“Do you know this place?” Daigon demanded, pointing.
Captain Bryon, who’d been staring at the image in stupefaction, blinked. Frowning, he began to actually study what he could see of the woods around the party. “I think so, Sire. They have left the coast and taken a trail northward--toward Tsenvia.” He looked up at the warlock. “He will not go there. King Howard is a bitter enemy.”
“Go to Captain Martunae and tell him that I said you were to take six of his most able men and go after Gerard. Relieve him of my gold and bring it back. Is that understood?”
Captain Bryon had reddened when Daigon had pointed out that he was not to ride with his own men, a silent accusation of lack of trust, but he merely nodded. “And--Gerard and his men?”
Daigon considered it for a moment. “Leave him. Without the gold to hire an army he is no threat to me.”
Briefly, Bryon looked surprised, but he did not question the order. Turning on his heel, he left as swiftly as he had come.
When he had left, the image Daigon had conjured died and he returned the staff to its place beside his bed. Shifting uneasily, Rhiannon remained silent, unwilling to draw his wrath once more now that it seemed to have abated somewhat. When he continued to ignore her, however, pacing the room for a time and finally moving to the window to stare out of it at the settling sun, she began to think he had forgotten about her. After glancing at the door several times, she took a cautious step in that direction.
Her heart leapt in her throat as Daigon turned, pinning her with a hard look. She swallowed with an effort. The man must have the ears of a predator to hear such a furtive movement.
Her eyes widened as he strode toward her, but to her relief, he only went to the bell pull to summon a servant. A servant appeared at once. “Remove the water and bring more.”
The elderly man looked surprised but merely bowed deeply and disappeared again. A brigade of servants appeared next, carefully removing the water from the tub bucket by bucket. The last had scarcely exited with the final pail when a new procession arrived, filling the tub once more.
Rhiannon watched with scant interest. Emotionally, she was exhausted. She’d endured a great many shocks throughout the day and the trek through the secret passages had wearied her physically as well as emotionally. By her count, the warlock had kept her standing for nigh an hour on top of that. She was too proud to beg to be released, and fairly certain anyway that he would not allow it, but it was becoming more and more difficult to hide the fact that she was beginning to feel like she might drop where she stood.
“Now,” Daigon said when the servants had left at last. “Your turn.”
Chapter Five
Rhiannon was certain she could not have heard him correctly. “Sire?”
He gestured toward the tub of steaming water.
Rhiannon looked down at herself, realizing for the first time that she didn’t just feel terrible, she looked awful. The once lovely dusky rose colored gown she wore was torn in several places--tears she hadn’t even noticed in her fear and distress as she’d fought her way through the battle to the castle. Mud liberally smeared it, as well, from her adventures in the secret tunnels.
Embarrassment climbed into her cheeks as she recalled the accusations she’d flung at the warlock. He was obviously far too fastidious to find any female who looked as she now did the least appealing--and considering some of the insulting things she’d said to him, possessed a good deal of restraint for not pointing out her undesirability.
Regardless of her condition, she was not keen on the idea of stripping for him.
She glanced around the room a little helplessly, as if inspiration would come to her--or a rescuer magically appear.
The sense of helplessness gave way to anger after a moment. Setting her jaw, she met his gaze unflinchingly and held out her manacled wrists. Surprise and dismay filled her when the metal bands immediately disappeared, leaving her with no excuse to ignore the order. After that brief moment of confusion, however, she set her jaw and began to disrobe. He watched with keen interest, his eyes narrowed, almost slumberous.
Rhiannon found that her heart was beating unpleasantly fast as she dropped her gown from her shoulders and stepped out of it. Leaving it where it landed, she reached behind her waist and struggled with the lacing of her corset until at last she’d loosened it. When she lifted her gaze to Daigon again, his skin was slightly flushed and his breathing noticeably irregular--like her own. She dropped the corset, hesitated a moment and then pushed her under gown from her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor.
Heaving a deep, sustaining breath as she stepped out of it, she looked up at Daigon again. His gaze was fastened to her breasts, she saw, and a blush rose from her breasts all the way to her hairline. Gritting her teeth, she reached for the tie of her pantalets.
The movement drew his gaze. He studied her fingers for several moments, almost seeming to hold his breath. Abruptly, his gaze met hers for several thudding heartbeats and then he turned and strode across the room and into his dressing room.
Shaking--she wasn’t certain if it was just from relief, or a combination of relief and something else--Rhiannon discarded her pantalets and climbed quickly into the tub. The heated water soothed her, making the tension curling inside her and in every muscle of her body begin to uncoil almost at once. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around her legs and propped her forehead on her knees. She didn’t look up when the door to Daigon’s dressing room opened again and she heard him cross his bed chamber and halt near the tub where she sat. For several moments he said nothing, but she could feel his gaze. Finally, he moved toward the door.
“I will send your ladies to attend you,” he said, then opened the door and departed.
When he had gone, Rhiannon lifted her head to stare at the door, trying to sort through her tumultuous emotions. She felt unlike herself, which was hardly surprising since she had discovered she was not the person she had believed herself to be when she had woken that morning. In the space of one day, everything she had ever known had crumbled to dust around her along with far too much that she’d believed were truths.
She was confused by Daigon’s behavior. She had seen absolute ruthlessness in him when he had come to conquer, but he had been patient, even amused, when she had lost her mind and berated him as if she had every right to do so and an expectation of impunity. She could not even say that his teasing had been malicious, though she’d been so upset at the time that every teasing remark had only made her more furious--possibly because she was scared to death and confused by everything that had happened.
She had been terrified the moment she heard that she was to be escorted to his chambers that he had rape on his mind--and insulted when he’d coolly informed her that she wasn’t to his taste--and both frightened and elated when she’d seen that he was not as immune to her as she’d claimed.
Was she his prisoner? Destined to become his mistress? Or was he toying with her because it amused him to do so?
What, if anything, could she do about any of it?
She thought the old guards might still have some sense of loyalty to her, but could she ask them to forfeit their lives when she had no reason, at the moment, to think hers would be forfeit without their help?
She didn’t think she could ask that of them. Even if they were willing to risk their lives to protect her, she had never felt that such a thing was her ‘due’ and she certainly did not feel that way now--knowing she did not even have the right of ‘birth’.
Was it true? Or simply something her uncle had said in the heat of the moment to push her away?
She rather thought it the opposite, that he’d been so frantic to leave he’d hardly been aware of what he was saying and, perhaps, had given her a truth that he might never have otherwise.
But why had he kept it to himself? If he knew, why hadn’t he denounced her the moment her father died?
It was a power issue, she decided. She had some grasp o
f politics, but perhaps not a thorough enough understanding to figure that part of it out. Pride must have entered into it. Her father had acknowledged her as his heir--because there had been no other children that lived beyond infancy. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to make her father, and by virtue of family connection, himself, look like the cuckold he obviously was? Or maybe he figured an announcement that she was a bastard after her father’s death would not be believed? And he could not have used her as a pawn in his power game if it had become widely known that she was not even related to him by blood.
Briefly, she wondered who her real father had been. Her mother’s true love? Had she given herself to the man she loved because she knew that she had no choice in her marriage?
Rhiannon found that she liked to think that might have been the case--that her mother, finding herself in much the same situation as she would be in now if Daigon had not completely overturned her world, took the happiness she could by sharing her love with the man she cared for while she had the opportunity to do so.
That did not help her now.
Daigon might or might not find her physically appealing, but he despised the family that had taken everything from him--and she didn’t doubt that he at least believed that to be true whether it was or not.
She supposed it might make no difference to him in a way that would be of benefit to her. He might hate her and still take her to his bed--might actually relish the idea of despoiling the daughter of the man who’d had his parents slain as a way of getting his revenge beyond the grave.
If any part of that was true, though, it still would not help her if she managed to convince him she was not of King Nordain’s seed. He would have no use for her at all then.
Shivering, she dismissed the thoughts as the maids came in and helped her finish her bath and dress. She didn’t know whether to take it as a good sign or not that they merely brought the things needed to dress her instead of her entire wardrobe.
She was told when her toilet had been completed that she was expected to present herself in the great hall for supper.
She’d been wondering what the empty feeling was all about. Until she received the message she hadn’t realized that she actually was hungry.
Nerves still made her feel faintly ill at the thought of eating though, and truth be told, she was far more tired than hungry. She glanced longingly at the bed but she thought it might be best not to test Daigon’s patience further. He would no doubt consider a refusal as direct defiance of his wishes and he was already unnervingly furious about her suspected part in Gerard’s theft of the treasury.
If was unjust, of course. She’d had nothing to do with it and Gerard would certainly not have listened to any demands she might have made concerning what he considered to be his even though he had in effect ceded the right to it the moment he’d abandoned his people to flee--it was taxes for the maintenance of the kingdom after all. But she had said nothing about it either, which had allowed Gerard a good lead in his escape with it.
She had not thought of it. She doubted anyone would believe that, but her thoughts had been centered on her fears at the moment, not coin.
Sighing, she straightened her spine and left the king’s chambers, ignoring the guards as they fell into step behind her.
So much for the question of whether or not she was actually a prisoner!
* * * *
Hunger could be an inconvenient and embarrassing state, Rhiannon reflected wryly. She had presented herself for the meal as ordered, but she’d intended to maintain the air of a martyr at her treatment at the hands of the warlock. The problem with that amiable resolve was that she hadn’t eaten all day and the emotional shock had worn off enough for her body to begin clamoring for food almost as soon as the servants had brought the dishes in and the delicious smells had assailed her nostrils. She’d been seated beside the warlock, which should have been enough in itself to wind her stomach into a bundle of nerves. It hadn’t. Instead her stomach had begun to churn ominously, threatening to growl like a starving beast.
Pretending to have no appetite while her stomach got louder and louder in its demands wouldn’t have impressed anyone with anything except that she was being silly and childish, so she’d decided to pick at her food, hoping she could appease the beast and still appear put upon. From the looks of amusement the warlock kept casting her way, she couldn’t say that she’d carried even that off very well, though.
And when she’d expressed her desire to retire when she’d finished eating, the warlock had had her escorted back to his apartments.
She looked around the room uneasily when the door had closed behind her. She’d refused to allow her ladies to prepare her for bed, hoping that, at least, would give the gossip mongers pause, but she didn’t have a great deal of faith that it would.
The door still vibrated with their departure when the manacles appeared on her wrists once more and Rhiannon’s heart skipped several beats as she glanced around the room expecting to see the disembodied eyes again. She relaxed fractionally when she didn’t, testing the manacles. They didn’t feel nearly as heavy as they looked and she was certain they should feel, but they were solid enough, she discovered.
Dismissing them finally, she looked around the room uneasily, but with curiosity. Not surprisingly the royal apartments were even more opulent that the remainder of the castle, she saw. The bed chamber was enormous and the sitting room that opened off of it on one side larger still. Besides the bed chamber and sitting room, the apartment consisted of a dressing room and large closet where the royal wardrobe was kept. Doors that looked as if they’d been fashioned for giants opened from the bed chamber onto a wide balcony, which might have diminished the apartment’s security, but added much to the graciousness of the apartments.
The walls and ceiling were lavishly ornamented with scrolling, flooring woodwork that had been leafed with gold. The upper portion of the walls were covered in dark silk, the lower portion whitewashed. A number of heavy tapestries hung along the walls, depicting scenes of battles that may or may not have ever been fought. Thick rugs woven of sheep’s wool and died to match the silk on the walls were scattered about the planked floor.
The bed was perhaps twice the size of her own and she’d thought her own bed huge. Dragging her gaze from the bed, she glanced toward the spot where the tub had rested at its foot.
The tub had been removed and the room cleaned while they had dined, she saw. She stared at the damp spot on the floor for several moments while her mind recalled the incident between her and the warlock earlier with such vivid detail that she began to grow increasingly uncomfortable.
Irritation surfaced. Her impatience was directed more at herself than the warlock, but she nursed it anyway, trying to dredge up enough righteous anger to chase away her uneasiness. Giving the bed a wide berth, she began to pace the room, absently examining the furnishings while her mind wandered at will, but she very quickly found her thoughts turning from the warlock and his dastardly deeds to her uncle.
Almost with a sense of surprise, she realized she was far more than upset and angry at Gerard’s denouncement and desertion. She hated him. He’d been affectionate when she was a child, at times too affectionate for her comfort, but that had only made her more uneasy about him, not less and she could not recall that she had ever felt any sense of affection toward him, even before her father’s death. She remembered Gerard’s anger and determination to dominate her and the cruelties he practiced with unnerving frequency against the people under his rule far better than any kindness toward her, even though she could not say that he had been particularly cruel to her at any point.
She supposed, even if not for that, Gerard had given her reason enough to despise him now.
What was to become of her now? Particularly since Gerard had thumbed his nose at the warlock and stolen the treasury when he escaped, making her an accessory? Would the warlock decide to retaliate against Gerard by having her executed? Imprison her for the remainder of her
life?
He could not ransom her, though he might think it a possibility. Gerard had denounced her. He would certainly not part with any of his precious coin to buy her back, whatever the warlock threatened to do with her.
She had thought it bad to be no more than a pawn, but being of no use at all, she realized, was far worse.
And how much did the warlock know? She’d seen what he was capable of, but were those things he’d done merely a very limited range of magical tricks he’d learned? Or was he as powerful as he made himself appear? And, if the latter was true, how could anything be kept from him?
He’d seen her in the caverns. Had he seen everything that had transpired?
She frowned at that, pausing beside the bed in her pacing, but she couldn’t believe that he had since he’d said nothing to indicate he thought she was worthless to him.
Several moments passed before she realized she was staring at the warlock’s staff.
She had never seen one so close. The staff itself appeared to be made of horn. Curious, she moved toward the staff, peered at it more closely, wondering if it was indeed horn and if so what kind. After a moment it dawned upon her that no beast had that peculiar swirling sort of fluting beyond the unicorn.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Was that the source of his powers? Or only what he used to focus them?
Her gaze leapt to the crystal mounted on the top of the staff with silver talons. The stone didn’t appear to be anything more than ordinary crystal and not particularly fine crystal at that. The crystal was murky, almost opaque.
Throwing an uneasy glance toward the door, Rhiannon returned her attention to the staff, lifting her hand to touch the crystal. Her fingers were only inches from it when the staff abruptly bounced upward and sideways, landing on the bed.
“I must insist that you refrain from touching my--uh--staff. You might not care for the results.”
The Warlock Page 5
