by Nora Roberts
Now he was in the south of Dugland, negotiating a treaty with Prince Sebastian.
“William must be sent for,” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will order Reeg to send a messenger at once. Then I must pack for my journey.”
“Journey?” Alarmed, Antwa moved swiftly to block the young princess’s path as she started toward the hall.
“You cannot mean to go to Org! You know it will be fruitless. You are a moon witch, Gwynna, and the night and all its creatures are your domain, but you are not experienced enough, nor powerful enough to challenge Ondrea—especially in that evil place. If you go, you will die. And Lise will die, and there will be no one to rule Callemore.”
“I appoint you in my stead—until I find Ondrea and force her to return my sister to us.”
“It’s folly!” Antwa cried, true panic showing at last in her face. “You are too impetuous, Gwynna. I beg you to think. You cannot prevail. Many have tried to venture into Org, to right a wrong, to find a villain and impose penance, and all have failed. Even Keir, a warrior noted for his strength and valor, did not succeed in avenging his family’s deaths—”
“That may make him more likely to help me,” Gwynna interrupted her, an arrested expression in her eyes. “I will go to him first, learn all I can of the perils of Org, and enter its boundaries prepared for what may come.”
“You will never leave that place!” Antwa grabbed the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close, hugging her with tears in her eyes.
“Do not go!” she pleaded, love and fear rising like a tide within her. “You’re not ready, child, you are young . . . the demons will eat you alive . . . the ghosts will torment your soul! Lise will probably die before you even cross the Wild Sea—”
“Enough.” Gwynna jerked free of her teacher’s arms, her long midnight curls bouncing. Her impassioned face was tense, but full of determination. “I will bring my sister back or die trying. You, Antwa, must rule Callemore in her stead—and mine—until my return . . . our return,” she corrected herself doggedly.
“Appoint Leland or Royce,” Antwa said then, desperately. “I will go with you and give you what aid I may, child. I can’t bear to lose you. You have too much yet to learn, to give, to accomplish. You can do good in this world, Gwynna, if only you will turn from this hopeless cause and—”
“Say no more!” Gwynna cried, fury flashing in her eyes. “My cause is not hopeless. I will bring Lise back to us!”
And she charged from the room, her steps quick and light, fading down the hallway, overpowered by the grim roar of despair rising through the castle.
The news would spread quickly. Ondrea the Terrible had stolen the Queen of Callemore’s beauty—and her very life. And now, Lise’s sister was charging off to her death.
Antwa, who loved both women as if they were her own, wept as she stood at the window and stared out at the pink-gold sunrise.
She strove to find vision, knowledge, some inkling of the future. But the clouds told her nothing and her mind was empty, save for grief.
Even she was not powerful enough even to have seen the attack coming in the night. How could as tender an enchantress as Gwynna hope to prevail in an evil land, against a force so much greater than she was?
She is young, untested, but she is strong, Antwa told herself. She is driven by love, by devotion. Those are powerful forces.
And yet, there was a chill in her heart that came from a certain knowledge. One truth she could feel deep in her bones and it brought her no comfort, none at all: Gwynna as she was now would never return from Org. The girl preparing to ride out to rescue her sister would be no more.
Chapter 2
THE halls of Blackthorne Keep were dark and silent that night. The mood was one of gloom and unease, for Duke Keir himself, the lord of the keep, sat alone in the Great Hall, eating and drinking in a mood as dark as any his soldiers and servants had seen.
In the flickering candlelight his lean face appeared harsher even than usual, his gray eyes glinted nearly black. Two years ago to the night, his brothers and father had been betrayed and massacred.
And he had failed to exact true vengeance for their deaths.
His mother had died a fortnight after her husband and sons, died of a broken heart, the village healer had proclaimed. Now, here he sat, all this time later, the last of all his kin, with memories of them swaying before him in the firelight, and their ghosts pricking his soul for his failure to have brought their murderess to justice.
He lifted his tankard and drank deeply within the shadowy darkness of the hall. He had eaten sparingly of the food set before him, but the ale had been greedily imbibed.
He sought to forget, to purge his soul for the sin of living when all who shared his blood were dead.
When the commotion reached his ears, he frowned with displeasure. Voices arguing in the bailey. They belonged to Ulf and Sanesh, and another he didn’t recognize, but it sounded like a boy.
“Silence,” he muttered, scowling into his tankard. “Doesn’t anyone have regard for the dead?”
He tried to return to his thoughts, to his anger and his grief and his memories, but the sounds of a skirmish disturbed him and then he heard a shout, a second yell, and suddenly pounding footsteps.
Keir glanced up from his contemplation of the tankard to see a boy dashing gracefully across the hall toward him, past the benches and the massive stone fireplace and the tapestries upon the walls. Ulf and Sanesh pursued the youth, their swords drawn.
As Ulf overtook the boy and raised his sword to smite him, Keir frowned.
“No—do not kill him,” he ordered idly. “Toss him out. But not until I’ve discovered how an urchin got past two of my staunchest knights and into my hall. No easy task I’m certain. Stand back!”
This command was addressed to his men, who skidded to a halt and reluctantly took two steps back, while the boy, wearing a thick gray cloak against the chill spring night, stayed where he was, staring up at the dais.
He’s oddly composed, Keir noticed, for a common intruder.
“My lord, we caught this boy trying to sneak across the bailey, and then the tricky little rat tried to dash straight toward the solar. He said he needed an audience with you. But when we tried to grab him, something happened . . .” Sanesh broke off, flushing, and shook his head.
“I couldn’t move for a moment,” Ulf spoke up. He glared balefully at the boy. “My arm just refused to . . . to grab him.”
“I tried, too, and I was running straight at him, but then . . . well, I fell down.” Sanesh scowled. “I didn’t trip over anything, my lord, but . . . my leg gave out . . . or something.”
He threw the boy a glance which, had it been a dagger, would have killed him.
“And it’s a good thing that they couldn’t prevent me from reaching you, my lord.” The boy stepped boldly forward out of the shadows, and for the first time, Keir saw his face. It was small, almost delicate. Delicate as a girl’s. Beneath his cap he had clear, wide-set eyes that blazed a brilliant purple-blue, and his cheeks were smooth and fair as moonlight.
The lad would never make a warrior, that was certain. But he was quite a resourceful messenger, Keir thought. He found himself staring at the boy. There was something not quite right about him, but Keir realized he’d imbibed too much ale in the past hour to be able to identify exactly what that was.
“I beg you for a private audience,” the boy continued in a strong tone for one so small. “I come on a matter of vital importance.” He had an odd, husky voice that sounded strangely commanding for one so commonly garbed.
“Do you now? And from where is it exactly that you come?” The Duke of Blackthorne’s indifferent gaze ran over the boy before he took another swig of his ale.
“From Callemore, my lord.”
Callemore. Slowly, Keir lowered the tankard, his mouth curled in disgust. Callemore.
He frowned at the pathetic little invader, who looked slight compared to Ulf and Sanesh, looming over him only an
arm’s length behind.
He had no love of Callemore, whose queen had played a part in his family’s destruction. If Lise of Callemore had chosen differently for a husband, all of his kin might be alive today. He might have had an heir by now, a child peacefully asleep in a nursery. A reason to fight and rule and live.
But she had not.
“Callemore,” he growled thickly. He waved his hand in dismissal. “Take him,” he told the guards. “Set him outside of the gate and don’t let him back in. I have no interest in hearing any news from Callemore.”
“No—wait!” The boy spun about as the knights tried to grab him, and in his hand a dagger shone golden.
“One more step, and I’ll plunge this into your throat, whoever comes first,” the boy threatened.
But the knights had been humiliated enough for one night. And with their duke watching, they couldn’t let a mere boy cow them with a simple dagger. They swept their swords from their sheaths and grinned maliciously at the slight figure facing them.
“I don’t want him dead, just removed,” the duke rebuked them sharply, but even as he spoke, the cloaked youth swept his arm out in a flowing gesture and suddenly the knights’ swords flew from their hands. They clattered across the floor a dozen paces away and the boy whirled to face the tall, broad-shouldered man with the close-cropped dark hair who sat alone on the dais.
“Enough of this,” the boy said crisply. His voice sounded different—lighter, more musical, though still pleasantly husky.
“I demand an audience with you, Duke Keir of Blackthorne. I come on royal business.”
He swept the rough cap from his head and a waterfall of raven black curls tumbled down.
“I am Gwynna, Princess of Callemore, and I insist that you receive me.”
The Great Hall went silent, but it was as if lightning had sizzled through the room. The knights stood thunderstruck, frozen and shocked at the sight of the dark-haired beauty before them, and the Duke of Blackthorne sprang up from his chair.
“Leave us,” he ordered the knights grimly. “But don’t go far. You’ll be escorting the princess out momentarily.”
And as the knights obeyed, he leaped down from the dais and strode toward her with long, powerful strides.
Gwynna’s eyes widened as he bore down upon her. She hadn’t been afraid once since she’d stolen into the keep—until now.
Keir of Blackthorne was tall and imposing and he possessed such very broad shoulders. But it was not only his rugged strength which was apparent to her quick eyes, it was his air of impatience, anger—and command. He was an intimidating figure in his black tunic, unadorned but for the stripe of gold braid down the arms, and he was startlingly, devilishly handsome.
She’d always found her eye drawn to charming, fair-haired young men, yet this hard-eyed duke with the arrogant jaw took her breath away.
His nose was aggressive, his mouth hard. His eyes gleamed a dark and dangerous gray like the wolves that roamed the forests of Callemore. His features were handsome, but harsh, she thought, far too bitter for a man so young. He could not yet be thirty years of age.
“Princess of Callemore, eh?” he sneered. “Why would Queen Lise send her sister to Blackthorne and dressed like a farmer’s boy?”
Rough hands gripped her shoulders, their strength nearly buckling her knees. “Answer me, Princess.” He spoke mockingly, making it clear he doubted she was who she said. “Before I have you thrown into the moat,” he warned.
“Unhand me, Duke, before I turn you into a rat.” Gwynna’s amethyst eyes flashed at him, and for a moment that ferocious gray gaze met one of equally furious intensity.
She saw the question cross his mind: Could she indeed do as she threatened? And she saw that he doubted it. But he proved himself to be an intelligent man despite his temper. His hands dropped from her shoulders.
Just in case, she observed with triumph. He had obviously remembered what magic she’d worked against his knights.
“What brings you here, sneaking into my hall like a thief? And in disguise. I could hold you here and force your sister to pay a ransom for your return—if she’d even wish to have such a scrawny little thing back,” he added.
And yet, despite his words, his blood heated as he stared at her. How could I not have known, even for a moment, that she was a girl—no, a woman? he wondered. Her heart-shaped face was both delicate and passionate, with high cheekbones and eyes so dazzling it almost hurt to gaze into them. Her mouth was lovely, more generous than most, full and pink as a strawberry ripe for the plucking. And then there were those dark wild curls flowing to her waist.
He suddenly had the strongest urge to touch them. To clench those curls in his fist, to feel the raven strands slide through his fingers.
But he wanted even more intently to know what this supposed princess looked like beneath that bulky gray cloak.
Lise of Callemore had been a taller woman, lithe and graceful. And dark like this one. But she hadn’t possessed the wildness, the fire he saw in the petite beauty before him.
She might indeed be who she claims, he mused, and I could certainly hold her for ransom.
Why not? He did have a score to settle with Lise of Callemore.
“Now I know why my sister chose William instead of you.” She bit out the words and eyed him coldly. “You have no manners, no address, and no chivalry. I should have listened to those who warned me not to come.”
“Indeed you should have. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I love my sister.” Her face tightened with determination. “And I need your help to save her life. And by the stars and the moon, I will do anything necessary to accomplish that—even tolerate your presence until you’ve told me what I need to know.”
He looked mystified, but fascinated. And for a moment he forgot to tinge his voice with harshness. “And what exactly do you need to know?”
“How do I best make my way through the Valley of Org and come out alive?”
Keir of Blackthorne stared at her in amazement. Then he gave a hard, mirthless laugh. “You don’t.”
Her expression turned stormy, and anger gathered in her lovely face.
“Org is a land of death and despair, Princess. You wouldn’t survive there long enough to snap your pretty fingers. So whatever kind of joke this is, it’s a poor one.”
“This is no joke.” Gwynna lifted her chin, and suddenly looked more regal than even Lise had looked in her jewels and gold brocade gown the day she formally received a dozen suitors, a dozen offers of marriage in the candlelit Great Hall of Callemore Castle.
“If I don’t find Ondrea the Terrible—and soon—my sister will die.”
A muscle twitched in Keir’s jaw. Ondrea the Terrible.
Loathing swept through him.
“Explain,” he ordered tersely, then noticed that the girl before him was looking a bit pale.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“N-nothing.” In truth, she felt weak. Hunger and the exertion of riding three days straight from Callemore were taking their toll. The last hours of her journey she had traveled alone, for when she’d reached the borders of Blackthorne she had sent her escort back, not wishing to risk their lives by straying into the duke’s land without permission. There was no love lost between Callemore and Blackthorne, so she had continued alone through the dense forests and lonely hills and had foregone supper at the inn she’d passed so that she might reach the duke that much sooner.
“I am somewhat . . . hungry,” she explained, not bothering to mention the light-headedness that was beginning to plague her. “I have had no supper tonight—I came directly here to see you. If you would kindly answer the question I posed, I will leave you to your brooding and your drinking and find my supper at the inn.”
“A princess dining at the inn?” Skepticism glinted in his eyes.
“Why not? I will resume my disguise so as not to draw attention to myself,” she answered with dignity. “One way or the other, whether y
ou help me or not, I shall be on my way to Org when morning comes.”
Her stomach rumbled then, most embarrassingly, and she grimaced. She could smell the food arrayed on the various platters lined up across the immense table. Roasted meat, potatoes, bread.
Her mouth watered. “Of course, if you wish to tell me the secrets of Org while we share your supper, I would not object,” she said and couldn’t resist a longing glance at the table laden with food.
“You’re mistaken if you think I will aid a princess of Callemore,” he said curtly. “Or share my table with one. Go on your way, dine at the inn and leave my land at first light.” He turned away from her, striding toward the dais. “If you are caught in Blackthorne after that—”
He got no further. He heard a sound, a soft thump, and turned. The Princess of Callemore had fainted, falling into a tumbled heap upon the floor.
Cursing, Keir scooped her up as if she weighed no more than a pebble. He scowled down at the petite bundle in his arms, at the closed eyes with their exotic fringe of black lashes, at the smooth, pale cheeks. Something tightened inside his chest.
“Ewen!” he called to his seneschal as he strode toward the staircase. “Bring food and drink to my quarters at once.”
He took the stairs two at a time with the girl in his arms and knew that he should have let Ulf and Sanesh throw her out in the first place. She very probably was who she claimed to be. She spoke, moved and behaved like a princess—a headstrong, impossible princess—but a princess just the same. And she was undoubtedly a witch to boot. He had no love of witches. One had brought death down upon his entire family.
Yet . . . there was a softness in her face now as she drooped in his arms, a beauty that pulled at his heart as no other woman ever had.
