The Marriage Medallion

by Christine Rimmer

  Could the goal ever be realized now? More and more, Eric doubted.

  He looked at the dark figure beside him. "Did I ask?"

  "You were coming to it."

  Denials would be useless. They knew each other too well. "Yes. I grow impatient. Can you blame me?"

  "Blame you?" Valbrand's voice was gentle, heavy with regret. "Never."

  "Then when will you show yourself to her?"

  "I cannot say."

  The same answer. Always. For too long now, Eric had dared to hope that his friend would eventually recover from the damage inflicted on him.

  But like sand in an hourglass, hope was running out.

  It was six months since he had at last found Valbrand, a haunted shell of the man he had been, living in a cave on a tiny island off the coast of Iceland, whispered about by the local fisherman—rough and independent men who knew the old Norse ways.

  At first Valbrand would not even emerge from the shadows of the cave to speak with him. Slowly, over long weeks, as one might build trust in an injured wild animal, with gifts of food and blankets to lure the wild man ever nearer, Eric had broken through enough that Valbrand allowed him close.

  Weeks more were spent in rebuilding the old trust, in convincing Valbrand to come home. The price? Eric's vow to stay near him and keep the secret that he lived. Until Valbrand declared himself ready, only a chosen few—Mystics all—would know that he survived.

  Eric had made the trip south to Isenhalla after leaving his friend—only briefly, Valbrand made him swear—safe with Asta. There, at the silver slate palace of Gullandrian kings, Eric had lied—to his father and to his king. He said his time of seeking was over; he'd at last come to accept the fact that Valbrand was no more. The lie had chafed him from the first, but never so much as now when that lie stood, unbreachable as a mile-high fortress wall, between him and the woman destined to be his.

  Valbrand spoke then. "I have been again to the crash site." They had agreed the night before that Valbrand would go.

  "And?"

  "Men still guard it—six of them, NIB." During Brit's illness, they had returned to the crash site together. They'd spotted the guards, who had come through the fjord by boat. "The boat remains moored three kilometers west of the site. While I watched, they had two with the boat and four on the site. Then the two on the boat went out to relieve two of the men near the plane."

  "You're certain now—that they're NIB?"

  Valbrand nodded. "I slipped aboard the boat during the brief time it waited empty and stole a quick look around."

  "The king's men, then?"

  "At least in appearance."

  "You don't trust them."

  "I trust no one but you. You know that. And I wonder. Surely my father must have sent a mechanic to examine the wreckage. That would be routine procedure. What did that mechanic report?"

  The question was purely rhetorical. They could not know what the king might have learned without asking him. And Eric couldn't ask His Majesty such a question, as King Osrik would only become suspicious of his claim that he was certain the crash had been an accident.

  Any suspicions on King Osrik's part were dangerous until Valbrand declared himself ready to set aside the mask.

  Valbrand said, "What of your plans for the morrow?"

  "We go on, to the plane."

  The eyes behind the mask narrowed. "Are you mad? She can't be allowed there."

  "Your sister cares not what she is allowed. She won't be stopped."

  "I thought your plan was to—"

  "She has a compass and knows how to use it. She has an accurate map drawn by my father. If I lead her on a fool's chase, she'll only find the way herself in the end."

  "Then you must make her understand that the danger is too great. She must go back."

  With considerable effort, Eric schooled his voice to a patient tone. "You are the one who refuses to understand. Her way is set. She won't return to the safety of the village until she's examined for herself the wreckage of her plane."

  Valbrand shook his head. "There's nothing to be gained by that. Even if the men who guard it turn out to be friendly and go so far as to allow her access, she will find nothing of use."

  "Why are we discussing this?" Eric found it ever more challenging to keep the irritation from his voice. "You seek to convince me of what I already know. Perhaps you would like to try persuading her?"

  A low sound came from behind the mask. "Sarcasm, my friend?"

  "Born of frustration. She must be told that you live. Our fathers must know, as well. We tread water while all our hopes drown."

  Valbrand chopped the air with a black-gloved hand. "I cannot. Not yet."

  "You can. You choose not to." Eric leaned closer to the man beside him and spoke lower, with greater intensity. "Don't imagine I think it will be an easy thing. I know that for you to stand bare-faced before your father the king and the eyes of the court will be, in its way, a greater feat than surviving the horror that has already been done to you. I have been patient. I have waited on your readiness, by your side as I promised. But there is so much to do. Traitors to expose. Wrongs to make right. None of that will be accomplished while you hide behind a mask."

  Valbrand's gaze had shifted away again. "This mask has served me—and our people—well. I have saved lives wearing it."

  There was truth in those words. At first, when Valbrand had laid claim to Starkavin, the rare black horse he'd taken from renegades, when he'd asked that Asta create for him a black leather mask and clothing to match it, Eric had been heartened. It had seemed a first step: Valbrand, incensed by raiding renegades and ready for action at last. In the guise of a legendary hero, he would ambush the troublemakers and protect the innocent from harm. Surely, in time he'd be ready to put the mask aside, to reunite with his father, to find and vanquish his enemies—and to claim his rightful place as the most likely successor to the Gullandrian throne.

  But the sand trickled downward in the hourglass of time. And Valbrand showed no inclination to give up the mask and emerge from the wilderness. Eric said, "I have kept my vow to you, to remain at your side. I have lied for you. But I refuse to help you tell lies to yourself. The greatest evil awaits you in the south. You must root it out and face it without the Dark Raider's mask."

  "When I am ready." Valbrand's tone brooked no further argument.

  Eric felt a weariness, a heavy dragging on his soul. "Then I fear that right now there is nothing more to say." He turned for the tunnel.

  Valbrand spoke to his back. "I'll stay close tomorrow, in the event of trouble."

  "I know it." Eric paused, but he didn't turn.

  "You may yet convince her to give up this foolishness."

  "It won't happen."

  Surely Valbrand had to realize that he was the only one who could make Brit go back—by revealing himself to her.

  In his mind's eye, Eric saw her—tall, strong, proud … and so very determined.

  Then again perhaps it was too late to stop her. Even should Valbrand put aside the mask and show himself to her, she'd still have to try to discover who had sabotaged her plane.

  And he'd left her alone for too long. She could wake. If she did, who could say what kind of mischief she'd get up to?

  Eric moved into the shadows, never once turning to glance back at his friend. He'd said more than perhaps he should have.

  And he knew that Valbrand was already gone.

  * * *

  In her dream Brit rode a fleet black horse. She urged the horse onward, cold wind on her face, her blood pumping in time to the hollow beat of hooves drumming the frozen ground. She saw the sheer cliff before them, the limitless sky beyond. She didn't even try to draw a halt, only urged her dark mount onward, faster and faster toward the yawning chasm ahead.

  The horse leaped, hooves churning empty air.

  She woke as they fell, twisting, into nothingness.

  She lay, covers a tangled mess as usual, on her back. For a dazed mom
ent or two she stared blankly at the cave ceiling above her—arching, uneven, lit by the fickle light of dancing flame shadows.

  She turned her head, first to the fire, then to where Eric should have been sleeping.

  He wasn't there.

  She shot to a sitting position—and saw movement—someone emerging through the tunnel by the underground pool. She was reaching for her pistol when she realized it was only Eric.

  She left the pistol on the rock and demanded, "Okay, what's up?"

  "Nature calls. I but answer."

  She stifled a groan. Leave it to Eric to make a poem of letting her know he'd just stepped out to take a whiz. He approached. She watched him coming, feeling a little curl of warmth down inside. He moved with such sure, easy grace. Dropping his jacket on a rock, he crouched beside her, the action boneless. Fluid.

  Her silly heart beat faster. "Looks dark back there. You should have taken a light."

  "I know these hills blindfolded—and the tunnels within them."

  "How convenient."

  "You've made chaos of your bedroll."

  "As usual—I was having this incredible dream. I rode a black horse. Over the side of a cliff."

  "Were you frightened?"

  "Only at the very end. As I fell."

  "There are those who believe lessons seek us out in dreams."

  "Maybe so. But what a way to go."

  "You amaze me."

  "Hmm. Amazement. That's good. Right?"

  He lifted his hand. It didn't even occur to her to flinch away. The back of his finger traced the line of her jaw, making her flesh warm and tingly, causing those delightful little flares of sensation that faded slowly after his finger had moved on.

  She stared into his eyes as his hand moved higher—a light caress against her cheek and then he was smoothing her tangled hair out of her eyes. It took conscious effort not to catch that hand and press her lips to it.

  "So brave," he whispered. "And so foolish." She did flinch away at that. He dropped his hand to his side.

  "I gotta wonder," she muttered. "Why is it when a man does what he has to do, that's okay? But when a woman does the same, she's a fool?"

  "I didn't call you a fool."

  "Close enough."

  He frowned. "Is this an argument beginning?" She lifted her good shoulder in a half-shrug. "Could be."

  "Must we continue?"

  A moment before, she'd felt all quivery and tender. Now she only felt tired. "You're right. Let's get some sleep."

  He rose, went to his own bedroll, dropped down and untied the lace of his left boot. He slanted her a glance as he pulled the boot off. "Will you sit there glaring at me all night, then?"

  "Sorry," she mumbled. She pushed the tangle of blankets away from her legs, got up on her knees and set to work straightening out her bed.

  * * *

  They rose before dawn, stoked the fire, fed the horses and ate a cold breakfast of oatcakes, jerky and icy spring water. Together, by the light of the fire, they restacked the blankets and supplies and laid the makings of a fire within a fresh circle of stones. Once they'd prepared the cave for the next time it was needed, they braided the long manes of their horses and tacked up. Through all of it, Eric hardly said a word.

  They were ready to head out when, out of nowhere, he announced, "I must speak with you."

  Oh, goody. "I was starting to think you never would."

  He dropped his horse's reins and sat on a rock near the fire. She holstered her pistol, pulled on her jacket and took a rock next to him.

  "Okay," she said. "Spill it."

  He stared into the licking flames—clearly in preference to looking at her. "I had hopes you might be convinced to go back before we reached the site where your plane crashed."

  "Message received. Loud and clear. You've been telling me I have to go back practically the whole way."

  "I wasn't counting on my words alone to make you change your mind. There was also the sight of those men on the trail, the difficult terrain, the storm."

  She sighed. "So much for your hopes."

  He lifted his head and looked at her then. "I confess, I even had plans to lead you on something of a wild-goose chase."

  She gave him a look. "I do have a general idea of where we're supposed to be headed, you know. If you led me off in some totally wrong direction—"

  He put up a hand, palm out. "I know. I have finally come to accept that you won't be frightened, overwhelmed or argued from your goal." About time, she thought. He said, "So I have reevaluated."

  "Which means?"

  "There are things you must know."

  "Such as?"

  "I believe as you do. I think your plane was sabotaged."

  She gaped at him for about two seconds. What he'd just admitted was a vindication, of sorts. "Send up the bottle rockets. We're on the same page at last." She started to stand. "Can we go check it out now?"

  "No."

  She sank back to the hard rock. "Because…?"

  "There are guards on it. It isn't safe."

  She asked the pertinent question. "Guards sent by…?"

  He answered grudgingly. "Your father."

  "And that's a problem?"

  "They're NIB," he said—presumably by way of explanation.

  This wasn't adding up. "NIB? But … then they're on our side."

  He looked at her coolly. "As a whole, the Bureau is on 'our side', as you put it."

  "But there are traitors inside it? Is that what you're saying?"

  "I don't know that, not beyond a doubt."

  "Well, that's reassuring."

  "Think. What better way to work against the throne than to infiltrate a governmental organization? All that secret information, right there, at the traitor's fingertips. It's too perfect. We have to assume it has happened."

  She looked at him sideways. "This 'we' you mention … it includes my brother, doesn't it?"

  For the first time he didn't give her an outright denial. "I am not speaking, at the moment, of your brother."

  "No. But I am." She gave it up when he scowled at her. "All right. For now, let's leave my brother out of it." She leaned toward him. "Listen. Really, what's so suspicious here? The guards are NIB, sent at my father's command. They're looking for just what we're looking for—clues as to what made the plane go down."

  "They could be doing exactly that."

  She waited. He didn't explain himself. She gave up and prodded impatiently, "So? What's your point?"

  "The problem is that those men could be working under orders His Majesty never gave them. They could be counteragents—men who have infiltrated the NIB, men who work for your father on one level but on a deeper level are not on his side at all."

  She threw up both hands. "How do you know all this?"

  "I don't know it, not for certain. But all indications point in that direction."

  "What indications?"

  He only looked at her—an If-I-told-you-that-I'd-have-to-kill-you kind of look.

  "That does it." She jumped to her feet. "Let's go. I want to see these guys for myself."

  Eric glared up at her. "You are surely the most contrary woman in all this land. Why do you always have to see things for yourself?"

  "Indulge me, please. And don't look at me like that." Her request had zero effect. He told her nothing and he went on glaring. She gave up and dropped to the rock again. "I have to say, at this point I just don't know what to believe. For days you've been telling me you're certain my plane going down was an accident. Now you say you think maybe it wasn't—and that there are men guarding it—NIB, but also traitors. You won't tell me how you know this, you just lay it out and expect me to buy it. Why should I? The NIB has been a lot more helpful to me in finding out what I need to know than you've ever been."

  His eyes narrowed. "How?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "How has the NIB been helpful to you?"

  "What? That's so surprising? That someone would actually try to
help me to find out where my brother is?"

  "This someone … who is it?"

  Brit had had about enough. "You know what? I'm totally, utterly one-hundred percent not getting this."

  "I want you to tell me—"

  "Uh-uh. Wrong. Not." Now she was the one glaring. She glared and she waited. When he let several seconds elapse without giving any orders, she asked, too sweetly, "Are you listening?"

  He nodded.

  "Good. Because I have a few points to make and I'd like your undivided attention while make them."

  "You have it."

  She cleared her throat. "Last night you said I was amazing. Let me return the favor. You're amazing. And not in a good way. This is insane. For a while there I thought you and my brother and my father and your father were up to something together. Now I don't. Now my take is, you're out of the loop and my father hasn't got a clue. My father and Medwyn indulged what they consider my pointless quest to find my dead brother because it meant I would come here—and hook up with you, thus resulting in wedding bells and the uniting of our families.

  "And you and my brother? Well, for some reason that's completely beyond me, you two are just … hanging out up here in the hills. My brother is letting everybody think he's dead while he rides around masked on a black horse playing superhero to the Mystics. I have to say, hel-lo. I don't get it. It makes zero sense to me. If somebody tried to kill me—and I'm guessing they tried to kill Valbrand, too—then there's lots more that's rotten in Denmark than a few renegades. We ought to be working together to deal with the main problem, don't you think? My father and your father should know—not only that my brother's alive, but that there have been nearly successful assassination attempts on his life and on mine."

  She paused for a breath—and okay, maybe also because she was hoping he'd speak up and tell her something she didn't already know.

  But he kept that fine mouth firmly shut. She looked in his watchful eyes and knew he wasn't going to tell her squat. And for the first time since she woke from her illness and Asta confirmed that her guide had died, she felt hot tears pushing behind her eyes.

  Damned if she'd let them fall. "Oh, Eric. When are you going to get honest with me? When are you going to trust me? When will you tell me what you know so we can finally start working together on this?"