by L. K. Rigel
“I believe you, sir goblin.”
He smiled. She couldn’t tell if he thought her respectful or hopelessly earnest—and young.
They found Mavis hitched to her little wagon. Velyn was loading a second barrel of apples into the back. Maxim whispered in the pony’s ear, then sprightly climbed up to the driver’s bench, reins in hand.
“Now there, Mavis, let’s go girl.” The cart began to roll.
“Good-bye!” Igraine said.
Maxim nodded as he and Mavis were enveloped in shimmering light. The air around the cart seemed to bend, and then cart, pony, and goblin were gone.
“At last, we’re alone.” Velyn slipped his strong arms around Igraine’s waist and kissed the top of her head. He lifted a lock of her hair and turned it so the apple blossoms glimmered in the sunlight. “Very pretty.”
She leaned back against his chest and traced the Christian cross tattoo on his left forearm. She wanted to be with him—at least, her body did—but something felt off in her desire.
“I haven’t seen Wennie since I was in peregrine,” she said. “I should go find her and let her see that I didn’t get stuck.”
“You can’t,” Velyn said. “Yesterday I took her up to Fallen for the week. More birthday celebrations. I left her there and came back this morning.”
“Ah, so that’s how the loot from the Vengeance got here.”
Velyn took the scoping glass from Igraine’s hand. “And what’s my gift to Kaelyn doing here? Wait a minute.” He held it up. A spray of etched apple blossoms covered the brass casing, dazzling in the sunlight. “I see it was meant for you all along.”
Igraine went back to her cottage alone. She was tired, still physically wrenched from her transmogrification—and possibly the goblin transport too. A nap would be nice, and then later she’d go check on Kaelyn.
She hung her silk mantle and laid the scoping glass and apple blossoms on her dressing table. As she was brushing her hair, there was a knock on her door.
“You! But how—”
The fisher king crossed her threshold and put his finger on her lips.
The loose, waving chestnut hair was right, and the sad brown eyes. The broad shoulders and thick biceps and the large, strong hands. She brought him to her bed and let him lift her tunic over her head and toss it onto a chair. She removed his cloak and tunic and breeches.
He had no black tattoos, and his skin was far from smooth and brown and perfect. Battle scars danced and contorted over his fair skin, taut on his muscled arms and legs and torso. One scar of note ran from the corner of one eye to his strong jaw.
It was sweet of Velyn to do this for her, but she pushed that thought away. She wanted to believe this was her fisher king.
“See how I take care of you?” His honeyed baritone was self-confident and gentle. “I see what’s in your altered eye—and in your heart—and give it to you.”
“But who are you?” Igraine said. “What is your name?”
He smiled and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose. He pressed his soft, firm lips against hers, pushed his tongue into her mouth, and sent shivers over her body. He edged her onto the bed. “Stay still,” he murmured.
But she wouldn’t. The pretence suddenly felt wrong somehow, a mockery of something sacred. She wouldn’t linger with it. She wrapped her legs around Velyn and guided him inside her. He was hard and hot and filled her as he always had. It felt good, and she moaned with the pleasure. He chuckled and drove his heat deep, and she let herself surrender to him.
She could do this. But she couldn’t let him pantomime her fisher king, the man Velyn had seen in her heart.
« Chapter 16 »
Patience
Quinn Sarumen rose from prior to bishop in a mere three years. He was not a patient man. He took what he liked immediately and destroyed what he hated without remorse. Only fools put off satisfaction. Only idiots suffered remorse.
He was an emotional man, deeply feeling, and proud of his passionate nature. What was life’s purpose if not to enjoy it thoroughly? In a perfect world, he would never have entered the church. He would have lived far from London, away from the internecine politics of House Normandum.
In a perfect world, Quinn wouldn’t abide the pettiness of castle intrigues and political power plays. He’d never go near Windsor. Or Winchester, for that matter. Most definitely, he would never have put on a drab brown tunic or shaved his beautiful black hair.
Quinn wasn’t a patient man. But he wasn’t a free man either. He’d become a priest—and had come to Tintagos Castle—under orders. By the law of the high gods, he was bound to obey his monarch. He couldn’t refuse if he wanted to—and oh, how he wanted to.
He wore a purple skullcap not because the banquet hall was cold—it wasn’t—and not because the purple announced his high rank—it did—but to cover the bald spot he hated. Ridiculous affectation, the tonsure. Prescribed to make him look humble. Bah. He wasn’t humble, and he’d never met a priest above prior who was.
The venison at Lord Tintagos’s table was delicious, which only put him in a worse mood. He wanted to hate Dumnos. Everything about it forced patience, made him hold back, delay gratification. In short, made him act in opposition to his nature. He should hate Dumnos.
He did hate Dumnos.
He was of course insulted by the disgusting tapestry positioned precisely in his line of sight for the purpose of irritating him. Even the baron hit his mark from time to time.
Great Wyrding. Bah.
As further insult, that nit Marrek was seated at the baron’s left hand, an exaggerated sign of respect not lost on Quinn. Tintagos meant not to elevate Marrek, now a prior, but to bring the esteemed guest from Winchester down to an equal level.
Sir Ross was seated on Quinn’s right. The man had barely spoken on the journey from London, but Quinn had appreciated how the man had resumed his place of authority as the baron’s son. And Sir Ross held Lord Sarumen in esteem. Quite useful. A shame he wasn’t already in the baron’s place.
But that would be arranged.
Might as well lay the matter on the table. “When the time comes, Sir Ross, you know the church will stand behind Stephen, not Mathilde.”
“No secret there,” the future baron said. “Anyone at court with ears would know that.”
“So you support Stephen?”
Sir Ross drank his wine slowly and took time refilling his goblet before answering. “My loyalty is with my father, whatever my wishes. I won’t defy him. But I have a question for you, Bishop.”
“Of course.”
“I noticed you disdain the Great Wyrding.” Sir Ross eyed the tapestry. “But I hear you have no problem with its results.”
“What do you mean?” To hide his irritation, Quinn pretended to dab his lips with the tablecloth. He wasn’t surprised, but he’d hoped it would have taken longer for news of his inquiry at the smith to spread.
“I’m told you’ve offered to buy all the iron in Dumnos.”
A disturbance at the door saved Quinn from having to answer. After some shouting, a new arrival burst into the dining hall, a monk fresh off his horse.
“Bishop Quinn!” The monk searched the room frantically. “I must speak with the bishop!”
The dolt hadn’t even looked at the head table. Quinn rose to his feet.
“Praise God, there you are.” The messenger stumbled over with a rolled message. “From Lord Sarumen.”
Quinn broke the seal and read. Thank the gods. Elation welled up inside, but he drew his brows together and put on his best stricken expression and sank to the bench. He spoke quietly, having the rapt attention of the now-silent hall.
“King Henry is dead.”
Gasps rolled through the assembly. Prior Marrek crossed himself, and Lord Tintagos rose to his feet and lifted his goblet.
“Then long live Queen Mathilde,” he said.
All cups were raised, Sir Ross’s first, others straggling. “Queen Mathilde!”
the guests said.
With satisfaction, Quinn noted the varying levels of enthusiasm, some quite low. There was enough of a gap in Mathilde’s support through which to drive a wedge.
Tintagos nodded to his son, and the men left the hall without a glance back at Quinn. Let them meet and confer; it would change nothing.
Actually, it wasn’t so bad that Sir Ross believed Quinn’s mission was to take possession of the iron of Dumnos. It would have been useful, of course, but it wasn’t his true object.
With a glass like that, I could rule all the realms, his uncle had once said. But that fool Idris will never let it go.
Quinn had come to Tintagos for the fae regent’s glimmer glass, the magic that should not exist. That’s why he hadn’t announced his arrival to Idris, now or the last time he was in Tintagos. It’s why he’d tried to find a portal to the fae realm.
As his uncle had said, Idris would never let his faux glimmer glass go. So Quinn had decided to steal it. On the day he presented the prize to his uncle, Quinn would at last have earned the right to leave these wretched bishop’s robes behind and be restored to the fae realm, his banishment ended.
Or… he might keep the glass for himself. A glimmer glass that worked in fae could shift power to him as easily as to his uncle.
He snapped his fingers at the courier monk. “Come with me.”
In his chamber Quinn threw his uncle’s message into the fire and instructed his assistant to make ready for departure. “Within the half hour. Anyone not saddled will be left to rot in this hellhole. Go.”
He wrote an answer to his Lord Sarumen’s question, the part of the message he’d kept to himself. The man would understand the simple code and discount any reports that Tintagos backed Mathilde:
The honeysuckle blooms toward the sun.
He rolled and sealed the message and handed it to the courier monk. “For Lord Sarumen. He’s expecting you.”
The courier accepted the scroll with a shaking hand, furtively glancing toward the corner.
“It’s nothing.” Quinn passed his hand over the man’s eyes. “There’s nothing there.”
“Yes, Lord Bishop.” The courier heaved a deep and relieved sigh, and the concern fell away from his face. He departed no doubt full of earnest devotion and determined to carry out his instructions with all possible speed.
Humans. Quinn chuckled. He turned to his bag of potions and pretties and withdrew a glass ampoule the size of his thumbnail which contained an amber-colored liquid.
“Now to the last details,” he said to the servant girl in the corner.
He’d almost quite forgotten her, which would have been unfortunate. As it was, she didn't look well. Her feet were bloody, and he still had need of her. Perhaps he shouldn’t have danced her so hard last night.
“What is it, my dear?” He set the poison down. A jar of ointment appeared in his flattened palm, and he went to her, kneeling at her feet.
She jerked away from him.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he said soothingly. “I know, I know.” He rubbed the balm into the rough, uncared-for skin of her heels and toes. “You don’t like your wrists bound and your arms raised, but it makes everything so convenient.” He tenderly kissed the inside of her thigh.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He’d spelled the speech out of her, but her eyes told all.
“Yes, yes. Life isn’t fair.” He licked her skin up to her sex and teased her a little with his tongue. “If only you hadn’t found me so handsome, you might have let your friend bring my supper last night. She wanted to so badly. She’d be here, and you would have been fucked and let go by someone with no imagination and no harm done.” Standing, he pinched one of her nipples and thumbed the other, feeling it harden. “And I do have an imagination.”
He cast a glamour over her, changing her appearance.
“Ah… there you are. Igraine, beautiful Igraine.” He leaned down and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing, and reached between her legs. “Did you think I wouldn’t discover your name?” So warm. So wet. “You see how I adore you, make you ready for me.” He plunged his cock inside her and slammed her against the wall. “I don’t even mind that you’re a wyrding woman. It makes you even more fascinating.” Each thrust was a victory. “Such brilliant blue eyes! And I thought I’d always prefer green.” He let go and came, and the glamour faded. He saw who was truly with.
“Bitch!” He slapped the restrained maidservant with the back of his hand, and his bishop’s ring left a red streak on her cheek. He went to the table and tore a piece of bread from the loaf there, spread it with jam, and returned to the girl. “Here. Eat this. You’ll like it. The gooseberry jam is from my own stores.”
Her bonds disappeared. She cried out in pain as she lowered her arms, but she grabbed the bread and stuffed it into her mouth, barely chewing.
“Hungry, huh?” Quinn sprinkled fairy dust over her, and she was suddenly cleaned up and dressed in a suitable tunic. The haunted look remained in her eyes, but no matter. No one would really look at her.
He broke the ampoule over a goblet filled with wine, then placed the goblet on a tray.
“Take this to Lord Tintagos. No one will notice you. No one will even see you. Place the drink near the baron. You may leave him after you see him finish it.”
She nodded.
“There, there.” Quinn gently rubbed an ointment on the wretch’s chapped lips. “This restores the voice in about twelve hours.”
No need to tell her she’d be dead by sunrise, compliments of a slow-acting poison in the gooseberry jam from his own stores.
He opened the chamber door and ushered her into the corridor. As he’d promised, no one took notice of the maidservant—or the bishop. He moved with careless grace, down the stone stairs, through the entry hall, and out to his company waiting in the keep. Bishop Quinn would be gone from the castle, gone from Tintagos, long before the baron met his sad end.
Waiting, waiting. Quinn hated waiting.
On the bright side, when the next baron of Tintagos backed Mathilde—as Ross had made clear he would—Quinn would return with an army of knights. He would find the glimmer glass then.
And he’d have his real Igraine too.
« Chapter 17 »
Choir of Angels
The light filtering in through Igraine’s bedroom window changed, darkened to the orange-pink gold of late afternoon. She stretched and threw back the covers. Velyn had gone, but not before teasing her when she asked again for the fisher king’s name.
I’m not telling. It serves you right for lusting after a man you’ve never spoken to.
Igraine had given up trying to understand how Velyn knew and did the things he knew and did. According to Zoelyn, he wasn’t of the wyrd. Once she’d asked Kaelyn if Velyn was fae, and she’d laughed and laughed. He might be neither wyrd nor fae, but he was surely a creature of the mystic.
And he was no ordinary male. He wasn’t possessive or jealous or demanding. It was nothing to him to put on the guise of another man if it gave her pleasure. Whenever she had wanted him, he had been there for her, and therefore one thing had never occurred to her before: Velyn probably visited any number of cottages on Avalos.
And she didn’t mind—thank Sun and Moon. More evidence that she didn’t love him.
But the mere thought of another woman kissing her fisher king made her mind go feeble. How fast would she put a nasty, nasty wyrd on the witch! Give her chronic bad breath. Igraine wanted to be the one who kissed the sadness from the fisher king’s eyes and ran her fingers through his chestnut hair.
He called to me! He wanted me!
Or… maybe he just wanted to catch a fish that could turn into a woman. Maybe he thought she was a djinn and would grant him three wishes, like in a story.
It was so confusing. As Velyn had pointed out, she’d never even spoken to the man. Her theoretical jealous rage also couldn’t be about love.
She stepped into a pair of sanda
ls and retrieved her tunic from the chair, brushed her hair and redeployed her apple blossoms. The scoping glass was sitting on her dressing table, and before leaving she slipped it into her mantle’s interior pocket. Kaelyn would be delighted by what her goblin friend had done to the device.
With a light heart, Igraine set out for the main abbey.
Zoelyn was with Kaelyn on the open-air veranda. On the table between the two hanging lounges burned a forest green beeswax summoning candle. Kaelyn was staring at the flame.
“Who is it from?” Igraine said without greeting the women.
“Lord Tintagos is ill, perhaps poisoned.” The abbess looked up from the glimmer glass in her hands. “Kaelyn isn’t well enough. You’ll have to go.”
“Me? But I’m not…” Poison. That was beyond her powers.
“You must go, dear,” Kaelyn said. “It’s meant to be.”
“This is too important,” Igraine protested. “The baron deserves better.”
“You’ll give him what no one else can,” Kaelyn said. “If I were in my prime, I would still send you. Velyn has the Redux at the lagoon, and a horse will be saddled and waiting for you at Igdrasil.”
“If Stephen becomes king,” Zoelyn said, “he’ll look the other way as the church destroys the wyrd forever.”
“Bishop Quinn would take pleasure in it.” Igraine shuddered remembering the man.
“Tintagos must back Mathilde.” Zoelyn handed the glimmer glass to Kaelyn and flicked her wrists. A hooded cloak covered Igraine’s tunic and mantle, and her potions bag appeared, slung over her shoulder. “If it comes to it, you’ll have to convince the new baron of that.”
“It’s horrible to see a friend’s death.” Kaelyn ignored the glass. “And worse when the sight comes to pass.” She was looking at Igraine. “Sometimes the greatest gift is to comfort the one left behind.”
“That’s it.” Igraine put down the potion bag and shook off the cloak and all her clothes. Her tunic and mantle fit in the satchel; better than nothing.
