Adrian

by Heather Grothaus

  Glayer felt the eyes of the ship’s crew on him, as they had all ceased in their duties at the sound of the imprisoned beast’s snarl. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He heard footsteps behind him, and then the smooth, placating tones of the Saracen general.

  “You have no need for this demon’s confirmation. I tell you—at the rising of the sun, you will receive what you have come for.”

  Glayer wanted to believe the man. After all, had it not been he who had expedited the attack on Chastellet, he who had kept Glayer’s identity secret all these years? He who had given the name of Constantine Gerard to Saladin himself as the betrayer of the Christian king of Jerusalem? If there was any man alive on the planet that Glayer Felsteppe could trust, it was General Abdal.

  As if the general had read his mind, he said, “You must know that I, too, have ambitions to locate the men you seek. One man in particular, who has escaped me once and will not again. I vow it to God.”

  Glayer felt his own sneaky smile creep over his face. “It sounds as if someone is intent on revenge.”

  “Indeed,” the general said with a nod. “I will find Ad—”

  But his words were cut off by a sizzling in the air, and then cries of astonishment from the crew. The sky flashed, as if lightning had struck the water, and all aboard turned their faces to the stars.

  A sound like stiff sails in the breeze shot the air just over their ship, and when Glayer looked up, he saw the black outline of an enormous bird against the starlit sky.

  A bird with an impossibly wide body and a long arrow-tipped tail waving behind it like a sky-borne serpent.

  “What in the bloody hell?” Glayer muttered to himself with a little shiver.

  But then the creature-man, Jagger, lurched to his feet with a panicked jangle of chain, his already wide eyes appearing in danger of coming completely free of their sockets as his gaze tracked the bizarre bird. His head whipped back and forth.

  “No,” he moaned and began bouncing on the balls of his feet. “No, no.” His throat bulged around the metal collar. “Ray-gone,” he seemed to say, but it was difficult to be certain, as his voice no longer held any of the gentle roundness of before.

  “Oh dear,” Glayer said, noticing a creak in his own voice. “That seems to have upset him greatly. I wonder, should we not also be concerned.”

  “Felsteppe,” the Saracen general called, drawing Glayer’s attention from the agitated Jagger. Abdal’s eyes were trained once more over the bow. “Look.”

  Glayer blinked several times to be certain what he was seeing was real and not simply a product of his imagination. The dark outline of an island was so close to their ship that Glayer fancied he could have swum there had he the need to. An island boasting the silhouette of a tall slender castle, six spires seeming to point to the stars above.

  “How—?” Glayer began, but decided he didn’t quite know the question he was about to ask, let alone the answer. So he looked back to the Saracen, whose eyes were now scanning the empty sky above their ship, where the winged creature had flown and then disappeared into the night.

  “I know not,” the general muttered. Then he faced Glayer. “But I would advise that we proceed to shore. It is possible the island will not remain visible for long.”

  “Now?” Glayer clarified.

  “Now.” The Saracen’s teeth gleamed in the night. “Everyone does love a surprise.”

  Chapter 19

  Maisie paced the width of the hall while awaiting Adrian’s return from the mountain. She trembled so that she had need to pause every dozen paces and steady herself with a chair back. On the table in the center of the floor, where the queen normally took her meals, sat a small wooden chest, into which she and Adrian had scooped the gold he’d retrieved from the secret chamber above her own.

  They had won.

  Maisie paused again, her fingers gripping the wood, her eyes closed. She had to fight against the weakness in her knees about what the Painted Man’s victory might mean for her.

  . . . who trades the death of the Queen . . .

  Such an ominous stanza before, but now Maisie hoped—Adrian had found Wyldonna’s treasure, and by ensuring that she could give Glayer Felsteppe what he demanded, was it possible that Maisie would not have to sacrifice herself for the island, or for Adrian’s life?

  Perhaps she could leave Wyldonna again, for good this time. Not to follow a naïve Wyldonian into a dangerous, foreign Outland but a man of brilliant intelligence, of noble birth, of honorable nature, who was returning to a land he knew well. A man of passion and wit, who could do nothing less than succeed in his crusade against Felsteppe. A man who had never been loved by a woman the way Maisie could love him.

  The way Maisie did love him.

  Once she was gone from the island, Malcolm could once more take the throne. She could never again live on Wyldonna, but that was her wish. And it was no less than she deserved for the chaos she had brought upon her brother and her own people.

  The only question was: Would Adrian want her outside of the castle?

  She drew a deep breath and continued her pacing.

  Maisie would ask him this night, before the equinox dawned on the morrow, and she must once more face that demon Felsteppe. She must know, for if he returned her gentle feelings, they would have need to leave before the sun set on that day, lest the fabric of the island be rent again, and further chaos ensue.

  If he didn’t want her . . .

  Her hand shot out to steady herself once more.

  She had composed herself by the time she heard the door slam shut, and Maisie dropped her hand to her side, a trembly smile coming over her lips as her eyes watched the doorway.

  Malcolm came first, barreling through the opening in his typical blustery way, his boots stomping the stones. But Maisie could tell immediately by his pale face that Adrian had at least shared a hint of why she’d summoned him. Malcolm’s eyes landed right away on the small wooden chest and he stopped in his approach. Adrian followed a bit more leisurely, his hair still blackened with soot, as were his chausses and boots, although he’d removed his ruined shirt before heading into the wood to fetch Maisie’s brother.

  If Maisie had her way in the future, he’d be without a shirt as often as could be arranged.

  Malcolm raised his eyes from the trunk on the tabletop to look at Maisie, his expression one of astonishment. “He found it.”

  Her smile widened and she nodded. Her brother began walking once more toward the table, but this time his steps were cautious, almost hesitant, as if he feared the wooden box would disappear should he move too quickly. He reached out with both wide hands and gripped the edges of the chest, turning it toward him.

  Maisie looked over her brother’s bent head at Adrian, and found that he was watching her intently, his painted arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair brushing his shoulders. It was as if he was studying her, the way he had studied Wyldonna’s book. There was no longer any hint of the scarred, damaged man she’d brought to the island weeks ago. No, this man was strong and whole and powerful and perfect.

  Her smile gentled for Adrian, but he did not return it, and that caused Maisie’s stomach to tumble about in a panic. She looked quickly to Malcolm, who had now opened the lid of the chest and was staring with wide eyes at contents that came halfway up the wooden sides. Adrian had told her the amount in the trunk alone was enough to purchase a small city.

  Malcolm raised his face to look at her. “There’s more?” he asked her in a hushed tone.

  “A hundred fold,” Maisie said. “A thousand.”

  “A hundred thousand,” Adrian said, dropping his arms and walking closer to the table. “It would take days to exhaust the chamber I found.” His wry grin flashed and Maisie’s heart clenched at the sweetness of it. “Especially considering the means of ingress and egress.”

  Malcolm left the lid of the chest standing open as he took two long steps toward Maisie and pulled her into his embrace.

 
“You’re safe now, Maisie,” he said into her hair. “Thanks be to the gods—you’re safe. I never wished ill upon you. Never. I swear it.”

  “I know,” she said against his shoulder, squeezing her eyes against the tears that threatened. She mustn’t start crying now; she mightn’t stop for some time. “I am so sorry for leaving the way I did. So sorry for what I caused. The shame I must have brought you. I tried my best to remedy it.”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said, pulling back from her and smiling through his beard. “You brought the remedy, you did.” Then his arms left her as he turned to face Adrian, and in moments, the Painted Man was gifted with a hearty embrace from the man who was at one time king of that magic place, and who—Maisie hoped—would be once more very soon.

  “I thank you, Hailsworth,” Malcolm said gruffly. He broke the embrace and held out his right hand, which Adrian took readily. “You have saved my sister’s life. You have saved my people from war. You will always be welcomed on Wyldonna, for as long as you shall live.”

  “I am honored by your graciousness,” Adrian replied, and Maisie’s heart swelled with pride for the man he was. “But I doubt that I shall ever have need to visit such a place that so threatens to destroy my many years of dedicated learning.”

  A cold weight seemed to fall into Maisie’s stomach, but she had no time to deconstruct Adrian’s meaning.

  Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. “Canna have the truth interfering with your knowledge now, can we, lad?”

  Adrian grinned. “’Twould be a shameful waste of my father’s money, I fear.”

  “Be that as it may, you are welcome here.” Malcolm clapped Adrian’s shoulder before turning back to the chest and picking up a slight handful of coins to study in his palm. “Perhaps once you’ve put an end to your own business with Felsteppe. I canna fathom the origins of these coins. Lad?”

  Adrian stepped to Malcolm’s side then, and Maisie felt as if both men had completely forgotten she was in the room as they discussed the imprint and strike marks of the coins and volleyed theories between themselves.

  “I regret that my studies have touched little upon nomisma. Sumerian, perhaps? Or later—from Rome?”

  “Much older than the time of your Christ, I’d wager me beard, lad.”

  “He’s not my Christ. Definitely from the Mediterranean region, though.”

  Adrian wished to never return to Wyldonna?

  Did he also never want any reminders of his time here? Of her? Perhaps what they had shared together had truly been nothing more than physical recreation for Adrian. Exercise of a sort, to heal his wounded courage.

  No. No, he wasn’t that shallow. He couldn’t be. She had seen his struggle in the Damascene dungeon. His honor ran deep in his heart, like the bloodstains on the old boots he’d forced himself to keep. Even after escaping that certain death, he had come all this way, risked his life again, to avenge the betrayal of not only his friends but of men he hadn’t even known. Adrian Hailsworth fought for truth, for right. Maisie couldn’t love him so otherwise.

  “But what about me?” Maisie interjected into the men’s scholarly conversation.

  Both their heads came up at once, looking at her curiously.

  She swallowed. “What are we to do?” She looked from Malcolm to Adrian, and her mouth quirked in a nervous smile as she twisted her fingers in the folds of her skirts. “About . . . about me, now?”

  Adrian’s gaze grew intense, wary, but Malcolm’s eyes crinkled above his beard.

  “You shall give the bastard what he asked for,” her brother said, motioning with his handful of coins. “This and nae more. It shall keep your word.”

  “Aye. But then what?” Maisie pressed, glancing only briefly at Adrian. He had said nothing, and her anxiety grew.

  Malcolm looked nonplussed. “I wager you’ll do as you like. You always have.” There was a hint of resentment in his words. “You are still the queen, after all.”

  “I doona want to be queen, Malcolm,” she said. “I never wanted any of this.”

  His bushy brows lowered. “Mayhap you should have thought of that before you took the throne.”

  “Maisie did what she felt she must,” Adrian said at last. “She’s sought to undo the harm she caused and save the island folk from war.” He looked between the brother and sister. “From where we now stand, I would say she was successful.”

  “Aye,” Malcolm allowed, some of the fight going out of him. “But there is naught that can be done to indulge her change of heart. She successfully took the throne from me. She is queen, and that canna be undone while she still resides on the island.”

  “That’s it, though,” she said. She drew a deep breath. “I doona wish to remain on Wyldonna.”

  Malcolm was quiet for a moment, considering her with a grave expression. “Have you learned naught, lass, from when you left us the first time?”

  “It wouldna be the same,” Maisie argued. “If I leave on the morrow, on the equinox, the throne can be rightfully returned to you.”

  “But you couldna come back,” he said quietly.

  Maisie tried to give him a smile. “I could. To visit.”

  “You could never make a home here again.”

  Her smile grew wistful. “I canna make a home here now, Malcolm. The folk hate me.”

  Malcolm looked back down at the gold in his hand, bounced the coins a few times. “They doona hate you.” His eyes raised to hers again. “You well know how dangerous the Outland is now. Where would you go?”

  Maisie looked to Adrian at last. “With him.”

  Adrian’s expression did not change. He only stared into her eyes.

  Malcolm, however, seemed scandalized by her request. “With the Painted Man?” he exclaimed. “Maisie, you canna simply attach yourself to a stranger because you believe he might help you. Has he nae done enough already?” He turned to Adrian. “I apologize, Hailsworth. I doted on her, and she oft behaves like an indulged child.”

  “I’m not a stranger to her, Malcolm,” Adrian said, but his eyes never left Maisie. “And Maighread is no more a child than are you.”

  It was quiet in the hall, the heavy thudding of her own heart the only sounds in Maisie’s ears.

  “Ah. I see,” Malcolm said quietly at last.

  Adrian’s jaw flinched.

  Maisie lifted her chin a fraction. She felt as if she stood naked before him again, but now she felt vulnerable, unsure.

  “I must give chase to Felsteppe once he leaves the island,” Adrian said. “You know that.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Maisie said, her worst nightmare rushing up behind her, and yet she struggled to outrun it. “We shall follow him together. Away from Wyldonna, I can do things, Adrian. You saw it yourself on the crawler. There is nae place Felsteppe could hide. We could—”

  But Adrian was already shaking his head, and Maisie felt her heart shatter like ice dropped onto stone.

  Malcolm cleared his throat, tossed the coins back in the chest. “I’ll leave you to your privacy,” he said and began to turn away.

  Thunderous, running footfalls interrupted the king’s departure as Reid lumbered into the rear of the hall. A gaggle of squealing elf maids burst from the doorway behind him like startled birds, swooping around the giant and reuniting to fly down the main aisle.

  Reid’s usually robust complexion had deepened to the color of seaweed washed up on the rocks, his eyes wild, his cheeks wet.

  “Dragon,” he choked, and his gaze went to Maisie as he swayed on his feet. “My queen—Dragon is gone.”

  “Gone?” Maisie repeated. “What do you mean? I left her in my chamber.” Maisie looked to Adrian.

  He was shaking his head again, and Maisie had the urge to slap his face. “I didn’t see her when we left.”

  The maids reached them, then, and fell into a low bow before Malcolm.

  “My king,” the boldest sighed. “Thank the gods! Have you been restored?”

  “Nae,” Malcolm said irri
tably. “Maighread is your queen, and your queen she shall stay.”

  The group fretted amongst themselves while the bold one turned to Maisie. “Then we are taking ourselves back to the village. The equinox is nigh, and the queen canna protect us.” Without waiting for reply, the elf maid turned and herded her wards toward the vestibule.

  A crash echoed in the hall, and Maisie enjoined her gaze with the men’s as they turned to see Reid collapsing onto a tabletop, his enormous head on his forearms.

  “Dragon,” he wailed.

  Adrian turned back to regard Maisie. “I cannot imagine his upset is due solely to sentiment. What does it mean? If Dragon is gone?”

  Her lips were numb, her throat constricted so that she wondered if she would be able to answer him. “If she has left the island,” she choked, “it means that Wyldonna is nae longer safe. The enchantment would have been broken when she passed through. It is well that the treasure has been found, for we now might nae have the luxury of waiting for the dawn.”

  “Why?” Adrian pressed. “She didn’t protect the island.”

  “Nae, lad,” Malcolm said, pulling out a chair and sitting heavily. “That wasna her purpose. She protected the treasure, which doesna need protecting any longer.”

  Maisie heard the elfin maidens’ faint screams of fright coming from the direction of the castle’s entrance and she spun to face the front of the hall. The maids came flying back through the room along a far wall and disappeared into a doorway that led deeper into the castle. Maisie hoped she was wrong about what had turned them from their intention of escaping to the village.

  But she didn’t think she was.

  “Adrian,” she said, with a measure of calm that she certainly did not feel, “go at once to my chamber. Stay there until Malcolm or I come for you, whatever happens.”

  “I can’t do that,” he insisted in his maddeningly logical tone.

  “Malcolm and I still have need to ready the engines. I daresay we cannot be too careful. If we go now—”

  “It’s too late, lad,” Malcolm said quietly, even as the sounds of scores of boots on the stones rebounded overhead. “The best we can do now is pray.”