A Little Fate

by Nora Roberts

  Exhausted, she mourned for his wife, for his mother, for those he’d left behind who would never know of his fate. There in the quiet of the bedchamber, she used the last of her strength and her skill. She laid hands on him.

  “The first and most vital of rules is not to harm. I have not harmed you. What I do now will end this, one way or another. Kill or cure. If I knew your name”—she brushed a hand gently over his burning brow—“or your mind, or your heart, this would be easier for both of us. Be strong.” She climbed onto the bed to kneel beside him. “And fight.”

  With one hand over the wound that she’d unbandaged, the other over his heart, she let what she was rush through her, race through her blood, her bone. Into him.

  He moaned. She ignored it. It would hurt, hurt both of them. His body arched up, and hers back. There was a rush of images that stole her breath. A grand castle, blurring colors, a jeweled crown.

  She felt strength—his. And kindness. A light flickered inside her, nearly made her break away. But it drew her in, deeper, and the light grew soft, warm.

  For Deirdre, it was the first time, even in healing that she had looked into another’s heart and felt it brush and call her own.

  Then she saw, very clearly, a woman’s face, her deep-blue eyes full of pride, and perhaps fear.

  Come back, my son. Come home safe.

  There was music—drumbeats—the laughter and shouts of men. Then a flash that was sun striking off steel, and the smell of blood and battle choked her.

  She muffled a cry as she caught a glimpse in her mind. Swords clashing, the stench of sweat and death and fear.

  He fought her, thrashing, striking out as she bore down with her mind. Later, she would tend the bruises they gave each other in this final pitched battle for life.

  Her muscles trembled, and part of her screamed to pull back, pull away. He was nothing to her. Still, as her muscles trembled, she pit her fire against the fever, just as the enemy sword in his mind slashed against them both.

  She felt the bite of it in her side, steel into flesh. The agony ripped a scream from her throat. On its heels, she tasted death.

  His heart galloped under her hand, and the wound on his side was like a flame against her palm. But she’d seen into his mind now, and she fought to rise above the pain and use what she’d been given, what she’d taken, to save him.

  His eyes were open, glassy with shock in a face white as death.

  “Kylar of Mrydon.” She spoke clearly, though each breath she took was a misery. “Take what you need. Fire of healing. And live.”

  The tension went out of his body. His eyes blurred, then fluttered shut. She felt the sigh shudder through him as he slid into sleep.

  But the light within her continued to glow. “What is this?” she murmured, rubbing an unsteady hand over her own heart. “No matter. No matter now. I can do no more to help you. Live,” she said again, then leaned down to brush her lips over his brow. “Or die gently.”

  She started to climb down from the bed, but her head spun. When she fainted, her head came to rest, quite naturally, on his heart.

  2

  HE drifted in and out. There were times when he thought himself back in battle, shouting commands to his men while his horse wheeled under him and his sword hacked through those who would dare invade his lands.

  Then he was back in that strange and icy forest, so cold he feared his bones would shatter. Then the cold turned to fire, and the part of him that was still sane prayed to die.

  Something cool and sweet would slide down his throat, and somehow he would sleep again.

  He dreamed he was home, drifting toward morning with a willing woman in his bed. Soft and warm and smelling of summer roses.

  He thought he heard music, harpsong, with a voice, low and smooth, matching pretty words to those plucked notes.

  Sometimes he saw a face. Moss-green eyes, a lovely, wide mouth. Hair the color of dark, rich honey that tumbled around a face both unbearably beautiful and unbearably sad. Each time the pain or the heat or the cold would become intolerable, that face, those eyes, would be there.

  Once, he dreamed she had called him by name, in a voice that rang with command. And those eyes had been dark and full of pain and power. Her hair had spilled over his chest like silk, and he’d slept once more—deeply, peacefully—with the scent of her surrounding him.

  He woke again to that scent, drifted into it as a man might drift into a cool stream on a hot day. There was a velvet canopy of deep purple over his head. He stared at it as he tried to clear his mind. One thought came through.

  This was not home.

  Then another.

  He was alive.

  Morning, he decided. The light through the windows was thin and very dull. Not long past dawn. He tried to sit up, and the movement made his side throb. Even as he hissed out a breath, she was there.

  “Carefully.” Deirdre slid a hand behind his head to lift it gently as she brought a cup to his lips. “Drink now.”

  She gave him no choice but to swallow before he managed to bring his hand to hers and nudge the cup aside. “What . . .” His voice felt rusty, as if it would scrape his throat. “What is this place?”

  “Drink your broth, Prince Kylar. You’re very weak.”

  He would have argued, but to his frustration he was as weak as she said. And she was not. Her hands were strong, hard from labor. He studied her as she urged more broth on him.

  That honey hair fell straight as rain to the waist of a simple gray dress. She wore no jewels, no ribbons, and still managed to look beautiful and wonderfully female.

  A servant, he assumed, with some skill in healing. He would find a way to repay her, and her master.

  “Your name, sweetheart?”

  Odd creatures indeed, she thought as she arched a brow. A man would flirt the moment he regained what passed for his senses. “I am Deirdre.”

  “I’m grateful, Deirdre. Would you help me up?”

  “No, my lord. Tomorrow, perhaps.” She set the cup aside. “But you could sit up for a time while I tend your wound.”

  “I dreamed of you.” Weak, yes, he thought. But he was feeling considerably better. Well enough to put some effort into flirting with a beautiful housemaid. “Did you sing to me?”

  “I sang to pass the time. You’ve been here three days.”

  “Three—” He gritted his teeth as she helped him to sit up. “I’ve no memory of it.”

  “That’s natural. Be still now.”

  He frowned at her bent head as she removed the bandage. Though a generous man by nature, he wasn’t accustomed to taking orders. Certainly not from housemaids. “I would like to thank your master for his hospitality.”

  “There is no master here. It heals clean,” she murmured, and probed gently with her fingers. “And is cool. You’ll have a fine scar to add to your collection.” With quick competence, she smeared on a balm. “There’s pain yet, I know. But if you can tolerate it for now, I’d prefer not to give you another sleeping draught.”

  “Apparently I’ve slept enough.”

  She began to bandage him again, her body moving into his as she wrapped the wound. Fetching little thing, he mused, relieved that he was well enough to feel a tug of interest. He skimmed a hand through her hair as she worked, twined a lock around his finger. “I’ve never had a prettier physician.”

  “Save your strength, my lord.” Her voice was cool, dismissive, and made him frown again. “I won’t see my work undone because you’ve a yen for a snuggle.”

  She stepped back, eyeing him calmly. “But if you’ve that much energy, you may be able to take some more broth, and a bit of bread.”

  “I’d rather meat.”

  “I’m sure. But you won’t get it. Do you read, Kylar of Mrydon?”

  “Yes, of course I . . . You call me by name,” he said cautiously. “How do you know it?”

  She thought of that dip she’d taken into his mind. What she’d seen. What she’d felt. Neit
her of them, she was sure, was prepared to discuss it. “You told me a great many things during the fever,” she said. And that was true enough. “I’ll see you have books. Bed rest is tedious. Reading will help.”

  She picked up the empty cup of broth and started across the chamber to the door.

  “Wait. What is this place?”

  She turned back. “This is Rose Castle, on the Isle of Winter in the Sea of Ice.”

  His heart stuttered in his chest, but he kept his gaze direct on hers. “That’s a fairy tale. A myth.”

  “It’s as real as life, and as death. You, my lord Kylar, are the first to pass this way in more than twenty years. When you’re rested and well, we’ll discuss how you came here.”

  “Wait.” He lifted a hand as she opened the thick carved door. “You’re not a servant.” He wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for one. The simple dress, the lack of jewels, the undressed hair did nothing to detract from her bearing. Her breeding.

  “I serve,” she countered. “And have all my life. I am Deirdre, queen of the Sea of Ice.”

  When she closed the door behind her, he continued to stare. He’d heard of Rose Castle, the legend of it, in boyhood. The palace that stood on an island in what had once been a calm and pretty lake, edged by lush forests and rich fields. Betrayal, jealousy, vengeance, and witchcraft had doomed it all to an eternity of winter.

  There was something about a rose trapped in a pillar of ice. He couldn’t quite remember how it all went.

  Such things were nonsense, of course. Entertaining stories to be told to a child at bedtime.

  And yet . . . yet he’d traveled through that world of white and bitter cold. He’d fought and won a battle, in high summer, then somehow had become lost in winter.

  Because he, in his delirium, had traveled far north. Perhaps into the Lost Mountains or even beyond them, where the wild tribes hunted giant white bear and dragons still guarded caves.

  He’d talked with men who claimed to have been there, who spoke of dark blue water crowded with islands of ice, and of warriors tall as trees.

  But none had ever spoken of a castle.

  How much had he imagined, or dreamed? Determined to see for himself, he tossed back the bedcovers. Sweat slicked his skin, and his muscles trembled, appalling him—scoring his pride—as the simple task of shifting to sit on the side of the bed sapped his strength. He sat for several moments more, gathering it back.

  When he managed to stand, his vision wavered, as if he was looking through water. He felt his knees buckle but managed to grip the bedpost and stay on his feet.

  While he waited to steady, he studied the room. It was simply appointed, he noted. Tasteful, certainly, even elegant in its way unless you looked closely enough to see that the fabrics were fraying with age. Still, the chests and the chairs gleamed with polish. While the rug was faded with time, its workmanship was lovely. The candlesticks were gleaming silver, and the fire burned quietly in a hearth carved from lapis.

  As creakily, as carefully, as an aged grandfather, he walked across the room to the window.

  Through it, as far as he could see, the world was white. The sun was a dim haze behind the white curtain that draped the sky, but it managed to sparkle a bit on the ice that surrounded the castle. In the distance, he saw the shadows of the forest, hints of black and gray smothered in snow. In the north, far north, mountains speared up. White against white.

  Closer in, at the feet of the castle, the snow spread in sheets and blankets. He saw no movement, no tracks. No life.

  Were they alone here? he wondered. He and the woman who called herself a queen?

  Then he saw her, a regal flash of red against the white. She walked with a long, quick stride—as a woman might, he thought, bustle off to the market. As if she sensed him there, she stopped, turned. Looked up at his window.

  He couldn’t see her expression clearly, but the way her chin angled told him she was displeased with him. Then she turned away again, her fiery cloak swirling, as she continued over that sea toward the forest.

  He wanted to go after her, to demand answers, explanations. But he could barely make it back to the bed before he collapsed. Trembling from the effort, he buried himself under the blankets again and slept the day away.

  “MY lady, he’s demanding to see you again.”

  Deirdre continued to work in the precious dirt under the wide dome. Her back ached, but she didn’t mind it. In this, what she called her garden, she grew herbs and vegetables and a few precious flowers in the false spring generated by the sun through the glass.

  “I have no time for him, Orna.” She hoed a trench. It was a constant cycle, replenishing, tending, harvesting. The garden was life to her world. And one of her few true pleasures. “Between you and Cordelia he’s tended well enough.”

  Orna pursed her lips. She had nursed Deirdre as a babe, had tutored her, tended her, and since the death of Queen Fiona, had stood when she could as mother. She was one of the few in Rose Castle who dared to question the young queen.

  “It’s been three days since he woke. The man is restless.”

  Deirdre straightened, rested her weight on the hoe. “Is he in pain?”

  Orna’s weathered face creased with what might have been impatience. “He says not, but he’s a man, after all. He has pain. Despite it, and his weakness, he won’t be kept to his chamber much longer. The man is a prince, my lady, and used to being obeyed.”

  “I rule here.” Deirdre scanned her garden. The earlier plantings were satisfactory. She couldn’t have the lush, but she could have the necessary. Even, she thought as she looked at her spindly, sun-starved daisies, the occasional indulgence.

  “One of the kitchen boys should gather cabbages for dinner,” she began. “Have the cook choose two of the hens. Our guest needs meat.”

  “Why do you refuse to see him?”

  “I don’t refuse.” Annoyed, Deirdre went back to her work. She was avoiding the next meeting, and she knew it. Something had come into her during the healing, something she was unable to identify. It left her uneasy and unsettled.

  “I stayed with him three days, three nights,” she reminded Orna. “It’s put me behind in my duties.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “So is his horse,” Deirdre said lightly. “And the horse is of more interest to me.”

  “And strong,” Orna continued, stepping closer. “A prince from outside our world. He could be the one.”

  “There is no one.” Deirdre tossed her head. Hope put no fuel in the fire nor food in the pot. It was a luxury she, above all, could ill afford. “I want no man, Orna. I will depend on no one but myself. It’s woman’s foolishness, woman’s need, and man’s deceit that have cursed us.”

  “Woman’s pride as much as foolishness.” Orna laid a hand on the staff of the hoe. “Will you let yours stop you from taking a chance for freedom?”

  “I will provide for my people. When the time comes I will lie with a man until I conceive. I will make the next ruler, train the child as I was trained.”

  “Love the child,” Orna murmured.

  “My heart is so cold.” Tired, Deirdre closed her eyes. “I fear there is no love in me. How can I give what isn’t mine?”

  “You’re wrong.” Gently Orna touched her cheek. “Your heart isn’t cold. It’s only trapped, as the rose is trapped in ice.”

  “Should I free it, Orna, so it could be broken as my mother’s was?” She shook her head. “That solves nothing. Food must be put on the table, fuel must be gathered. Go now, tell our guest that I’ll visit him in his chambers when time permits.”

  “This seems like a fine time.” So saying, Kylar strode into the dome.

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