He sniffed the air. Though his senses were no longer heightened by Delila, he could still smell the undeniable aroma of cooked meat. Struggling to his feet, he moved away from the vault and into a maze of corridors. He reached some spiral stairs leading up, but the scent of food was coming from somewhere further on.
Though conventional wisdom called for him to finish his escape he could no longer deny his need for food. Without Delila, he found himself suddenly less capable of controlling his body and yet strangely more capable of controlling his thoughts. His was the only voice he heard in his head now.
Cautiously, he crept past the stairs toward what he could only assume was an underground kitchen. Only the wealthiest citizens of Belyne maintained a fully functioning kitchen inside their manors.
Was he still inside Lord Ragget’s estate?
A twinge of rage pulsed through him, not his usual boiling temper, but still a true emotion of anger at the mere thought of his former employer. The Yordician lord had stripped him of a very essential part of his core being, an element of his nature which he found difficult to consider living without and had reduced him to a magical being greatly lacking in any real talent or power.
Garett turned a corner and found a large kitchen beyond.
His base need for food spurred him on and he temporarily forgot his anger. He slipped forward cautiously, salivating from the rich aroma of seared meat and bubbling stew and—
He stepped into the kitchen and froze.
At the opposite end a roaring fire burned merrily in the stone hearth. The flames danced along the half-burnt logs, leapt into the air and caressed the bottom of a giant black caldron. Garett trembled. He wanted to reach out and touch the fire. To feel it play along his flesh. To lie naked with it.
“Delila,” he whispered tenderly.
Arms outstretched, he moved toward the frolicking fire.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?!” a voice barked.
Garett ignored the voice. He had eyes only for the fire. He took another step. His heart thundered in his chest. He could almost feel the heat from the flames reaching out to him. It was almost as if Delila was still with him, loving him-
“Oh Delila,” he called out once more.
And then a solid wood rolling pin connected with the side of his head and he collapsed in a heap.
Gertrude stood over the young Gyunwarian, her wrinkled face screwed up in puzzlement. Was this an intruder, or the new scullion sent down by Wynston to help clean her pots and pans? He wasn’t dressed like a scullion, but his hands were callused and though he was slight of build, he looked wiry strong.
“Hmmmph!” she groused, noticing the swelling lump on the side of the young man’s temple. “Next time the old man sends someone down here he ought to announce him first.”
Her sole remaining scullion appeared at the rear door, his hands full of freshly scrubbed pots and his hair dripping from the rain.
“Don’t just stand there making a mess on my floor!” Gertrude snapped. “Take this one to his room and be quick about it. You dawdle worse than a blind, three-legged dog trying to take a piss.”
The scullion put the pots on the table and stooped to pick up the limp body at her feet.
“The One have mercy, but he did make you slow!” Gertrude grumbled. She nudged his wide backside with her boot to get him out of her way, and then she turned to check on the bubbling stew. “Take a bowl along for him and you can have one too when you get back.” She glanced over her shoulder and found the scullion standing in the middle of her kitchen with his mouth agape. “Move along now,” she hollered and clapped her hands sharply. “And don’t take all night either. The almoner will be along shortly to collect the day’s trenchers.”
“Not in th’ rain, she won’t,” the scullion muttered.
“Yes, she will,” Gertrude rebutted, shaking her head at the lazy brute as he ambled out of the room with the young man slung over his shoulder. She’d have to remind him about the bowls of stew after he got back. The One have mercy, but he was a forgetful one!
Gertrude busied herself with the gathering of the trenchers and the leftover food from the day. She placed it all into a large basket, added a couple of freshly baked loafs and a meat pie, before covering it with a white cloth. She left the basket by the rear door for the scullion to carry out when the almoner arrived. “Even the poor must eat,” she muttered, staring up at the rain. “And may the One watch over them and keep them safe.” Her thoughts turned to Ian. She had heard about his run-in with Ragget earlier. It was a good thing for that snooty Yordician she hadn’t been there. She would have brained him upside his head with the rolling pin too for what he’d done. Her wrinkled mouth puckered up in thought and finally with a shrug she looked skyward. “And while I got your attention, maybe you could keep an eye on Ian too. Seems like he could use some looking after, if you know what I mean.”
That done, she ladled some stew into two bowls and left them on the table. If that no-good, slow-moving scullion brute didn’t hurry up, he’d eat it cold. And if he gave her any lip about it, she might just have to brain him too. Not that he had any to knock around in that empty head of his.
She snorted softly to herself and went back to stirring her bubbling stew.
Chapter 60
Despite the foul weather and the recent events, Ian tried to relax in the back of the coach. He failed. His injured shoulder ached, and his mood never rose above sour. His mind was too cluttered with thoughts, conflicting thoughts, and inevitably his thoughts turned to Cecily. Sitting in the dark, alone, in the rear of the coach, he knew why he had thought the woman at Ragget’s estate was Cecily.
The two of them had once been lovers.
If not for her recent infatuation with Lord Orrington, Ian would have suspected her of returning to Ragget. Often during their fights, she would walk away, muttering how she wished she had married Ragget instead.
And often, he wished she had married him too.
Ian rested his head against the cloth cushion and sighed. He could blame his father for interfering with his life, but Lord Eton Weatherall had only done what he thought was best for everyone. Ian looked down at his bruised hands. Well, perhaps not everyone.
During his first visit to Belyne, he had met Cecily briefly outside the castle. He was there, helping his father deliver a wagon filled with barrels of the finest Gyunwarian olive oil, and she had turned her nose up at him, obviously not impressed with the young, sweaty Gyunwarian lord.
“You will marry her one day,” his father said in their native tongue.
“Who? Her?” he replied in halting Yordician as she walked away without even a second glance. She had greeted another young man with a long, lingering passionate kiss. He would later discover the young man was Lord Devin Ragget. “The Princess wants nothing to do with me!”
His father shrugged. “Her grandfather is the king and a marriage between our two houses would forever unite our countries.”
“I want to marry for love.” His thoughts had drifted back to the young woman he had kissed goodbye when he had left Ryerton. Dear, sweet Lysette.
His father laughed merrily and slapped him roughly across the back. “Don’t we all, my son, don’t we all.” He leaned in close. “But some of us have to settle for a little less.” He nodded toward Cecily, as she and Ragget walked arm in arm toward a royal coach. “Tell me you wouldn’t mind settling for that, huh?” He shot him a conspiratorial wink and returned to work chuckling.
His gaze had returned to the Princess. Undoubtedly, she was attractive, with curves in all the right spots, but there was something about her, something . . . missing . . . something he couldn’t quite figure out. Now, after fifteen long years of marriage, Ian had learned what that something was.
The coach lumbered around a corner and Ian braced himself to keep from sliding into the wall and further injuring his shoulder.
Of course, his father had been right. The two countries had
continued their peaceful coexistence after their marriage; however, Ian couldn’t help but wonder if their nations’ relationship didn’t mirror theirs.
They usually put up a good front in public, but in private, they despised each other.
Ian sighed. It would all end tonight though. He was going to tell the king everything. About Ragget, Orrington, his unhappy marriage to Cecily . . . even the bizarre events involving Josephine. He would bare his soul to King Henrik and hope the document Ragget had shown him earlier was a forgery, because if it was indeed real, then perhaps the king was not the ally he had thought him once to be.
Regardless of the outcome, it would feel good to unburden himself of all this trouble.
The coach rolled onto the tree-line boulevard leading to the castle. The patter of rain against the roof intensified and a series of loud booms shook the carriage. The door shuddered violently in the wind and one of the curtains flapped open. Ian fumbled with the damp bit of cloth, finally securing it again, but not before he was soaked and shivering.
He couldn’t wait to sit in front of the king’s fiery hearth now.
Another carriage was leaving the castle as his pulled up outside. Ian waited until his stopped before he climbed out and tossed the driver a handful of coins. Then ducking his head, he hurried toward the main doors.
“I am here to see the king,” he announced as he drew near. Glancing up, he spied a trio of wardens staring down at him. The blood drained from his face. They were wearing finely tailored uniforms now, but Ian recognized them as the same three wardens who had been following him earlier.
“I am here to see the king,” he said again. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him over the storm. He started forward, but a heavy hand landed on the front of his leather vest and pushed him back.
“Unhand me sir! I am Lord Ian Weatherall!” He pushed his hood back to reveal his face.
“We know who you are, M’lord,” the largest guard said. “The king is not entertaining guests this evening.”
Ian glanced up at the rain-slicked, dark walls towering over them. “I was invited, by the king himself.”
“The king is not entertaining guests this evening,” the guard repeated.
Ian glanced at the other two guards. One crossed his tree-trunk sized arms over his chest, while the other simply stared straight ahead, coldly surveying the damp terrain outside the castle like a general preparing for war.
“If you would send someone to advise the king of my arrival,” Ian stubbornly tried again, “I am sure you will find-”
“The king is not entertaining guests this evening.”
“Yes! So you’ve told me! At least allow me entrance into the foyer so I might dry off.”
The three wardens looked at each other and the tall leader finally nodded. With an impatient sigh, Ian stepped beneath the massive stone doorframe and out of the pouring rain. He removed his cloak, gave it a shake, and hung it on a peg near the entryway to dry.
“Is my wife, Princess Cecily, here?” Ian asked. He knew she wasn’t, but for some reason, he needed to hear the truth.
“She was.” The large guard glanced out the still open door. “But you just missed her.”
Ian followed his gaze and saw the retreating carriage disappear into the darkness. “You mean to say, she was in there?” he asked, pointing.
The large guard nodded. “She spent all day with the queen and was just now leaving to return home.”
Ian ran a hand through his damp, black hair. That didn’t make any sense. According to Lord Orrington’s letter, Cecily had plans with him, all day.
“How would you know she spent time with the queen when you’ve been following me around the city?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, M’lord,” the large guard replied.
“Come now, sir. Do not lie to me,” Ian said. “I saw you in Belyne Square early this morning and again outside my home around midday. You have tidied up your uniforms, but I still recognize you.”
The guard shook his head. “You must have me confused with another warden, M’lord.”
Ian fell silent. He was sure the three guards were the same. “You were at the Prancing Piper yesterday afternoon.”
The guard shook his head again. “Begging your pardon, M’lord, but you are surely mistaken. We have been stationed here all day. Yesterday, too.”
The other two guards nodded in agreement.
Ian wiped the rain from his face. He didn’t know why they chose to lie, but it was obvious they weren’t going to tell him the truth either, so he decided to let the matter drop. “Perhaps you are right.” He waved his hand as if to dismiss the entire discussion. “I must see the king.”
“As I have told you, the king is not entertaining guests this evening.”
Ian pursed his lips. “Is Prince Edmund available?”
“No. The prince is not entertaining guests this evening, either.”
Ian crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there anyone who can come down and speak with me? The queen, perhaps?”
The trio looked at each other again and finally the tall leader gestured toward a small wooden bench beside the door. “Wait here and I will see if anyone wishes to speak with you.”
The wardens had no call to be rude, but Ian chose to bite his tongue. Perhaps these three were close personal friends of Captain Wolfe Straegar. Ian dropped onto the uncomfortable bench and waited. His mind raced again with the recent mysteries. Where had his wife spent the day and if she hadn’t been with Lord Orrington, why had he insisted upon a duel? Had the king truly betrayed him to Ragget and then had kept quiet about it for five months? How had Ragget’s ships navigated the Reef without Kylpin’s aid and why had Ragget attacked him in the garden? Why had Josephine put those items in his cloak and then this morning accused him of rape? Who really owned the warehouse on the docks and how had he ended up there? Who was the Thief of Belyne and why was he burglarizing all his friend’s vaults? He glanced at the two remaining guards. And why were they lying about tailing him? They must be investigating him, but on what charge?
Frustrated by the endless cycle of questions, Ian stood, and began pacing the foyer. His shoulder pain quickly turned into a steady throb and he began to wonder at his decision to come out in the dreadful storm. Perhaps he should have listened to the healer’s advice and stayed in bed.
After ten minutes, the large guard still had not returned. Ian sighed and began counting the stone bricks around the doorway. Quickly boring of that, he studied the scene painted on the foyer ceiling by the famous artist, Marealo Delebari. It depicted the dozen Yordician gods and goddesses ascending into the heavens. According to their religion, the Yordician pantheon was once all mortals and only through great acts had they achieved their mantle of godhood.
Ian smiled to himself. His God had always been eternal and would always be eternal and though some within the city had tried to combine the two different religions, he and true followers of the One would always know the truth.
He turned his attention away from the ceiling and studied the richly colored tapestries hanging around the foyer. One, he noted, depicted the signing of the Gyunwarian-Yordician peace treaty. A proud smile touched his lips when he spied the image of his brave grandfather. Alan Weatherall had done the unthinkable his entire life and even now, Ian missed him terribly.
“Lord Ian.”
He turned away from the tapestry. An elderly, white-haired man was standing at the opposite end of the foyer near the stairs.
“Reonard, good evening,” Ian said politely.
“M’lord, I am afraid the king has retired to his bedchambers early tonight,” the prince’s manservant said. He glanced nervously at the large warden standing beside him. “Perhaps you should return tomorrow.”
“My news is too important to wait until then,” Ian said. An edge of impatience had crept into his voice and he decided to leave it there. “I must see him now!”
Reonard spread his hands open in a helpl
ess gesture. “I was instructed by the prince not to disturb the king.”
“And I was instructed by the king to be here now!” Ian’s voice rose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two wardens bristle. He started forward and watched as Reonard’s face paled. “I will see him . . .”
Crossed swords dropped in front of him and the resounding clang echoed loudly in the still hall.
“This is an outrage!” Ian bellowed. “Put your swords away now!”
The wardens did not respond.
“Do it,” a deep voice from the top of the stairs ordered.
Ian looked up and found Prince Edmund glaring down at him. He was a large man, bearish, as wide as Glavinas but not quite as tall. His long blond hair was pulled back severely from his round face, but it was the expression of his mouth that made Ian cringe. It was set in a harsh, grim line, teeth clenched, lips thinned. All the man’s anger was held in his mouth, jaw and double chin.
The wardens sheathed their weapons and shrank back as the prince descended the stairs slowly.
“Prince Edmund,” Ian began, bowing. “How good of you . . .”
“The king will see you now,” Prince Edmund’s voice dripped with distaste. “Reonard, you are dismissed.”
The white-haired manservant scurried away.
“Prince Edmund,” Ian said as he moved toward the stairs. “Thank you for-”
“Don’t thank me, I advised against this visit, but your shouting temper-tantrum has woken him. He is an old man and he needs his sleep.” The prince’s pale green eyes narrowed with contempt. “But surely your news is more important than his health.”
Ian took a step back. He knew the prince did not care for him, but his sour words had always been tempered with honey, especially here in the castle. “He . . . the king wrote earlier telling me to . . .”
“Yes, well, come along,” Edmund snapped, cutting him off. “Let me show you to his room.”
The prince turned on his heel and ascended the stairs, gripping the rail tightly with his large fist. Ian followed, suddenly feeling guilty for waking the king.
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