FOREVER ENCHANTED

by Maggie Shayne

  "Escaped." The word echoed around her as the crowd repeated it. "It's just as old Mary said," another voice blurted. "The prince is alive!"

  "But now Tristan is once again in his brother's evil hands. He put himself there in order to save my life, and I am not going to allow him to die there! So I walked into Gaston's shop, and I found what weapons I could carry." She held up the mace and shield as she spoke. The murmur grew louder. "And now I'm going back to that castle for Tristan of Shara, prince of this kingdom, a man who never once lied to his people, or allowed them to suffer the way you suffer now. A man you all loved. I'm going. And if I go alone, then so be it. But I know that any one of you who is half the man Tristan is will join me."

  Heads turned. Men looked at one another, blinking, shocked.

  "Join me now!" she shouted. "It may well be your last chance at freedom from Vincent's reign!"

  She leapt down from her makeshift dais and turned, striding forward just as one of Vincent's soldiers turned his horse round the corner, glanced up, and caught sight of her. Scowling, he drew his sword, kicking the horse's flanks and surging toward her. The crowd gasped. Bridin slipped the mace into her belt and yanked the dagger from her boot. Then she stood her ground, staring him down with the wind in her face. And just when he swung the sword at her in a deadly arc, she crouched low and flicked her small blade outward. His swing missed, but she heard the blade slicing the air over her head. She sprang upward again as he whirled the horse around.

  "Join us, knave!" she shouted. "Join us or die!"

  He growled like a bear and surged forward again, sword drawn. But the stirrup she'd sliced on his first pass gave way, and he tumbled to the ground in a clatter of armor. His sword fell and skidded away.

  Bridin lunged, stepped on his chest to grip the horse's mane, and pulled herself onto its bare back. "So what is your choice going to be, people of Rush? Will you snivel under Vincent's whip like cowardly dogs, or will you fight for Tristan the way you know he would fight for you?"

  There was a long moment of silence. The crowd had grown to fifty by now, with more straggling in all the time. No one said a word.

  Bridin sighed heavily. She'd done her best. "I've no more time. Tristan could be dead by now." She pulled the horse around, pointed it toward the castle.

  "Fight," someone said. It wasn't a loud voice, nor was it male. It was the voice of an elderly woman. Bridin turned to look at her, as everyone else was doing.

  "I told you it was the truth," she said. "Told you she was back."

  "Bridin never wronged us," someone else said. "She brought food and supplies when we'd have starved. I say we fight by her side."

  "I'm with you, Princess!" someone yelled.

  "Go, then! Find weapons, kitchen knives and pitchforks if you've nothing more. Tell your neighbors! Gather everyone you can. Hurry!"

  People scurried in every direction, vanishing into shops and houses and sheds. Then they quickly reappeared, all of the men, and many of the women, while the old and sick were left behind to see to the safety of the children. They came to gather around Bridin's dancing mount, carrying hammers and hoes and anything else they could think of that would make for a weapon. One woman carried a frying pan. Another, no more than her broomstick.

  Bridin felt her chest swell with pride for these people. Her people. Always. Then she started her horse forward, moving toward the castle. There was no time for strategy or cunning, nor army enough for a frontal assault.

  The only option then was the passages.

  She rode into the orchard with her army surrounding her, and then bade them all stay put, and stay low, while she moved ahead to remove the false stone from the wall. And then she guided them into the passages, single file and one by one, so as not to form a huge crowd near the castle walls which might draw notice.

  Then she went in after them, crowding past the last third of the group, cutting them off from the rest, and pointing them to a tunnel that sloped downward. "This way takes you to the kitchens. Enter there and work toward the great hall. Fight, do you hear? Fight for your lives! For your freedom. For Tristan!"

  Nodding, they scurried, their cloth soles sounding like skittering mice on the stone.

  Bridin made her way forward again, cutting off another section of fighters and showing them the route to take that would emerge in the chamber where she'd found her mother.

  The rest she led forward until she found the opening that led them into the westernmost tower room. A prison, like the dungeon, but one never used. From there they would work their way down, checking each room until they found Tristan.

  She prayed it wasn't too late.

  Tristan's hands were bound behind his back, and he'd been forced onto his knees in the throne room. His brother, sitting proudly in the seat to which he had no right, swung his booted foot upward one more time, catching Tristan's chin and sending him over backward. He hit hard. Harder than last time. He wished Vincent would grow tired of amusing himself with petty torture and get to the task at hand. If he'd untie Tristan's hands for only a moment, he'd take the chance to kill the bastard.

  Heavy hands gripped Tristan's shoulders, lifting him again to his former position.

  He prepared himself to take another blow. He could stand the pain. He could stand anything, so long as he knew she was safe. And he wouldn't give up, either. He'd fight for his life with his dying breath, dammit, because now... now he had so very much to live for.

  Bridin.

  Damn, Vincent wasn't going to rob him of this.

  He'd got her out of here; of that much, he was certain. He prayed her pendants had worked to heal her, and she was all right.

  The boot connected again. Tristan felt his chin split open before he hit the floor this time. Men reached for him.

  "Leave him," Vincent said. "I've decided."

  "Decided what, my brother?" Tristan lifted his head, staring through swollen eyes at Vincent's scowling face. "To stop scuffing up those shiny new boots of yours on my face?"

  His words came hard, forced through a throat that was tightened by pain.

  "Decided how to kill you," Vincent said softly. "Believe me, nothing would suit me more than a public beheading. But that would mean admitting to the peons out there that I'd lied to them when I told them you were already dead." Vincent pulled his dagger, ran a thumb thoughtfully along its tip, until blood beaded on the blade. "Still, I do long to see your head in a basket, brother. So a private ceremony will have to do. A block, an ax. No fanfare. No crowd. The inner courtyard, I believe. Otherwise we'll bloody up the floors."

  He lifted his gaze, locking it on one of the two guards behind Tristan and nodding once. "Take him. See to it the ax and block are made ready. I do believe I'll do the honors myself."

  The men tugged him to his feet, holding him by the arms and turning him around. He needed a chance, dammit. Just one break, one moment with his hands free—

  He frowned, jerking his head up at a flash of movement from above as they passed through the great hall. Tristan looked up, his eyes unfocused, watery with pain. But sure enough, he saw the flash again, the flash of a sword, and then he heard a grunt.

  The others heard it, too, because they glanced upward. But whoever was up there ducked low. The guards who held him shrugged and looked ahead again, but then they hadn't seen the flash of that sword...

  Or that other flash, which had seemed an awfully lot like that of golden hair catching the rays of the sun.

  He glanced up once more, only to see her there. Bridin, peering over the railing at him, then pressing her hand to her mouth in horror.

  Yes, he supposed he looked a sight right now. But gods, what was she doing here! He'd risked his life to get her out! What does she do but return, making his sacrifice worthless.

  He blinked, and then he smiled. One hell of a woman, she was. No wonder he loved her so. He looked again, to try to tell her, with his eyes, to get out of here while there was still time. But too late. She was gone. Perhaps
he'd imagined her. He gave up searching for her as the men pulled him forward, out the far side of the great hall and down another corridor, to a door at the end. But he did glance once more over his shoulder, and this time it was to see a castle guard fall down dead in the great hall, and a blond woman jerking her blade from his chest.

  The men opened the door to the inner courtyard. The place was a perfect square, completely surrounded by the castle. There was grass below, and sky above. And walkways on the upper levels, where spectators could line the low walls and lean out to watch whatever special events went on here. A large area, it was. And one apparently put to use a great deal since his brother had taken over. For there had been a pole erected that spanned the width of the square, mounted to the castle walls on either side. Looking up at it, it was as if the sky were sliced in half by a log. From that pole, ropes dangled, unmoving since no breeze entered here. At the end of each rope, a noose, and below each one, a small footstool. And the chopping block and ax stood in another corner. A whipping post fitted with metal shackles for the victim's hands and feet was at the center. Gods, his sick brother had turned the inner courtyard into a place of torture, of private execution. For his own twisted pleasure.

  "The block, he said," one guard reminded the other.

  "You two aren't much for loyalty, are you?" Tristan asked. "I was your prince. Still am, by rights."

  They looked at each other and shook their heads, and Tristan knew these were two of his brother's hand-chosen thugs. Men brought into Tristan's trust by Vincent, but loyal all along only to his brother. His enemy.

  One cupped his nape and forced his head down, while the other lifted the leather belts that dangled from either side of the block beneath his torso, and fastened them tight around his waist and shoulders, holding him there.

  Tristan looked down at a filthy, stinking basket, coated in vile, blackened blood, and buzzing with flies.

  Then he glanced back at the doorway, half expecting to see Bridin appear there. But instead, he saw his brother. The bastard was smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bridin had to duck into an opening off the hallway when Vincent of Shara came striding down it. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and battled a full-body shudder. She pressed her hand to the pendants at her throat, as if to reassure herself, but found only one broken chain remained. She'd fought hordes of men to get this far. It was little wonder, she supposed, that she'd lost the pendants along the way.

  The others were still fighting off the group of soldiers who'd intercepted them in the west wing. She'd battled her way through the fray, intent only on getting to Tristan in time. She had to do so, because without the pendants, there'd be no hope of healing him once this foul deed was done. And there'd be no time to try to retrieve them.

  And she had managed to get to Tristan before the bastard killed him. But what help would she be to him now? There were three of them out there. Two guards and a prince, against one woman. What could she do?

  She glanced down the hall the way she'd come, but there was no help in sight. Then she looked the other way, the way Vincent had gone. He stood in the doorway to the inner courtyard now, as if pausing for maximum effect, leaning against the door's arch, staring out at Tristan, blocking him from Bridin's view.

  She felt helpless. Afraid. Impotent.

  "Is that ax good and sharp?" Vincent intoned, pulling a pair of calfskin gloves onto his hands as he spoke.

  That bastard!

  The feeling of helplessness and fear fled. Anger surged up to replace it. Bridin turned to search the room she'd ducked into... only, it wasn't a room at all, but a landing at the bottom of a narrow, curving staircase. And if she remembered correctly...

  She sheathed her sword. The mace and shield had fallen to the floor in the west wing as she fought her way through the castle guards. But the sword was enough. All she would need. Her rage was her best weapon right now. She mounted the stairs and raced up their spiraling steps, emerging at another landing and lunging through the arched doorway that led to the balcony. And then she stopped, staring down over the stone wall to the scene being played out in the courtyard below her.

  Tristan, bound to a block, facedown over a reeking, filthy basket. The two guards standing a few feet away, their backs to her. Vincent, reaching for the ax and testing its broad, curving head with his thumb. Closing his hands around the handle, testing its weight. Lifting it.

  She couldn't reach them in time. Vincent lifted the ax overhead, and she turned her eyes away reflexively. They fell on the noosed ropes dangling from the pole that stretched below her.

  "Before you die, brother, know that your precious Bridin will be the next to feel the edge of this blade."

  And Bridin dove over the stone rail before she'd realized what she was about to do. She heard a screech, like the battle cry of some wild animal of the forest, and belatedly realized the cry was her own. She plummeted downward, stretched her arms out and caught the nearest length of rope, and her momentum swung her forward with the force of a hurricane as she clung to it. She lifted her feet at the last possible moment, and when they connected with Vincent's chest, the man was hurled backward. He slammed into the far wall, the ax flying from his hands, the wind knocked from his lungs. She saw him gaping as she let go the rope and landed on the ground beside Tristan, yanking her sword into her hands at the same time.

  A guard came into her peripheral vision, but she whirled and sank her blade into his belly before he could strike her down. His mouth opened wide, eyes bulging as he staggered. She yanked the bloodied blade from his body and turned to face the second. But this one was ready. Crouching low, sword uplifted as the man faced her waving his own, she made a quick grab for the dagger in her boot with her left hand, and sliced through the bonds that held Tristan's hands behind his back. But there was no time to cut the ones that held his body to the block, because her opponent lunged at her, swinging his sword, slicing the flesh that covered her rib cage, and then dancing back before she could return the blow. She felt the white-hot cut, felt the blood seeping down her side. She'd jerked away in reaction to the pain, leaving the dagger resting on Tristan's back. Anger, fury, pain, all melded into action then, and she went on the attack, swinging, advancing, thrusting her sword at the bastard until he'd backed up all the way to the wall. He swung his sword, aiming it at her head, but she ducked and it hissed above her. She rose, driving her head into the man's soft belly, and he doubled over with a grunt. Springing upright, she raised her sword above him.

  "That will be quite enough, Bridin of the Fay. You've been lucky, but your luck has just run out." She felt the point of a blade at her back, and froze where she was.

  "Turn around," Vincent said. "I want to see your face when you die."

  Drawing a breath, Bridin turned. But when she did, she didn't look at Vincent. Instead, her gaze moved beyond him, to where Tristan lay facedown on the block, his hands behind him gripping her dagger, sawing fiercely at the one remaining strap that held him down.

  Vincent lifted his sword, pressed its tip to her chest, slowly twisted his hands back and forth on the hilt. She forced herself to look at him, not at Tristan. If Vincent saw where she was looking, he'd catch on. The man behind her was still bent over, trying to catch his breath, gagging and choking.

  Hurry, Tristan. Hurry.

  "It won't matter if you kill me now, Vincent. Your reign of terror is over. The people know the truth now."

  His eyes widened, but he quickly erased any hint of alarm from his features. "What does it matter? Hmm? I have an army. I can beat them into submission again easily enough, or starve them there. I rule by fear, fairy woman. Not by the whim of my subjects."

  "And is your army three hundred men strong?" she asked him, stalling for time. "Because the village is, you know. And every one of the villagers is willing to fight to rid themselves of your rule."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "They wouldn't dare..."

  "Oh, no?" She cocked her head t
o one side. "Listen."

  Vincent did, and he heard what she did. The distant clash of steel, the faint but growing shouts. And finally the thunder of hooves. "What—"

  "That will be the army Tristan has amassed. Now your men have his followers as well as mine to contend with. How do you think they'll fare?"

  "Damn you!" Vincent shouted. "Die, you treacherous wench!" And he pulled up and back with the sword, clutching it tight, about to drive it right through her.

  The man behind her muttered, "Look out!" but it didn't come in time. As her eyes dared one last glimpse at Tristan before she died, she saw his blade finally cut through his bonds, and he rolled over and threw the dagger all in one fast, desperate motion. The blade flipped end over end and embedded itself deeply into Vincent's back.

  He howled as his sword clattered to the ground. Bridin dropped to her knees, snatched it up, and whirled to defend herself against the attack from behind her, but there was no need. The lone remaining guard was already fleeing into the castle.

  When she turned again, Tristan was on his feet, looking down at the lifeless form of his brother, crumpled in the dirt.

  He lifted his gaze to Bridin's, and they stood there, in silence, eyes locked, words unspoken. Tristan parted his lips to say something, but a shout interrupted him. And he looked up toward the balcony where the sound had come from. She did, too, and saw villagers there, fighting, dying. Some still wielding their makeshift weapons, but others, many others, swinging the swords of their enemies. The ones they'd already killed.

  Before her eyes, more of Vincent's men fell. Unnecessary deaths, all of them. She met Tristan's eyes again. "Go to your men," she told him. "Tell them it's over. Vincent is dead. The kingdom is yours."

  He took a step forward. "Bridin—"

  "No, Tristan. It's you the people rallied to protect. You they erected monuments to when they believed you dead. You who brought them out of subjugation to a madman. You're their leader now. They want you... not me."