned away to step into the hall. She stiffened her spine as she traversed it, and started down the curving stone staircase to face whatever Fate had in store. And yet she wasn't afraid. Her mother was alive, and she could feel only joy in the knowledge.
She made her way to the rush-strewn floor of the great hall, and stood in the center, eyeing the fine tapestries and crystal lamps and hand-tooled wooden furnishings that filled the rich place. Then she drew her sword and waited, facing the main entry doors.
Seconds passed. And then the thundering feet of men sounded, and the doors burst open. A crowd of knights, their prince at the lead, froze in their places to stare at her in shock.
Bridin held the sword balanced upon her palms, and bent to lower it to the floor. "I've come to surrender to you, Vincent of Shara. And my people know I am here. Do with me what you will, but keep your word as their leader, and end their suffering now, as you promised you would."
The bearded man blinked in shock. But it was short-lived. He surged forward, kicking her sword aside with his booted foot, and his shock turned to pure hatred before her eyes. "Wise of you to heed my command, Bridin. But I'll only end the suffering of your precious peons when you tell me all I wish to know."
"Then there is no reason for me to stay." She took a step past him, toward the door, and Vincent reached out to stop her, instinctively, no doubt. But his hand froze in midair before closing on her arm, and he narrowed his evil gaze on the pendant dangling from her throat.
"You cannot harm me while I wear it," she told him. "I'll surrender to you willingly. But I will not submit to torture. And I won't turn this pendant over to you until I've seen proof that the suffering of my people has ended. Do you understand?"
He glared at her. "How like another of my prisoners you are, Princess. The slave who presumes to dictate the terms of her enslavement." He shook his head. "Fine. Keep your pendant, I'll not lift a hand to harm you. And still you will tell me all I wish to know. You'll see."
He turned and waved a hand toward the waiting guards. As she stepped toward them, chin high, Vincent thrust out a booted foot to trip her, so that she landed in the arms of one of his knights.
"Take her to the dungeons, and see that she's guarded well. I'll be along to question her shortly." He met Bridin's gaze. "And you will tell me what you know, Princess. I promise you will."
The man held her only briefly, only so long, Bridin knew, as his intentions were good. Once he would have pulled her arms behind her back and caused her pain, but he was unable to hold her any longer. His hands fell to his sides, and she stood straight. She led the way herself, walking ramrod-straight as her two guards followed.
But despite her brave words, Bridin's fear returned now, at Vincent's confidence. He wouldn't keep his promise, he'd said, unless she told him what he wished to know. And what he wished to know was where his brother might be, and what his plans were. So the constraints placed on her people wouldn't end after all. Because she'd die before she'd betray Tristan. No torture, no pain, could make her tell his brother anything about him. But Vincent knew he couldn't hurt her while she wore the pendant, and he'd still seemed certain he could extract the information from her.
The question of how was the stuff of which nightmares were made.
"We can't attack tonight, Tristan. We'd be slaughtered. We're too few. We haven't enough weapons. We—"
"We cannot allow Bridin to be tortured," Tristan said, slamming his fist on the stone table, though the sound of the impact didn't do his rage justice. "I've explained this to all of you. She's innocent of my brother's charges against her."
"Yet guilty of trying to take the kingdom from you, my prince. You cannot deny that. And if we rescue her, she's likely to do it again in the future."
"She's a woman... a princess, and she's in trouble. Politics do not enter into this."
"Yes, but by getting half our troops slaughtered in a useless attempt to rescue her, we would hardly be doing her any good."
Tristan eyed his most trusted advisers, knowing they were right. "All right then. How long before we can be ready? I know we'd planned to take a month to prepare, but things are different now. We need to move as soon as possible."
"A week," said one man. "If we work day and night, and send a troop out in search of recruits."
Tristan nodded. "A week. Do it then. You're in charge."
"Me?" The man frowned. "But what about you?"
"I'm going after Bridin. Alone. Tate, I'll need you to draw me a map with all those secret passages in the castle. No one knows them like you do. Go, do it now. The rest of you, stay here. You'll attack exactly one week from tonight at precisely midnight. While Tate is making my map, go and begin to devise your battle plan."
The men looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. He stared right back until, one by one, their gazes lowered and they nodded their agreement. Satisfied they'd do as he asked, Tristan turned to Tate, who quickly ran off in search of parchment and ink. Alone in the cavernous room, Tristan closed his eyes, then squeezed them tighter to keep the tears from flooding out.
Bridin. Beautiful, precious Bridin, in the hands of his bestial brother. Gods, the very thought... She might be hurt, even now. Vincent had slashed the pendants from her slender throat once, and could easily do so again. They might be applying the whip to her tender skin and demanding she tell all she knew of him. He could hear her cries of pain and fear echoing in his mind, and he cl
enched his fists until they trembled.
"No. Gods, no! I swear on my soul, if he's harmed her, I'll kill him!"
A soft hand lowered to his shoulder, and Tristan whirled to face Raze, who stood there behind him, his eyes as misty as Tristan's. "It's true then," Raze muttered. "You love her."
His jaw trembling, Tristan met the man's gaze. "I would die for her."
Chapter Eighteen
Bridin was taken to the foulest depths she'd ever known. The castle dungeons. When her mother had ruled the kingdom, she'd wanted the dungeons sealed off, bricked up, and made inaccessible. But her grandfather had argued that a prison of some sort was necessary as a deterrent to crime. Not that he'd ever dared use them as such. Maire would have been furious if he had.
Right now Bridin dearly wished he'd listened to her. She'd never been here before. The door at the end of the long, arched corridor groaned as the guards pushed it open. It was wood at its core, she suspected, but girded on either side with plates of solid steel. Reinforcing strips of iron crossed one another on its face, dotted with bolts every few inches. The four hinges were each as big as her entire head.
Beyond the door, she saw only a curving stone staircase, with a wall on one side and an open pit of blackness on the other. The steps were narrow, their edges crumbling, and the way down steep. It reminded her briefly of the corkscrew trail she'd traveled back at the wizard's hidden house on the lake. But then she shook herself, blinking at the irony of the stark differences between then and now. Then, she'd been with Tristan. Loving him, and perhaps not even aware of it. Wanting him, and all too aware of that. Now... now she had very little hope of ever seeing him again. She closed her eyes, saw his face swimming in her mind. His piercing ebony gaze. His raven's-wing hair.
She made her way down the steep stairs, unsurprised when the guards gripped her arms to steady her. So long as they meant her no harm, the pendant would bear their touch, unless Bridin deliberately willed otherwise.
At the bottom of the stairs she was led between two rows of cells, her footsteps echoing in the darkness. And from the depths of some of those holes, she felt eyes upon her. The eyes of her people? And what were they thinking as they saw their former princess marched before them, beaten, captive? Were they wishing her dead? Were they blaming the hell they'd been through on her and her alone?
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