Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  For his people, for his Kingdom.

  As Oryan’s friend, Morgan had stood for him at his wedding, had known what Gwenifer had meant to his friend, not only as wife, lover and friend but trusted advisor. No one had ever doubted Gwen’s sharp mind. Nor had there been time for Oryan to truly grieve her loss – for either of them to do so – and Morgan feared he wouldn’t be there for Oryan when there finally was.

  In the twelve years since Oryan had taken the crown, Morgan had stood beside Oryan as he settled the Kingdom. He’d brought law to some areas that had never known it and peace with all their neighbors save the northern reavers. Morgan had stood beside him on the day Oryan had married Gwenifer, seeing more quivers in Oryan that day than he had on the field of battle.

  “Will she love me, Morgan?” Oryan had asked then. “Is it truly me or the King she loves?”

  Time had answered that question more truly, but Morgan had answered him even so, knowing it to be true. He’d been friend to both. “You, Oryan, never doubt it.”

  And wished for the same for himself, someday.

  Now? It was doubtful he’d live so long.

  Morgan had risen through the ranks under Oryan’s father Taran until he’d stood as second to the last High Marshal. Until the day Oryan named him to that higher service, needing his own trusted man there. There had been time for little else.

  “I could have served no better King,” Morgan said evenly, his eyes on that King.

  He meant it. While he’d respected the father, he loved the Prince and now King like the brother he’d never had.

  Their eyes met, Oryan’s familiar brown, Morgan’s pale blue.

  “My oath on it,” Morgan said.

  A reminder of his knighting at Oryan’s hand, of his obligation to his King and the realm.

  Oryan looked at him, smiled briefly. “Shut up.”

  “My liege,” Morgan said obediently, smiling a little, inclining his head.

  How long had they known each other? Oryan wondered. He couldn’t remember a time when Morgan hadn’t stood at his shoulder in one way or another, solid, calm, confident.

  One more parting, one more absence.

  For the first time since Oryan had laid the sword of knighthood on Morgan’s shoulders, Oryan offered his arm to him, one man to another.

  Morgan looked at the man he’d served for most of his adult life.

  A good man, steady, sure, calm in the face of crisis and he silently cursed Haerold for what he’d done, although his face showed none of it.

  Resolute, Morgan clasped the offered arm, his fingers closing over solid muscle.

  Morgan’s eyes turned to his own trusted few. Pwyll, Jack and Dareth met his eyes. He’d tasked them with protecting the King, with the aid of Kyri and her people, until others could arrive.

  Pwyll saluted, sharply.

  “We’ll keep him safe, Captain, sir,” Pwyll said.

  Nodding his head, Morgan said, “See that you do.”

  Sucking in a breath, Morgan tightened his fingers over Oryan’s arm.

  “My friend, be safe,” Oryan said.

  No greater accolade was needed than that. My friend. Morgan could see the sincerity in his King’s eyes, though he’d always known it.

  It was enough.

  With a nod to the King, Morgan released him.

  He looked at lovely Kyriay, sitting astride her horse bareback, as all her people did, and remembered suddenly and vividly that moment in the hall at Gwen’s estate.

  Eyes sparkling, she lifted her chin in response and smiled a little, almost daring him to remind her of her duty as he had the others.

  He met that gaze and smiled in return.

  “Morgan,” Kyri’s light, flute-like voice said…”I have another gift…”

  Turning her horse’s head, she guided it close to his.

  Slipping her fingers beneath a thin silver chain around her throat, she lifted it, shaking her head to free the links from the spill of golden curls.

  His body tightened almost reflexively even as her arms raised.

  She guided her horse close.

  Morgan ducked his head as she slipped the chain over his head.

  In that moment she was as near as she’d ever been, but for that moment in the hall. The soft scent of her reached him as her slender fingers lightly brushed the skin at his throat to send a shiver through him. Those lovely eyes were solemn…. her long slender fingers tapped lightly at the crystalline amulet on the end of the chain. It was shaped like a feather.

  “Protection against magic,” she said, and looked at him intently, “as much as I can give you.”

  He covered her hand over his heart and watched her eyes widen a little, the light in them shift, a small flicker of her brows. A smile twitched the corner of her mouth.

  Beneath Kyri’s hand were the solid muscles of Morgan’s chest and the steady beat of his heart, her hand beneath his almost entirely hidden.

  “Be safe, Morgan,” she said softly.

  Morgan looked into her brilliant eyes. Something moved there in them.

  For a timeless moment their eyes held.

  With an effort he released her, looked to Oryan, nodded and – with Jacob at his back – turned his horse away.

  He would need Jacob’s street smarts in the days to come.

  Save for Morgan’s rare visits, Oryan would be alone. Save for Kyri and her reports.

  And those few Morgan trusted to keep his King safe….and his King’s Heir.

  He’d done all he could there.

  They needed more information, though, more than Kyri’s people could provide. It was up to Morgan, Jacob, and the remaining Marshals to get it.

  Chapter Six

  Smoke still rose above Caernarvon. Morgan’s jaw set and tightened to see it, but he said nothing, nor did those around him. It had been a week or more since the battle, those fires should have been put out by now. The only reason they hadn’t been then was that Haerold was allowing them to burn. Oryan’s city. Fury was useless, but it was still there.

  Around Morgan rode a dozen men and women who’d served directly with him, who’d fought beside him, who he knew he could trust. They had been fighting in the north, until he’d called them south, leaving the northern border bereft and undefended, however much it pained him. It was simply another injury to set at Haerold’s door. Some of these had met him on the journey east. Soon there would be more as faithful Caleb called the reserves and retirees up.

  Staying in the shadows beneath the trees on the mountain slopes above the city, Morgan looked down at the now battle-scarred castle that rose at the city’s back on the shores of the great river Arvon. In the waning light, smoke stains smeared the stone above many of the castle windows. Men walked the castle walls though, tiny figures in the distance.

  At his signal his people moved out, to find their own way into the city below. Some would gather information. Others would wait in the shadows in case of need, an alarm would rouse them.

  The sun settled slowly to the horizon. Dusk fell softly. Already the evening mists rose to drift through the streets as it did at this time each night. Above him, the moon glowed. The light silvered the fog as it drifted through the streets like a thousand ghosts. After the events here perhaps that was indeed what they were.

  It was a risk to come here but there was too much they needed to know. He had to take the chance, great as it was.

  With Jacob at his side, Morgan left his horse behind and made his way down the slope to the south and west of the city, keeping to cover and the shadows until he reached the outskirts and the small, mean buildings clustered there where the poorest folk lived.

  No one moved, no sounds came from the homes, not even a child’s cry or a dog’s bark, although you could sense both were there, huddled in those houses. People were afraid even to come out of their homes. With some reason…

  Patrols moved through the cobbled streets, but on horseback they were noisy and easy to avoid. There were, however,
a lot of them.

  Where had Haerold gotten all these men?

  Frowning, Morgan moved closer to the street for a better look.

  “You know,” Jacob hissed irritably from the darkness and jabbed him with an elbow, “if you were any paler, you’d be a damn beacon, Morgan, whereas I can move through the shadows like a shadow. Get out of my way.”

  Morgan glanced back at his friend, shook his head with a chuckle and gestured Jacob ahead.

  With a snort, Jacob moved past him, his dark skin and hair blending with the shadows, nearly to the mouth of the alley.

  Listen and learn, Jacob thought, as the next patrol rode by, talking in low voices to each other in a language he’d only heard down by the docks.

  He knew it though.

  Slithering backward, he found Morgan again. “Haerold’s hired himself some eastern mercenaries.”

  It wasn’t a surprise.

  What, Morgan wondered, had Haerold promised them? How was he paying them? In plunder? Or was he depending on the treasury? How would he fill it again?

  He shook his head.

  They slipped through the streets silently, avoiding patrols, getting closer to the castle.

  Morgan could almost sense his people as they moved through the city and out near the soldiers now encamped to the north and west. Their job was to get a count – an assessment of what it was they were up against.

  He and Jacob were going to try to get closer to Haerold himself.

  The castle gates were guarded but Morgan had been High Marshal and as such he’d been responsible for the safety of the King. He knew that castle better than almost any. His gut twisted a little at the memory of how badly he’d failed in that task.

  How had Haerold pulled it off so quickly?

  With magic, obviously, timing and men…

  There hadn’t even been a hint he’d planned such a thing and Morgan had been careful enough to have people watching him. That still plagued him.

  How did I miss it?

  It hadn’t been a coincidence, either, that the attack had come on a night when he and most of his people were supposed to have been away to the north. If they hadn’t taken care of their business there so quickly they would have been there still, only to ride back to find this.

  Haerold had known, had planned for everything but that last.

  The wizard had always underestimated Morgan.

  Smoke still stung the nose, fire still smoldered in places. Buildings were crumpled in on themselves, leaving odd skeletal remains.

  He passed a hole in the ground where once a building had stood. The hole was nearly filled with ashes, coals glowed dimly in the bottom of it.

  Home? Shop? Whichever or whatever it had been it was gone.

  Morgan’s jaw clenched.

  But they’d drawn close to the mostly dry moat and slid down the side of it as silently as they’d arrived.

  The stench hit and Morgan fought the need to retch.

  Here was where they’d dumped the bodies of the dead, rather than give them a decent burial… It was a horror, an abattoir…

  Morgan fought through it as quietly as he could – too aware of the bodies beneath his feet, good people who’d done nothing to deserve this fate – until he reached the other side and the narrow stretch of earth at the base of the castle. He’d always warned the King’s guards about this possibility, had reminded them to keep stone at their backs and away from the shadows.

  Ducking beneath the drawbridge, Jacob made his way to the other side.

  With his back pressed against the castle wall, Morgan slipped silently along it.

  It was late, the guards were tired, not alert, while he and Jacob were tense and quick.

  The guards died swiftly and joined the dead below, their bodies sliding down the bank.

  Morgan stepped into the tunnel beneath the gate tower and looked up.

  Following his gaze, Jacob nodded in understanding.

  Above them, a faint light glimmered through the murder hole. Voices, muffled, came from above, they bantered back and forth.

  From the rhythm of it, Morgan guessed a card game was in progress.

  A clink of coins confirmed his guess.

  Keeping tight to the sides, he and Jacob slid past, to peer around the corners at the other end.

  The courtyard was empty, save for the two guards at the main doors.

  Torchlight flickered unsteadily from the torches in the brackets by the doors above their heads.

  On the ramparts above, the guards paced tiredly. They were looking out, not in, talking idly among themselves.

  No one really expected any organized resistance, not yet. That would change and quickly, if Morgan had any say in it.

  If he survived this.

  The guards at the doors looked up as someone on the walls called to them. Morgan tipped his head and Jacob came over to Morgan’s side of the entry as Morgan slid around the corner. All it would take to undo things would be for a scullery maid to empty her slop bucket, or some soldier come to take a leak against the wall and they would be done for.

  Neither happened and they made their way around the base of the wall until they reached the kitchens at the back of the castle proper.

  The cook was asleep, his head propped up by the ovens, the bread set out to rise.

  Hearts in their throats, Morgan and Jacob slipped past him, moving nearly silently.

  Danger rarely came from kitchens and so they were seldom guarded.

  The Great Hall was clearly occupied, as a pair of guards stood at attention at both sets of doors, the ones to the courtyard and the ones to the hall.

  Grimly, the guards stared at each other across the hall.

  Nerves screwed tight, Morgan gestured. This would be risky.

  He darted across the hall into the Steward’s office, closing the door softly behind them once Jacob was safely inside.

  On the far wall he found the catch for the secret entrance to the halls behind the walls.

  As Marshal, he’d been required to know all the ins and outs of the castle, to better protect the King.

  That thought made his gut twist again.

  He’d failed in that, just not completely. In the back of his mind he still searched for a way to have known, but he couldn’t find it… His spy hadn’t seen it. There’d been no hints, no rumors.

  Morgan put it away. It couldn’t matter now, he had to let it go and concentrate on the matter at hand.

  They slipped inside the dark tunnel, made their way to the upper floors past other entrances and exits until they reached the musician’s gallery that a predecessor to Gwen had installed but Gwen herself had never used. His heart wrenched at her loss, for he missed her, too.

  That gallery overlooked the Great Hall though. It was the most likely place for Haerold to be found, if not in the King’s quarters.

  Few even noticed the balcony was there any longer as a banner covered the opening and Haerold had never lived in this place. It had been and was Oryan’s seat, his inheritance from his father.

  Light flickered there.

  What was it that had Haerold and his allies up so late in the Great Hall? Morgan wondered.

  Making his careful way around, Walter studied the men camped below. Northmen?

  He nodded to himself.

  Northmen they were.

  They were lighter in hair than even Morgan, some of them, he thought, grinning a little at the idea, knowing how little Morgan would have liked the comparison.

  He shook his head even so, cursing lightly in his mind.

  Did Haerold truly not care who he made alliances with to take the throne? Did he not know what men such as these had done in the north, the slaughter and rapine?

  In the darkness behind him, something quested, but he was unaware.

  Frowning a little, it panted, tasting the air…

  Warmth, prey warmth…

  It leaped, taking the interloper in the throat, its jaws closed, crushed, as hot blood burst int
o its throat, warm and rich.

  Walter had only time to register the impact before he died.

  Once the Great Hall at Caernarvon had been beautiful – an open, lovely place with its long fire pits and the spits that ran down the length of them. Oryan and Gwenifer’s thrones still stood at the far end, white and gold, with the King’s table across the width. Beneath the clerestory windows high above were the flags and colors of Oryan’s vassal states, there where the silk could capture the last light of day, brightening the room. Torchlit by night, it hadn’t seemed such a cavernous space then as it did now, but warm and close.

  A thousand memories crowded Morgan’s mind. Happy memories of feasting here in the good company of his King, Queen and their people. The trestle tables lining each side nearly groaned with food. Mugs of ale and wine were filled by pages, young girls and lads, everyone laughing, jests flying. Laughter had filled the room, the rafters had rung with it.

  He remembered tall, gangly Gwenifer being called out to dance as she protested that she couldn’t – and she was right – yet still being drawn out. She’d laughed helplessly as Oryan simply shook his head indulgently and smiled as she looked back at him in appeal, seeking rescue.

  Grief caught Morgan swiftly and unexpectedly. It had never occurred to him that he hadn’t grieved for the loss of the Queen much, either. Yet he’d loved her like a sister. How could he not have, to the woman who’d given so much to his friend Oryan?

  She may not have been a dancer, but she’d been hell’s own vengeance with a sword in her hand, giving no quarter and expecting none in return. He’d enjoyed sparring with her.

  He bit the pain back, it did her sacrifice no good.

  There would be another, better, time to grieve for Gwenifer.

  Someday.

  In the hall below Haerold paced… A tall, dark, bearded figure who bore some slight resemblance to Oryan in the length of his face and his coloring.

  “What do we hear of my brother?” Haerold demanded, harshly.

  Sitting on the throne in Gwenifer’s place was a woman, a wizard – and not a white one. Her shapely legs were draped wantonly over the arm of the chair, her thick, straight, dark red hair spilled nearly to the floor behind her. She was dressed in a velvet and satin gown of dark gold, close fitting and elaborately embroidered as was the fashion abroad. She wore a heavy gold chain encrusted with jewels the color of droplets of blood. It dropped between her abundant breasts to a pendant in the shape of a globe.