The light appeared brighter than I knew it was because my eyes were accustomed to the dark now. The light was white but not harsh, a soft white light that breathed from the doorway like a luminous fog.
“After you, my princess,” Doyle said, bowing as he said it.
I wanted to come back to court, but looking at that glowing hill I was reminded that a hole in the ground is a hole in the ground whether it be a sithen or a grave. I don’t know why I suddenly thought of that particuliar analogy. Maybe it was the assassination attempt. Maybe it was just nerves. I went through the door.
I stood in a huge stone hallway large enough for that tank to have driven through comfortably or for a small giant to pass without bumping his head. The hallway was always large no matter how small the doorway happened to be. Doyle joined me and the doorway vanished behind him. Just another grey stone wall. Just as the outside of the mound hid its entrance, so the inside did as well. If the queen wished it, the door wouldn’t appear from this side at all. It was very easy to go from guest to prisoner here. The thought was less than comforting.
The white light that filled the hallway was sourceless, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The grey stone looked like granite, which means it wasn’t native to St. Louis. If you want stone here it’s red or reddish tan, not grey. Even our stone is imported from some alien shore.
I’m told once upon a time there were entire worlds under the ground. Meadows and orchards and a sun and moon of our very own. I’ve seen the dying orchards and flower gardens with a few straggling blossoms, but no underground moon or sun. The rooms are bigger and more square than they should be, and the blueprint of the interior seems to change at random, sometimes with you walking through it, like walking through a fun house made of stone instead of mirrors. But there are no meadows, or none that I’ve seen. I’m more than willing to believe that the others are keeping secrets from me. That wouldn’t surprise me in the least, but to my knowledge there are no worlds under the ground, just stone and rooms.
Doyle offered me his arm, very formally. I took his arm lightly, out of habit mostly.
There was a sharp bend to the corridor. I heard footsteps coming toward us. Doyle pulled gently on my arm. I stopped and looked at him. “What is it?” I asked.
Doyle led me back down the corridor. I walked backward with him, and he stopped abruptly. He grabbed a handful of my dress and raised the skirt enough to bare my ankles, and the gun. “It wasn’t your heels setting you off balance on the stones, Princess.” He sounded angry with me.
“I’m allowed weapons.”
“No guns inside the mound,” he said.
“Since when?”
“Since you killed Bleddyn with one.”
We looked at each other for a frozen second, then I tried to move away, but his hand closed over my wrist.
With footsteps coming ever closer, Doyle jerked me off balance so that I fell against him. He pinned me to his body with an arm across my back. He opened his mouth to speak, and the footsteps turned the corner.
We were left standing in full sight, Doyle pinning me to his body, the other hand on my wrist. It looked like an interrupted fight or the beginning of one.
The two men that stepped around the corner fanned out so that they covered as much of the corridor as possible with space to spare for fighting.
I looked up into Doyle’s face and tried to put the request into one glance. I begged him with my eyes not to tell about the gun and not to take it.
He put his mouth against my cheek, and whispered, “You will not need it.”
I just looked up at him. “Will you give me your oath on that?”
The anger tightened the muscles in his jaw, thrummed down his arms. “I will not give my oath on the queen’s whim.”
“Then let me keep the gun,” I whispered.
He moved to stand between me and the other guards. He still had the grip on my arm. All the others could see was the sweep of Doyle’s cape.
“What’s wrong, Doyle?” one of the men asked.
“Nothing,” he said. But he forced my other hand behind my back until he could grip both my wrists in one of his hands. His hands were not that large, and to get a firm grip meant my wrists were ground together, bruising. I’d have struggled more if I’d thought I could get away, but even if I escaped Doyle, he’d seen the gun. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn’t struggle. But I was not happy.
Doyle used his other arm to pick me up and lower me to the ground in a sitting position. Except for my wrists it was all done gently enough. He knelt, his cloaked back still hiding us from the other men. As his hand hovered over my leg, moving toward the gun, I thought about kicking him, being difficult, but there was no point. He could have crushed my wrists with no effort. I might get the gun back tonight. If he crushed my arms, my options were over. He slid the gun out of the ankle holster. I sat on the floor and let him do it. I stayed passive in his grip, let him move my body as he wanted. Only my eyes weren’t passive—I couldn’t keep the anger out of them. No, I wanted him to see the anger.
He let me go and slid the gun behind his own back, though the leather pants were tight enough that it couldn’t have been comfortable. I hoped it dug into his back until he bled.
He took one of my hands, helping me stand. Then he turned with a flourish of his cape to present me to the other guards, one hand holding mine as if we were about to make a grand entrance down a long marble staircase. It was an odd gesture for the grey hallway and what had just happened. I realized that Doyle was uneasy about the gun or his choice of taking it, or maybe wondering if I had other weapons. He was ill at ease and he was covering.
“A small disagreement, nothing more,” he said.
“A disagreement about what?” The voice belonged to Frost, Doyle’s second in command. Other than the fact that they were both tall, physically they were almost opposites. The hair that fell in a glimmering curtain to Frost’s ankles was silver, a shimmering metallic silver like Christmas tree tinsel. The skin was as white as my own. The eyes were a soft grey like a winter sky before a storm. His face was angular and arrogantly handsome. His shoulders were a touch broader than Doyle’s, but other than that they were both very alike and very unalike.
He wore a silver jerkin that hit him just above the knees to meet the silver cloth of his pants, tucked into silver boots. The jeweled belt at his waist was silver studded with pearls and diamonds. It matched the heavy necklace that graced his chest. He gleamed as if he’d been carved all of one great silver piece, more statue than man. But the sword at his side with its silver-and-bone hilt was real enough, and if you could see one weapon, there’d be more because he was Frost. The queen called him her Killing Frost. If he’d ever had another name I did not know it. He wasn’t wearing any magical or bespelled weapons—for Frost it was almost the same thing as being unarmed.
He stared at me with those grey eyes, clearly suspicious.
I found my voice, anything to fill the silence. Distraction was what was needed. I let go of Doyle’s hand and took a step forward. Frost was vain about his appearance and his clothes. “Frost, what a bold fashion statement.” My voice came out strong, somewhere between teasing and mockery.
His fingers went to the edge of the tunic before he could stop himself. He frowned at me. “Princess Meredith, a pleasure as always.” A slight change in tone made mockery of his polite words.
I didn’t care. He wasn’t wondering about what Doyle was hiding. That was all I had wanted to accomplish.
“What about me?” Rhys said.
I turned to find my third-favorite guard. I didn’t trust him as I did Barinthus or Galen. There was something weak about Rhys, a sense that he wouldn’t exactly die for your honor, but right up to that point you could depend on him.
He put his cape and the waist-length spill of white wavy hair over one arm so I’d have an unobstructed view of his body. Rhys was a full half foot under six feet, short for a guard. To my knowledge he was ful
l-blooded court. He just happened to be short. His body was encased in a white bodysuit so tight that you knew at a glance that there was nothing under it but him. There was white-on-white embroidery on the cloth edging the round collar and the slight flare of the long sleeves, and encircling the cutout over his stomach, which revealed his cobblestone abs like a woman showing off her cleavage.
He let the cape and his hair fall back into place. He smiled his full cupid-bow lips at me. They matched the round boyishly handsome face and the one pale blue eye. His eye was a tricircle of blue; cornflower blue around the pupil, sky blue, then a circle of winter sky. The other eye was lost forever under a furrow of scars. Claw marks cut across the upper right quarter of his face. One single claw mark parted an inch from the rest, cutting across otherwise perfect skin to cross from his upper right forehead to cut down the bridge of his nose and the lower left cheek. He’d told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his eye. Great battles, giants, I think I remember a dragon or two. I think it was the scars that made him work so very hard on his body. He was small, but every inch of him was muscled.
I shook my head. “I don’t know whether you look like the top of a pornographic wedding cake or a superhero. You could be Ab Boy, or Abdominal Man.” I grinned happily.
“A thousand sit-ups a day does wonders for your abs,” he said, running a hand over them.
“Everyone needs a hobby, I guess.”
“Where is your sword?” Doyle asked.
Rhys looked at him. “The same place yours is. The queen says we do not need them tonight.”
Doyle glanced at Frost. “What of you, Frost?”
Rhys answered with a quick smile that made his lovely blue eye gleam. “The queen’s weaning him a weapon at a time. She’s decreed he has to be unarmed by the time she dresses to go to the throne room.”
“I do not think it wise to have her entire guard unarmed,” Frost said.
“Nor I,” Doyle said, “but she is the queen and we will follow her orders.”
Frost’s handsome face closed down into tight lines. If he’d been human, he’d have had frown wrinkles by now, but his face was unlined and always would be.
“Frost’s clothes are fine for a welcome home banquet, but why are you and Rhys dressed so . . .” I spread my hands helplessly trying to find a phrase that wasn’t an insult.
“The queen designed my outfit personally,” Rhys said.
“It’s lovely,” I said.
He grinned. “Just keep saying that as you meet the rest of the guard tonight.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, please. She isn’t taking hormones again, is she?”
Rhys nodded. “Baby hormones and her sex drive goes into overtime.” He looked down at his clothes. “A shame to be dressed up with no place to go.”
“Very punny,” I said.
He looked up at me with a genuinely unhappy face. He hadn’t meant the play on words to be funny. His sad face made the smile fade from mine.
“The queen is our sovereign. She knows best,” Frost said.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The look on Frost’s face when he turned made me regret the laugh. I saw those grey eyes unguarded for a split second, and what I saw in them was pain. I watched him rebuild his walls, watched his eyes close down, so that nothing showed again. But I’d seen what lay beyond his careful facade, his expensive clothes, his fastidious attention to detail—his rigorous morality and his arrogance. Some of it was real, but some of it was a mask to keep things locked away.
I’d never liked Frost, but having that one glimpse meant I couldn’t dislike him anymore. Damn.
“We will speak no more of this,” he said. He turned and moved down the hallway, back the way they’d come. “The queen awaits your presence.” He walked away without looking back to see if we were following.
Rhys came up beside me. He slid an arm across my shoulders and hugged me. “I’m glad you’re back.”
I leaned into him briefly. “Thanks, Rhys.”
He gave me a small shake. “I missed you, Green-eyes.”
Rhys even more than Galen spoke modern English. He loved slang. His favorite author was Dashiell Hammett; his favorite movie, The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Rhys had a house outside the mound city. He had electricity and a television set. I’d spent quite a few weekends at his house. He’d introduced me to old films, and when I was sixteen we’d gone to a film noir festival at the Tivoli in St. Louis. He’d dressed in a fedora and a trench coat. He’d even found me period clothes so I could hang on his arm like a femme fatale.
Rhys had made it clear on that trip that he thought of me as more than a little sister. Nothing we could get killed over, but enough that it was a real date. After that, my aunt made sure we didn’t spend much time together. Galen and I teased each other unmercifully in a very sexual way, but the queen seemed to trust Galen, as did I. Neither of us quite trusted Rhys.
Rhys offered me his arm.
Doyle stepped up to my other side. I thought he would offer his own arm so that I would be wedged between them. Instead, he said, “Go down the hallway and wait for us.”
Frost would have argued or even refused, but not Rhys. “You are the captain of the Guard,” he said. It was the answer of a good soldier. He walked around the corner and Doyle moved, moving me with him, a hand on my arm, to watch him move far enough away not to overhear us. Then Doyle edged us back, out of sight of Rhys.
His hand tightened on my upper arm. “What else are you carrying?”
“You trust me to just tell you?” I asked.
“If you give me your word, I will take it,” he said.
“I left in danger of my life, Doyle. I need to be able to protect myself.”
His hand tightened, and he gave a small shake. “It is my job to protect the court, especially the queen.”
“And it’s my job to protect myself,” I said.
He lowered his voice even further. “No, that is my job. The job of all the Guard.”
I shook my head. “No, you are the Queen’s Guard. The King’s Guard protects Cel. There is no Guard for the princess, Doyle. I was raised very aware of that.”
“You always had your contingent of bodyguards, as did your father.”
“And look how much that helped him,” I said.
He grabbed my other arm, drawing me to tiptoe. “I want you to survive, Meredith. Take what she gives you tonight. Do not try to harm her.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?”
His hands relaxed, and he set me down flat-footed on the stones. “Give me your word that that was your only weapon and I will believe you.”
Staring up into his so sincere face, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to him, not if I had to give my word about it. I looked at the floor, then back up at his face. “Ferghus’s Balls.”
He smiled. “I take it that means you have other weapons.”
“Yes, but I can’t be here unarmed, Doyle. I can’t.”
“You will have one of us with you at all times tonight—that I can guarantee.”
“The queen has been very careful tonight, Doyle. I may not like Frost, but to an extent I trust him. She’s made sure every guard I meet is one I either trust or like, but there are twenty-seven queen’s guardsmen, another twenty-seven king’s guardsmen. I trust maybe half a dozen of them, ten at the outside. The rest of them frighten me, or have in the past actively hurt me. I am not walking around here unarmed.”
“You know I can take them from you,” he said.
I nodded. “I know.”
“Tell me what you have, Meredith. We’ll go from there.”
I told him everything I was carrying. I half expected him to insist on searching me himself, but he didn’t. He took me at my word. It made me glad I hadn’t held anything back.
“Understand this, Meredith. I am the queen’s bodyguard before I am yours. If you try to harm her, I will take action.”
“Am I allowed to defend myself?�
�� I asked.
He thought about that for a moment. “I . . . I would not have you killed simply because you stayed your hand for fear of me. You are mortal and our queen is not. You are the more fragile of the two.” He licked his lips, shook his head. “Let us hope that it does not come down to a choice between the two of you. I do not think that she plans you violence tonight.”
“What my dear aunt plans and what comes to pass isn’t always the same thing. We all know that.”
He shook his head again. “Perhaps.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we go?”
I took his arm lightly, and he led me around the corner to the patiently waiting Rhys. Rhys watched us walk toward him, and there was a seriousness to his face that I didn’t like. He was thinking about something.
“You’ll hurt yourself thinking that hard, Rhys,” I said.
He smiled, lowering his eye, but when his gaze came back up it was still serious. “What are you up to, Merry?”
The question startled me. I didn’t try to keep the surprise off my face. “My only plan for the evening is to survive and not get hurt. That’s all.”
His eyes narrowed. “I believe you.” But his voice sounded uncertain, as if he really wasn’t sure he believed me at all. Then he smiled, and said, “I offered her my arm first, Doyle. You’re cutting in on my action.”
Doyle started to say something, but I got there first. “I’ve got two arms, Rhys.”
His smile widened to a grin. He offered me his arm, and I took it. As I slid my hand over his sleeve, I realized it was my right—the one the ring was on. But the ring didn’t react to Rhys. It lay quiet, just a pretty piece of silver.
Rhys saw it, eyes widening. “That’s . . .”
“Yes, it is,” Doyle said, quietly.
“But . . .” Rhys began.
“Yes,” Doyle said.
“What?” I asked.
“All in the queen’s good time,” Doyle said.
“Mysteries make my head hurt,” I said.
Rhys did his best Bogart impression. “Then buy a bottle of aspirin, baby, because the night is young.”
Meredith Gentry 01 - A Kiss of Shadows Page 32
