Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  “I need some information first.” Ian strolled inside and was immediately assaulted by the rich, unmistakable aroma of Gertrude’s cooking wafting up from the lower level kitchen. He inhaled deeply, and a slow smile spread across his face. Spiced pheasant soup, venison marinated in a hearty Gyunwarian red wine, and of course, fruit pastries. Though they lived along the coast now, Gertrude rarely prepared meals drawn from the sea. She preferred Gyunwarian fare and no one thought it wise to suggest anything else.

  “Of course,” Wynston moved steadily across the marbled entryway and headed toward the main stairs. “Tyran is in the conservatory with Miss Littleton practicing his music lessons and Lady Cecily is still at the castle, I assume.”

  Ian stopped abruptly in the middle of the foyer. The light mood he’d found inside Vincent’s coach shattered beneath the weight of his failing marriage. “Cecily has not returned home yet?”

  “No, and no word has been sent either as to when she will grace us with her presence again.” His right eyebrow arched slightly. “A pity.”

  With a sigh and a slight shake of his head, Ian followed Wynston up the stairs. Cecily should have returned by now.

  “By the way, did Lady Cecily purchase a warehouse down on the docks without my knowledge?”

  “Lady Cecily purchases clothing, jewelry or shoes, not buildings, real estate, or anything truly useful.”

  “Then, do I own a three-story warehouse on the north end of the docks near pier seven?”

  “No.”

  Ian entered his airy bedroom and stood in front of the western-facing bank of windows. The snow-capped mountains of the Uldran stretched along the horizon, and beyond, he imagined the harsh, forested lands of northern Gyunwar. Ryerton lay in the heart of southern Gyunwar, and there were times, like now, when he found himself longing for the simplicity of his homeland. “Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure?” Wynston snapped. “I have been handing your books for nearly fifteen years, Ian. I think I know what you do and do not own.”

  Ian turned away from the window at Wynston’s sudden outburst. He had never heard the old man speak to him like this.

  “My deepest apologies,” Wynston bowed. “My concern for your well-being greatly disturbed my sleep last night . . . and I know I am over stepping my bounds, but your return has done little to reduce my concern. Your clothes are ruined, and it is obvious something is troubling you.” The old man stepped closer. “You once trusted me with your darkest secrets.”

  Ian placed a comforting hand on Wynston’s shoulder. “You are no longer my body guard. The days of being ‘the Hawk’ have passed.”

  “An old man can still care about the boy he guarded from the time that boy could walk?”

  “Of course, he can.” Ian moved to sit on his bed. “As long as the old man knows the little boy has grown up.”

  “I think that’s still open for debate.”

  The two men exchanged looks.

  “Tell me,” Ian decided to change the subject. “Did you have a runner deliver my letter to the king this morning?”

  “Of course. I have also submitted the paperwork needed to reclaim your paid tariff.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Wynston snorted, but a polite knock sounded at the door interrupting the rest of what Ian could only guess was going to be a lengthy response.

  “I have a message for Lord Weatherall,” a young woman’s voice sounded out in the hall. “From the castle.”

  Wynston opened the door and snatched the scroll out of the woman’s hands.

  “Shall I wait for a reply?”

  “No!” Wynston waved her away with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Go help Gertrude in the kitchen.”

  Ian heard the maid gasp and he imagined her turning a paler shade of white. “You admonish her so cruelly for asking a simple question?”

  “She has been neglecting her duties. A few days with Gertrude should straighten her out.” He handed Ian the scroll. “Or she’ll quit. Either will suit me fine.”

  “You are a harsh taskmaster,” Ian said. “Remind me not to cross you.”

  “Would it do any good, sir?”

  Ian chose to let Wynston have that one and turned his attention to the scroll’s seal. It was the king’s, not Cecily’s. He slid his finger along the seam and broke the wax.

  “Lord Ian Weatherall.” He immediately recognized the king’s spidery handwriting. “My boy, your letter distresses me. I hope all is well. Come around after dinner tonight and we can discuss your news privately in my sitting room. As for the wisdom and guidance of an old man, I shall do my best to be of some assistance. Bring Cecily and dear Tyran with you when you come. Martha has been pestering me as of late to see her granddaughter and great-grandson again.”

  King Henrik Rutherford had signed the bottom with a dramatic flourish and a couple of drops of spilt ink.

  A cold shiver climbed the ladder of Ian’s spine. He stared at the words until they swam in front of his eyes. Bring Cecily and dear Tyran with you when you come. Bring Cecily . . . Bring Cecily . . .

  Ian’s stomach churned. He struggled to catch his breath. Cecily had not gone to the castle!

  “Is there something wrong?”

  He recalled seeing Orrington’s coach leaving the estate last night. Had she gone to him?

  “M’lord, I said, is there something-?”

  “Fetch me a quill and some paper,” Ian said, ignoring the question. “I need to compose a letter.” He shot Wynston a hard stare. “Now!”

  Wynston bowed and slipped out of the room.

  Ian’s jaw clenched. Orrington had gone too far this time and Ian was in no mood to be polite with the man. He would insist that Orrington end the affair and send Cecily home and he would insist on it being done immediately!

  Chapter 40

  Lord Oliver Orrington stood in the center of his dressing room and stared lovingly across the room at the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon. His gaze, like that of a lover’s touch, lingered on the man’s chiseled physique, his powerful chest and arms. Long, luxurious, honey-blond hair, immaculately washed and braided and trimmed with a length of pure white silk, the finest in all Belyne, crowned the rugged and yet perfectly symmetrical face which stared back at him. Twin sparkling orbs, an unusual shade, not exactly celestial azure, nor lagoon green, but rather the beautiful light tincture of a misty emerald sea and almond shaped with the outer corners slightly raised, gave him an exotic appearance. High cheekbones and a slender nose produced an air of femininity around the center of his face, but his firm jaw line and broad forehead spoke volumes to his masculinity.

  Lord Oliver smiled, his full lips pulling back and up, revealing two even rows of glimmering white teeth. Never had he seen such a perfect example of a Yordician man, with perhaps the sole exception being Lord Devin Ragget, however, even Lord Ragget would have to admit he was a very distant second.

  “M’lord, pardon the intrusion,” a gruff voice called from outside the dressing room.

  Lord Oliver sighed. Giving himself one last loving glance in the gilded floor-to-ceiling mirror across the way, he turned toward the obnoxious noise known as his butler.

  “Yes, what is it?” Lord Oliver asked. His melodious voice was deep and rich like a finely-tuned cello, yet he had played it with a sharp note to let his butler know he did not appreciate the interruption.

  “The missing carriage has been returned.”

  Lord Oliver cringed at the number of sour-sounding words the butler had used. Though he found consolation in the message, the disappearance of his favorite carriage, tailored to exacting specifications and magically spelled to ward off the stench of both the driver and the team of horses, continued to be a bothersome event even with its return.

  “Was the thief apprehended?” He hated having to ask such mundane questions because the language was beneath him, and frankly, his ears tired of listening to the butler’s rambling and altogether unpleasant speaking voice.


  “No, M’lord. I spoke with the stable boy just now. Last night it was still gone, but now it’s back.”

  “Insightful, butler. That explains everything now, doesn’t it?” Lord Oliver flavored his words with syrupy sarcasm.

  “Does it?”

  Apparently, Lord Oliver noted, the sarcasm hadn’t stuck. He stifled a yawn, already bored with the butler’s stupidity. Glancing back at his glorious reflection, he wondered how he had managed to remain so handsome when surrounded by such filth and vulgarity. It was a daily chore, to be sure. “Clean the carriage and speak about it to me no more. I do not wish to dwell upon this matter further.”

  Unfortunately, despite his wishes to the contrary, his thoughts lingered on the unusual circumstances surrounding the theft. Two nights ago, the carriage had been stolen, and now, it was back. While the ‘return’ was indeed strange, the fact that horses were not also taken gave him something more to puzzle over. The thief had to have brought in his own team of horses to pull off such a heist and yet, none of his guards had seen an intruder, his horses, or the carriage in question. On either night! This was beyond bizarre!

  Lord Oliver resisted the urge to frown. The lines such an expression would make would only mar his handsome face, and honestly, the mystery of the missing carriage was not worth the wrinkles. Still, he shuddered to think of who or what may have sat inside his carriage and he almost called the butler back and ordered the whole coach burned . . . but then he would be stranded inside his estate until a new carriage could be delivered. He sighed, a sweet, bird-like coo, and decided once and for all he would simply push the incident out of his mind and forget it ever happened.

  Besides, without a carriage, he would be unable to call upon Lady Cecily Rutherford.

  Lord Oliver refused to use her married name, even in his thoughts, because her foreign surname was ill-sounding and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. An odious name for an odious man. Lord Oliver shuddered again as a brief image of the loutish, pale-skinned-

  “Egad!” Lord Oliver shook his head to clear his thoughts. “That was most unpleasant!” He lifted his left wrist to his delicate nose and inhaled the sweet, intoxicating scent of the perfumed silk handkerchief he kept tucked inside his brocade cuff. The disturbing vision of Lady Cecily’s wormy husband melted away as the teasing fragrance of the imported ‘Hint of Love’ perfume permeated his mind and carried him on gossamer wings to a more blissful state of being. Within moments, he found himself transported to an endless rose garden, a reflection in his mind of the garden his mother used to keep when he was just a child.

  Lord Oliver allowed the gentle memory to wash over him until his nerves had settled and he found himself ready, though reluctant, to face the outer world. With another great musical sigh, he opened the gilded door and stepped into his palatial bedroom. Veiled maids dropped to their knees and covered their heads with gloved hands as he walked past. He ignored them all. His attention was elsewhere, drawn to the image of himself in the large, gem-encrusted hand mirror he carried everywhere. An angelic smile touched the corners of his lips as he watched himself glide through his sterile, white bedroom. He admired the stately way in which he carried himself, shoulders back, neck straight, chin raised slightly. He was the absolute model of a perfect Yordician lord and he would have made a spectacular king.

  And if not for the loathsome, repugnant, unnatural union created by the beautiful, yet unfortunate Lady Cecily and the foul creature from over the western mountains, he, Lord Oliver Orrington would have been next in line to inherit the throne.

  His wealthy family very nearly became the ruling force of Yordic almost three hundred years ago, but a series of unfortunate events led to the Rutherford’s rise in power instead. Ever since, the Orringtons had waited. When Lady Cecily was born and no other children, specifically male children, followed, the Orringtons held their collective breaths. Attempts at securing a union between him and Lady Cecily were unproductive and for a time it looked as if Lord Devin Ragget would become her betrothed until . . . until . . .

  Lord Oliver sniffed his left cuff again.

  And then the mongrel child was born, and . . . another sniff . . . all hopes for him becoming king were dashed!

  Lord Oliver reached the open doorway of his bedroom and paused, dizzy and disgusted by the unpleasant thoughts which continued to plague his mind. A hybrid child, a half-breed, a dark-haired, pale-skinned, hazel-brown-eyed spawn of a western creature would someday rule this country! And yet he, the absolute perfect Yordician male specimen was cast aside without consideration. The notion was preposterous and many of his supporters agreed.

  Only a true, pure-blooded Yordician should sit upon the throne.

  His righteous indignation upset his delicate digestion and he quickly lifted his mirror again to calm his troubled nerves. The reflection of his beauty soothed him, and the churning subsided. The rosy color returned to his well-favored face.

  But a bead of sweat had formed on his smooth brow.

  His misty emerald sea colored eyes narrowed, and his gorgeous mouth pinched tight as the trickle of sweat departed his blond hairline and rolled ever so slowly down toward his groomed eyebrow leaving in its wake a noticeable wet line in his otherwise perfectly powered brow.

  “Help!” His voice sounded like a high staccato note.

  His army of dressers and attendees descended upon him from all directions, veiled and immaculately dressed themselves. One of them inched forward and dabbed at his brow, while another gently reapplied a thin layer of powder. Drawing back, the group waited with bated breath. Lord Oliver opened his eyes and studied himself critically in the mirror. The blemish in the powder was gone!

  A faint smile began to curl the corners of his lips.

  And then he spied a few specks of powder on the shoulder of his white brocade coat.

  “Clumsy imbeciles!” Lord Oliver wailed. His voice lost most of its musical quality and became harsh, like the noise created by a small child beating haphazardly upon the wooden keys of a harpsichord. He gestured toward his shoulder. “Now I must change my entire outfit!”

  He turned and stomped back into his dressing room, trailing in his wake the quivering mass of attendees and dressers. They followed like a pack of humiliated dogs with their collective tails tucked firmly between their legs.

  “I looked absolutely radiant in this ensemble!” Lord Oliver howled at the groveling, sniveling mass of humans encircling him. “And now I must change because it is ruined.”

  “M’lord,” a nameless voice called out, “I can clean the coat. You need not change your entire outfit.”

  Lord Oliver grimaced at the discordant tone. “Silence, all of you.”

  The room quieted. Lord Oliver sniffed his left cuff and waited for the rapid beating of his racing heart to slow. If he were not pressed for time, he would never have considered such an absurd proposal, but Lady Cecily had agreed to meet with him at the Lady of the Light Temple for a midday luncheon and he was not going to miss the opportunity to visit with her again. Their last discussion had been rudely interrupted by her foul, beastly husband just as she was about to reveal-

  “M’lord, may I clean your coat?”

  Lord Oliver sniffed his cuff. “You may. But do not take all day with it. I am going out.”

  “Yes, M’lord.”

  A veiled dresser approached and carefully removed his coat. “I will return shortly.”

  “Yes, and silently too, or you need not return at all.” Lord Oliver stared at the talkative man. “Ever again!” Was he new? Had he not learned to remain quiet and to speak only when spoken to? He sighed. It was so hard to find good, quiet, competent dressers. He took a few steps closer to the gilded mirror and studied his reflection again. The sloppy touch-up on his powder had given him a moment to reflect. If his attendees worked carelessly on such a simple task, what else might they neglect? The other day while attending the Spring Joust, he had noticed an errant crease in one of his sleeves. And only la
st month, at the castle of all places, he had spied a scuff on one of his new boots. The unskilled dressers responsible for his shoddy appearances on those days had been verbally castigated and fired immediately.

  “M’lord?”

  Lord Oliver groaned at the unpleasant interruption. It was his butler, again.

  “Must you consistently intrude upon my inner sanctum?” Lord Oliver pried his eyes away from his reflection and glared at the thoroughly graceless man standing in the doorway.

  “A message just arrived for you,” the butler stammered.

  Lord Oliver cringed at the halting pattern of sound dribbling from the man’s ill-shaped mouth. He glanced at the scroll and inadvertently frowned. He dared not touch the parchment if it were sent from an unclean source, but if he asked the sender’s information he would have to endure more noise from his butler. He gave an exasperated sigh. “From whom?”

  “I cannot say, M’lord.”

  Lord Oliver winced. Was his butler purposely trying to draw him into this unwanted, unwarranted conversation?

  “Pray, tell me, in as few words as possible, why not.”

  The butler’s mismatched face screwed up into a tight fist. “It is from him, who is married to Lady Cecily.”

  Lord Oliver recoiled as if slapped. “And you brought it into my inner sanctum!” His voice was becoming dangerously shrill. Even the mass of human flesh hovering nearby stopped what they were doing to stare silently at the butler.

  The blood drained from the butler’s hideous face. “I . . . I . . .”

  “SILENCE!” Lord Oliver roared. All music was gone now. He whirled and eyed one of his quivering dressers. “SUMMON THE VOICE!”

  The man scrambled out of the room without saying a word.

  “And you!” Lord Oliver pointed a sharp finger at the butler. “Stand out in the hall!”

  The butler fell over his own feet as he backed awkwardly out of the dressing room. Lord Oliver charged past him, careful not to touch the scroll, and crossed to a tall window overlooking the castle. For a moment, he stared at the extraordinary fortress which should have been his and struggled to control his simmering temper.