The Wizard's Ward (Queen's Quests Trilogy Book 1)

by Deborah Hale

  Rath chewed on her words as he chewed on the barleymush, though the latter hardly needed it. When and how had she turned everything around, baiting him when he had started out trying to fluster her?

  “True enough.” This time, he did not even pretend any reluctance to eat what she offered him. “It would be too late now, anyway. Might as well die with a full belly.”

  She bent over to set the bowl and spoon back on the tray.

  Rath tried to ignore the gentle swoop of her bosom when she leaned forward. He would only need to nudge his hand a few inches and he could touch her there. His palm and fingertips felt as though a colony of wood ants were swarming over them.

  Before he succumbed to temptation, Maura sat up again, lifting a mug from which tendrils of steam rose. “Thirsty?”

  For more than he’d find in that cup, though Rath did not dare say so in case she splashed it in his face or flounced off without giving him a drink.

  “What is it?” he asked instead.

  “Just dreamweed tea. It has a mild taste, I promise. It will help you sleep.” Her voice betrayed her weariness. With her free hand, Maura reached over to knead her shoulder.

  Her pretty features tightened in a grimace of pain. “Will I have to answer these questions for everything I feed you?”

  A strange, sour ache nagged deep in Rath’s belly. If it had not been for her, Hanish hounds would be gnawing on his dead flesh by now. She had far better cause to be wary of him than he of her.

  He shook his head, as he raised it to take a deep sip of the tea. When he lapsed back onto the pillows again, he tried to infuse his tone with an apology he found it hard to put into words. “Feed me what you will, and I’ll be grateful for it.”

  Another thought occurred to him—something she had said earlier. In the confusion of the moment, he had not heeded it properly. “Did you... carry me back here, truly?”

  Maura gave a slow nod, as if the movement hurt her neck. “Dragged you the last bit, when the spell started to wear off.”

  “How far?”

  “It seemed like a hundred miles at the time.” She held out the mug again and Rath drank. “In truth, probably not more than five.”

  “Five miles?” Rath almost choked on his mouthful of tea. “You could not have!”

  The withering look she shot him said she wished she hadn’t. “If you could exchange backs with me, you’d believe it soon enough, I promise you.”

  Something in her tone assured Rath she was telling the truth. Yet when he tried to picture it... “What did you mean about the spell wearing off?”

  She told him about the spell of strength. Even after some of the things he’d eaten, the thought of bear fur and grease made his gorge rise. He wasn’t certain he’d have been able to swallow such stuff to save his own life, let alone someone else’s.

  “The trouble is, you pay for it afterward.” Maura twisted one arm behind her to rub her back. “Langbard is brewing me up a liniment to ease the worst of it.”

  That did it. Rath felt lower than a marsh mole’s burrow!

  He tried to make a wry jest of it. “That will teach you to go wandering around Betchwood saving outlaws.”

  A bewildering sense of ease began to steal over him. It lulled the heightened caution and defense he’d spent a lifetime building and arming. Maura’s dreamweed tea must be working.

  “Go rub yourself with some of that liniment.” He nodded toward the door. “Leave the food and tea where they are. I can reach down to feed myself the rest.”

  Something made him add, “You have done me more than enough good turns for one day.”

  For a moment, Maura looked as though she might insist on staying. Rath could not risk that with his guard crumbling so rapidly.

  Then a wide yawn overtook her and she flexed her back. “Now that you mention it, I have, haven’t I?”

  With stiff movements, she rose from her perch on the side of the bed, then shuffled toward the door. She did not move fast enough to outstrip Rath’s faltering vigilance.

  “Why did you bother with me?” He’d assumed she must want something from him, yet she seemed fiercely resistant to Langbard’s plan of employing him as a bodyguard.

  The question made her hesitate. But she did not turn to look at him. Instead she stood poised for a moment, her hand on the door latch.

  Then she left Rath with an answer to ponder until the dreamweed tea finally overpowered him. “I cannot tell you. For I do not know myself.”

  Rath cursed himself for a vulnerable fool when the pounding on Langbard’s cottage door shook him out of a heavy sleep.

  A man like him could not afford to sleep soundly. An outlaw must be ready and able to spring into a fighting stance at the faintest sound of trouble. Anything less put him at grave risk.

  Over the years, he had perfected the skill of keeping some of his senses alert even while he slumbered. Last night, when he’d had every reason to be extra vigilant, he had succumbed to the perilous luxury of a deep, defenseless sleep.

  One that might have cost him his life or his freedom.

  When the racket from the door roused him, Rath feared he might have to pay that high a price for his reckless negligence. He scrambled from the bed to find himself without a scrap of clothes apart from his loin linen. Neither did he have a single weapon apart from his hands, feet and teeth. The room provided no place to hide and a poor avenue for escape, since the only window overlooked the cottage door. If Hanish soldiers had come in search of him, he would be at their mercy.

  At least he could stand up without a great wave of dizziness knocking him back down again. His legs still felt a little weak and his wounded arm still hurt, but he had endured worse.

  Not wanting to betray his presence to those below, he took care to keep his steps light and stealthy as he moved toward the one spot in the room that afforded him a slight advantage—behind the door.

  Once in place, he stood poised and waiting. The minutes crawled by, stretching longer and longer. Rath’s patience and uncertainty stretched with them to a tense, quivering pitch. After the first burst of noise, it had grown quiet downstairs. Too quiet. Rath was certain it boded no good.

  He could hear the murmur of voices but no words. What was happening down there? Were Maura and Langbard being questioned? They had done a great deal for him at risk to themselves, but he had no illusions. If the cottage was surrounded and a quick search certain to expose him, they would have to betray him in hope of being spared themselves. They did not need his services as a guide and bodyguard that urgently.

  At last the voices died away. Rath thought he heard the cottage door open and shut, but that might only be a ruse to lure him down. If so, he was not about to take the bait. Let them walk into his ambush, instead, pitiful as it was.

  So he skulked behind the door with his skin prickling in gooseflesh and his belly growling to be fed, his ears alert for the most furtive sound of movement that might signal they were coming for him.

  At last he heard it—the tread deliberately muted in a bid to take him unawares. Slowly and softly, the door swung open. Rath tensed to spring.

  The loud knocking on the cottage door set Maura’s heart pounding against her ribs.

  Pulling a shawl around her, she flew to answer the insistent summons. She hoped Rath Talward would be stirred from his sleep by the noise, and that he would have the wit to hide while she stalled a search.

  As she unbolted the door and pulled it open a crack, she called, “Is so much racket necessary at this hour of the—”

  Before she could finish, whoever was on the other side of the door pushed it fully open and swooped down on her. The instant before she recognized her friend Sorsha, Maura instinctively raised her arms to fend off an attack.

  “Thank the Giver you are all right!” Sorsha wrapped her in a forceful embrace. “I was so worried last night, after hearing what went on in Betchwood, yesterday.”

  Her poor friend looked so distraught, Maura felt compelled to
reassure her... even if it meant palming off a half-truth. “Langbard and I are both fine, I promise you.”

  Now that the shock of Sorsha’s arrival was beginning to wear off, Maura’s back reminded her how she had abused it, yesterday. She hoped her friend would not notice the reek of liniment or try to guess why she might need it.

  She summoned a smile that she hoped was bright enough to ease Sorsha’s concern, but not so bright as to arouse fresh suspicions. “We did not stay long. Did something happen in Betchwood after we left?”

  She beckoned her friend inside and shut the door behind her. Sorsha would know something was amiss if she came over to Langbard’s cottage at this hour and Maura did not invite her in for a cup of icemint tea.

  “Did you not hear the commotion and those filthy hounds baying for blood, last eve?” Sorsha shuddered as she took her usual seat at the small kitchen table.

  Maura shrugged. “You know how Langbard is. We try not to pay trouble any heed and hope it will return the favor.”

  Checking that there was still water in the kettle, she lit the fire under it.

  “That sounds all very well,” said Sorsha, “but often enough trouble comes hunting for you. Those cursed hounds took three of our lambs before Newlyn fought them off.”

  Guilt stabbed Maura deep in the belly. She fumbled the tea crock and almost dropped it. “Is Newlyn all right?”

  She’d been so relieved, yesterday, when the hounds had passed her and Rath by to follow her old scent. She’d forgotten it would lead them toward Hoghill Farm.

  “Only a wee burn or two on his hands.” Sorsha sounded vastly relieved. “That was getting off light, I told him.”

  “Burns?”

  Sorsha gave a grim chuckle. “Newlyn fought them off with lit brands. Gave them a little taste of pitch and fire. Enough to send them yelping away, the demons!”

  Maura’s admiration for Newlyn Swinley rose to new heights. If anything worse had happened to him or to his family, she would never have forgiven herself.

  “Before you go I will give you some merthorn salve to ease his burns.” She spooned a measure of tea into the pot, then settled down at the table with Sorsha to wait for the water to boil. “And the queensbalm for Prin Howen’s boy.”

  While her friend recounted more details of the attack and heaped curses on the heads of the Hanish garrison, Maura kept one ear alert for sounds of movement from the room overhead. She recanted her earlier hope that the knocking had roused Rath Talward. Now, she wished with all her heart he would sleep soundly until after Sorsha left.

  “Newlyn said it did him good to give those vicious beasts a taste of their own poison, at last.” Sorsha’s mild eyes flashed with righteous wrath. “After some of the dreadful goings-on he witnessed in the mines, poor fellow.”

  A high-pitched whistle from the boiling kettle made Maura start. For five years Sorsha’s husband had made a quiet but vital place for himself around Hoghill. It was easy to forget that he’d come here a desperate, broken fugitive from the mines.

  Fragrant steam rose from the teapot as Maura poured boiling water over the dried icemint leaves. She inhaled a deep draft of the calming aroma, trying in vain to regain her shattered illusion of security. “I hope none of the soldiers will come around asking questions.”

  “So do I.” Sorsha gnawed at her lower lip. “They might wonder about that black vest and breeches hanging on your clothesline. Not the sort of thing I’ve ever seen Langbard wear.”

  At Sorsha’s probing remark, the teapot bucked in Maura’s hand. A steaming wave sloshed over the brim of Sorsha’s cup.

  “Your pardon!” Maura gasped. “I am all sausage-fingers this morning.”

  She set the teapot on the table then grabbed a cloth to wipe up the spill. All the while, her thoughts churned and spun.

  “Those clothes!” She forced a chuckle. “They belong to... Langbard’s nephew. He is visiting from... Tarsh. That is why we did not stay long in Betchwood yesterday. We met him on his way here.”

  “A lucky meeting.” Sorsha’s eyes narrowed as she lifted her cup and took a cautious sip. “Not often travelers from Tarsh come overland.”

  “H-he gets seasick.” Maura forced her hand to stay steady as she poured her own tea. This lying business was tricky. She would have to practice the unsavory skill, though. She might need it in the days ahead.

  “I never heard of Langbard having any family but you. Besides, is he not from Westborne?”

  “What? Oh... yes, of course.” To buy herself time to think, Maura took a long drink of tea and nearly scalded her mouth. “But his sister... his half-sister... much younger half-sister... lives in Tarsh with her family. Her son decided to study the Elderways... so he came looking for Langbard.”

  “Well, I’m sure Langbard will be happy.” Sorsha nodded over the information as if she believed every word without question. “The Han have made the Elderways so unpopular, I hear there’s hardly a body over the mountains can speak twara or minds about the Giver. I shall look forward to meeting... What is his name?”

  “Ra-Ralf.” Maura congratulated herself on coming up with a name that sounded quite commonplace, yet close enough to the truth. “Langbard is very pleased to have him here.”

  “But you are not?” Sorsha aimed a shrewd look at her friend. “The bother of another man to look after, I suppose. Do not let the two of them put upon you, whatever you do. What is he like, this Ralf fellow? A strapping lad, if the size of his clothes are anything to judge by.”

  “He is big.” Her poor back had reason to know it!

  “And?” Sorsha prompted her. “Dark? Fair? Good looking? Ill-favored? Obliging?”

  Maura was not certain she liked the peculiar interest in her friend’s face and voice. This sounded like more than mild, neighborly curiosity about a visiting relative. “Not dark. And not ill-favored if he made an effort to tidy himself up. His manners are... a little rustic.”

  “From Tarsh?” Sorsha laughed. “I should think so! Rustic or not, I expect Newlyn would like to meet him. Come over for supper on market day. Tell Langbard I will make his favorite pork and dumplings.”

  Would they still be here come next market day? The dismaying question caught Maura by the throat.

  “I will ask Langbard and let you know what he says.” She was not certain which would be harder to bear—a farewell meal with her friends, or slipping away without any special leave-taking.

  Sorsha drained the last of her tea. “Now that I know you are safe, I must get home before Newlyn starts to fret that something has happened to me.”

  Maura fetched a little crock of salve for Newlyn’s burns and another of queensbalm ointment for Noll Howen. Before she went back into the house after waving Sorsha goodbye, she lifted Rath’s clothes from the line. They were not altogether dry, but she decided to take them in just the same.

  Hanish soldiers had never yet visited Langbard’s cottage, but the previous day’s experience had taught Maura she could not count on life to continue its safe, familiar pattern.

  Musing about the drastic changes she would soon face, Maura wandered back into the cottage and up the stairs. She decided to hang Rath’s clothes from the mantel in the spare room. That way, they would be dry and waiting for him when he felt like getting up.

  Hoping he would still be heavily asleep, she decided not to knock. With luck, she might be able to slip in and out without disturbing him. Or perhaps she was more worried about letting him disturb her. He had proven himself far too skillful at it.

  Her arms full of clothing, she nudged the door open with her shoulder, then tiptoed in. A passing glance at the bed made her freeze in place.

  Rath Talward was gone.

  As she opened her mouth to call for Langbard, a powerful arm snaked around her, pinning her own arms to her sides and pulling her back against Rath Talward’s broad chest. His left hand clamped over her mouth as he demanded in a soft growl, “What have you done with my weapons, witch?”

  Chapt
er Five

  BY THE TIME Rath recognized Maura Woodbury, it was too late to stop.

  Besides, the Han might be using her as a decoy. If nothing else, it was she who had rendered him so vulnerable by giving him that sleeping potion and taking away his gear.

  In a swift, fluid motion, he wrapped his right arm around her, just below her bosom, pinning her arms to her sides and pulling her back against him. To his injured arm, he left the simple task of clapping a hand over her mouth.

  The lass fell into his ambush as easily as ripe fruit from a tree. Before Rath could congratulate himself, his body succumbed to an ambush of desire mounted by the slender, womanly curves wriggling against him.

  Men who plied his trade did not get enough chances for feminine company unless they took it at the point of a blade. Rath had always been reluctant to pursue that course. Foolishly reluctant, he’d sometimes chided himself. Until now, he’d never let his unappeased appetite put him at a disadvantage.

  The moment he seized her, Maura dropped his clothes on the floor. She made some muffled noises, her mouth moving against the palm of his hand as she continued to writhe in his grasp, pummeling his shins with her feet. Suddenly her resistance slackened. Against every rule of combat he’d ever learned, Rath let his hold slacken, too.

  Swift as the strike of a coiled rock snake, her left arm flexed at the elbow, sending her fist pounding against his wound. The burst of pain made him lose his grip on her mouth. She parted her lips wide enough to bite down hard on the base of his middle finger.

  Rath jerked his palm away from those sharp little teeth before they could inflict any more damage.

  Expecting her to yell for the Han or perhaps scream for Langbard’s help, he was surprised to hear her hiss, “Why ask me a question then stifle me so I cannot answer? Now, let me go or I shall make you very sorry!”

  She had turned him invisible, carried him five miles on her back and bound him so he could scarcely move a muscle. Rath had enough disadvantages at the moment—he did not need to add a bothersome hex to the rest.