Frank-SPrinces

by The Shadowed Princes [lit]

  When Reist and Stone rescued her from the slavers, Regina had had only the torn dress she had been captured in. Thane Cedric's wife had found a few things that would fit her before they left Whiteford, but Regina needed a wardrobe suited to her circumstances.

  Reist kissed her hair again, and felt her flinch. Reggie, you don't have to be afraid of me. It's only affection. I won't claim my conjugal rights."

  He had mounted her only once, which had been on the day of the wedding. The Readers had needed to confirm consummation to prevent the marriage from being set aside by the greedy thanes with their eyes upon the lands and the titles of her children.

  "Reist, I'm just..."

  "Don't worry about it. The bitches have started gathering in Sorcha's solar to gossip or whatever it is they do. Why don't you join them? I'll show you the side stairs so you don't have to cross the roof."

  "Bloody thanes ... can't go anywhere without someone to warm their bloody beds."

  Reist chuckled. That's my Reggie. The soul of propriety and outrage."

  * * * *

  "I don't understand why I have to return the horses, Darcy grumped, while running a comb through her fox red hair. Her mutilated left ear showed for an instant before being covered as she tied her hair into a tail. The lower end of the earlobe had been bitten off in a tavern brawl when Darcy was sixteen. She carried a pair of axes in her belt with a cross-hilted broadsword hanging from her shoulder.

  The night of the purge, Darcy had been sent on a reconnaissance of the manor grounds, and returned with every single horse she could steal from Claw's barns and stables, forcing Belgair's troops to fight on foot.

  "They're Kynyr's horses now that Claw is dead. Finn reached out and brushed his fingers across his wife's cheek. Cahira Sinclair had completed the repairs on his right arm and the splints were gone. It hurt and throbbed if he used it too much; Cahira was a Mender, not a lifemage. The effort required to fix the extensive damage to Finn's body left Cahira exhausted; which meant that she had to take it a bit at a time allowing several days between each session to recover her strength and energies.

  When Belgair Doherty, Captain of the Guards to Claw Redhand, turned traitor and launched a violent purge of the guards, Finn MacIver had been captured and tortured. Belgair's chastisemon, Damien Kildare, had broken his arms and legs, dislocated his hips and shoulders, and applied both a silver spiked whip and hot irons to him.

  "They're his only if the thanes don't decide to hang him instead. Darcy's lips curled back; she doubled her fists and punched the wall.

  Darcy was a battle-bitch; full of temper and savagery, except in the bedroom. Battle-bitches were rare, but not unheard of. Finn adored her, tantrums and all.

  He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. I think you cracked it."

  "My knuckles?"

  "The wall. His eyes turned impish and his smile droll.

  Darcy stood and examined the wall, finding not a mark upon it. Oh, you wicked runagate, Finn MacIver."

  "Afraid I won't be running at any gates soon. Finn indicated the splints on his legs.

  "You know what I meant."

  "Yeah."

  "So I've got you trapped. You're at my mercy. Darcy leaned in and kissed her husband thoroughly.

  "Always was. You just didn't know it."

  "Ugly cubs do have more fun. She shoved her hand under his blankets; receiving a silly grin from Finn when she found the right spot to fondle.

  * * * *

  The east side of Sorcha's Solar received sunlight through a long row of windows that alternated in stained glass and clear. A succession of fine cabinets stood between the windows. Sofas and chairs formed false alcoves around low tables and higher end tables. A fire burned in the hearth on the west side, warming the room in ways that the sunlight could not on that chilly day close to winter solstice. The windowless walls of the west side bristled with fine portraits of generations of the ruling Redhand family, painted by artists famous in their day. A sturdy square table, higher than the others, had place of honor on the west side for playing games.

  Merissa Redhand Estrobian sat weeping. The chamber had not been used since before her birth. The portraits made her feel as if the long dead had their eyes upon her in judgment of her sins. The one that bothered her most, however, was the painting of Tarrant Redhand, the brother she had never known because he had died before her birth: the mon in the picture looked precisely like Kynyr down to the tiniest detail. The portraits of Tarrant, which now hung throughout the manor, had been taken down soon after his death because, Merissa had been told, seeing them had made her mother cry. Claw ordered them returned to the walls after the details of Kynyr's ancestry came out.

  Nearly to term with Malthus twins, she felt awkward and uncomfortable at the best of times. Merissa hated her husband. She could not imagine ever having loved him. Malthus had murdered her parents, her two aunts, and poisoned her nephew Kynyr. She wished with all her heart that she could betray him to her Uncle Brock, who now called himself Stoneriver. However, Malthus was sa'necari, one of the blood-drinking necromancers at war with her people. His arcane coercions lay so deeply set in her brain that she could not speak of what she knew. She had not known that he was sa'necari when she married him. Like everyone else, Merissa had believed him to be human. It was too late now and all she could do was mourn.

  A witan had not been called since before her birth, and the number of thanes that Merissa had met over the years could be counted on one hand. Her mother, Aisha, had tried to protect her from the backbiting and intrigues of a formal court by dispensing with them. Merissa found herself unprepared for the degree of slanderous talk poured into her reluctant ears at every opportunity by the seven mistresses of the thanes that had accompanied their lovers to the witan.

  They sat gossiping and making catty remarks, verbally jockeying for dominance. Jocelyn Doherty lorded it over them in ways that no one could compete with. The eighteen-year-old mistress of Thane Vertram Devlin possessed a measured sensuality gilded with a twist of venom, enhanced by the skilled application of rouge, eye shadow, and lip-stain. Although she told everyone how much in love she was with her wealthy paramour, most believed that she loved his money more.

  Jocelyn patted Merissa's hand. It's just baby blues. You should have seen me when I had my second one."

  "My father and mother are dead, Merissa snarled. It's not baby blues."

  "So how many bastards have you given Vertram so far, Jocelyn? Lillian Morrissey's salacious smile bloomed. She belonged to the thane of Castleborough, Banan Garrard.

  "Just two. You should see the ruby pendant he gave me after I birthed the last one. I swear it's as big as my fist."

  "The greatest sign of a thane's favor is a large belly, said Lillian, quoting an old proverb, adding, And also plenty of jewelry, of course."

  Berneen Hamilton, Clennan's sixteen-year-old mistress, dropped her hand to her belly. The puffiness showed only when her clothes were off, but loomed conspicuous in her own mind.

  Jocelyn noticed the gesture and sneered at her. Oh, has grandfather finally managed to get you all nice and full?"

  Berneen winced. Two months ago."

  "At least we don't have to worry about him marrying you or something equally stupid. Jocelyn sniffed. He says that, after outliving three wives, he has no interest is doing so again. No need to dilute our inheritances further."

  "He's told me that. Berneen shifted uneasily, averting her eyes from Jocelyn's condescension.

  Emma Smythe kept her head down, focusing on her embroidery, threading a strand of lavender floss. She seemed to be no more than fourteen, and yet her belly was so swollen she looked ready to burst like an overripe melon.

  "Such a sorry lot of bloody whores you all are. Regina Devlin stalked through the room. You'll take any worn cock into your hole if it's got a title and money. Then you parade your swollen bellies around as if they were badges of honor. You make me sick."

  Emma cringed, ducking her head as a
sudden tear trickled down her cheek.

  "How dare you! Jocelyn raised her hand to slap Regina.

  "Touch me and Vertram will have a dead slut to bury. Regina jerked Jocelyn from the chair, sending her tumbling onto the floor, and settled into the vacated seat. She put her arm around Merissa. If you need to cry, you need to cry. Don't listen to them. It looks like the thanes brought their whores, but not their wives."

  Regina's mouth curled around the word whore and she mouthed it at them several times without quite saying it.

  Merissa laid her head on Regina's comforting shoulder and wept freely. The rest of the bitches withdrew to the other side of the room, whispering and throwing baleful looks at Regina.

  "It's always okay to cry, Merissa. I've done a fair bit of that myself lately."

  "Johfrit?"

  "And my son Gadhra. They butchered him in front me. Regina's lips tightened for an instant. Those who did it have been sent to hell."

  "I'm so sorry about your husband and son."

  Regina hugged her. Then we'll be sorry together."

  Darmyk Redhand eyed the gathered bitches distrustfully as he trotted into the room with his cat, Kerry, clutched to his chest and something wiggling in his other hand. He headed straight for Merissa. Mama?"

  Jocelyn gave a high-pitched laugh of disdain. Speaking of bastards, Merissa. Here's yours. At least mine are not sa'necari."

  Regina bristled. Just because you're not happy to see me, Jocelyn, don't take it out on the cub."

  Merissa went pale and averted her eyes. They would never have dared talk to her like that when her father was alive. Her first love had been sa'necari, the last Dark Brother of the Light, Isranon who now called himself Dawnreturning. He had left her to rejoin his prince fighting a war he could not hope to win. Custom had the force of law, and under a less enlightened ruler than her father Merissa would have been stoned to death for bearing the child of a sa'necari.

  She clutched her three-year-old son to her. Darmyk had developed swiftly, in those intermittent rushes to maturity that came of having a lycan mother. Despite his small size, he moved and spoke on a par with a seven-year-old human.

  "Mama, Kerry caught a rat. I don't want him to eat it, Mama. Darmyk looked up at his mother solemn eyed and released the squirming rat on her lap. Darmyk was a wilderkin, with a talent for talking to animals and understanding them. The rat jumped down and made a beeline for Jocelyn.

  The cluster of bitches sprang to their feet screeching. Lillian snatched up a chair and tried to beat the rat with it, but the chair was too large and the creature too small. It leaped onto Jocelyn and swarmed up her shoulder before springing onto a cabinet and disappearing.

  "Your filthy little blood-drinker is a beast, snarled Jocelyn.

  Darmyk's lips trembled. I don't want to drink blood."

  "Well, you will and you'll like it once you get your fangs. Filthy sa'necari bastard. Lillian joined Jocelyn, glaring at Darmyk. They should have stoned your mother for bearing you."

  Darmyk burst into sobs.

  "Let him alone. He's only a child. Regina lifted Darmyk onto her hip and held him. Come on, Merissa. Let's go sit in the Rose Room. I hear it is a nice place."

  Merissa gave Regina a grateful look and rose to her feet. My mother always loved it. It was her special place."

  The Rose Room was smallby the standards of the manordecorated in deep shades of rose and mauve. Regina lowered Darmyk to the floor and he scampered to join his mother sitting on the sofa. She crossed to the south wall and admired the mural of lycans at a picnic in the middle of a rose garden; the males in hybrid form and the females in human while true wolves romped around them. The wall hangings were all of pastoral scenes. Sofas and chairs formed half circles around three low tables, upholstered in matching rose brocades. A woven reed basket, containing knitting, occupied the corner of a sofa.

  "Yours? Regina asked, lifting a square of pale blue knitting from the basket.

  Merissa shook her head. My mother's. Fresh tears leaked from her eyes. My mother died in this room. Kissie found her on the floor over there."

  Regina followed Merissa's pointing finger to a sofa with a pale mauve and butter-cream yellow brocade covering it. I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

  "I don't mind. I like it here. Merissa rubbed her eyes. I feel like she's watching me. I loved her. She was the only person I could always talk to. I dream of her."

  "Sometimes those who have passed on communicate in dreams. What does she say?"

  Merissa averted her eyes, her fingers tracing a pattern on the sofa. There was so much that Aisha said to her in those dreams. Some of it frightened Merissa, while other things that Aisha said comforted her. The coercions in her mind were so strong that Merissa could not speak of her husband in a negative manner, and so she could not tell Regina that Aisha spoke of a curse upon Malthus. She says that the cubs will be born lycan. That our liege-god, Tala, has promised her a boon. She was a devout bitch."

  "Then let us hope that it is a true dream."

  A tiny knock came at the door.

  "I swear, Regina muttered, If one of those whores has followed us..."

  She stalked to the door, chanting whore under her breath, and jerked it open.

  Emma flinched at Regina's glare and spoke in a tiny voice with a hopeful smile flickering uncertainly on her lips. Can I join you?"

  "Come sit with me, said Merissa, extending a kindly hand toward her.

  "Merissa... Regina cast a dubious glance at Merissa.

  "She never joins the gossiping, Reggie."

  Emma sucked in a breath, looking close to tears as she edged past Regina and joined Merissa on the sofa. She took her basket of embroidery from her arm and placed it beside her. I don't like them."

  Regina's ire melted away at the neediness in Emma's manner. She pulled a chair close and settled into it. Which thane do you belong to?"

  "Fletcher Matheson, Thane of Ottercreek. I didn't want him. I was going to marry my Jamie. He was saving up for the brideprice my Da wanted. Only Fletcher saw me..."

  "Damnedable bloody thanes and their appetites. Regina moved to the sofa and held Emma while the young bitch sobbed. She wondered how long Emma had been holding it in before the argument in the solar had brought it all to the surface. How old are you, Emma?"

  "Just turned fourteen."

  Regina burst into a long string of curses.

  CHAPTER TWO

  REVELATIONS

  Todd Sinclair was a legend: the greatest armsmaster the lycan clans had ever produced, and the last surviving hero of the Lycan Rebellion of 997. At one hundred and nine, he could feel his years in the aching of his bones on cold mornings. Age had crept up on him despite the stalwart resistance Todd had raised against it.

  His wife, Cahira, reached for a robe to clothe her nakedness while he pulled on his trousers. They no longer made love with the intensity they had in their youth. Age and seventy years of marriage had turned it into an act of cherishing rather than passion.

  Bare to the waist, massive scars showed on Todd's chest and mid-section. Few things could scar a lycan, but Todd had encountered most of themand lived to speak of it. Deep folded lines ran from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features. His heavy eyelids had never lent themselves to clear expression of emotion. Even those who knew him well sometimes had difficulty reading his face. His calm, centered mien and steady patience had won Cahira's heart and drawn her from mourning over the death of her first love, Tarrant Redhand. Todd never went looking for trouble, but once it found him was utterly relentless in dealing with it. He was as gentle with Cahira as he was dangerous to his enemies and those of his family.

  He settled onto a chair beside the stool in front of her dresser. Come here. I've mussed your hair."

  "You're always mussing my hair. Cahira smiled indulgently, gathered her hip-length blonde hair over her shoulder, and joined h
im at her dresser.

  Todd brushed her hair lovingly, drawing the brush down in long strokes. When he finished, he braided it and kissed her cheek.

  Every morning for more than seventy yearsexcept when Todd was awayhe brushed her hair. It had streaks of gray in it and the color had faded from the glorious cornsilk of her youth. She was a tiny bitch, barely five feet tall; made all the more diminutive by the contrast with her husband.

  Todd stood six five and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of it was still muscle despite his advanced age; rock hard and solid, broad through the shoulders and narrow through the hips. Strands of white streaked his bright red hair. Great size and red hair were Sinclair traits. All of his sons and grandsons had inherited it.

  He left the chair, drew on a warm woolen shirt, and buckled on the leather harness that carried his two basket-hilted claymores at his shoulders. Todd shoved a pair of viciously curved battle-axes through his belt, and strapped two lycan fighting knives to his thighs.

  She watched him with apprehensive eyes. I'm afraid, Todd. I haven't been this afraid since the Rebellion."

  "Don't be. Todd crossed the room again and kissed her thoroughly.

  "The thanes ... and the fighting on the borders. Thunder told me about the massacre at Gateshead yesterday."

  "Anyone trying to get at Kynyr will have to go through me first."

  "We're getting too old for this, Todd."

  "I'll be too old when I'm dead. The weary tone in Todd's voice, and the haunted calm of the battlefield in his eyes mitigated the harshness of his answer. I failed Tarrant. I'm not failing Kynyr."

  He turned away from her and walked out. Every morning, Todd went to the salle in the Maguire Mansion and worked through his complicated forms and exercises. Mirrors lined one wall and woven mats took up a third of the room. Cabinets, weapon racks and a small square table with four chairs occupied the rest of the salle. He found Stone waiting for him there. The Creeyan commander sat at the table near the door with a bottle of whiskey open and two glasses set out. Lycans had a high tolerance for liquor and produced very few bona fide alcoholics. Drug addicts were more common than chronic drunks; yet even they accounted for a no more than a tiny percentage of the population.