Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Like a sparkling comet, Kyri seemed to dive out of the sun, her wings folded back like a falcon’s…

  Kyri clung to vision, her speed making it go dark at the edges, but she could see Morgan and he was in trouble. Fear for him drove her past her limits.

  Halfway through the stoop she dumped speed as she went into a long swoop.

  They hadn’t seen her yet. They were closing in around Morgan, circling, stalking him.

  Morgan.

  Fear ran cold through her.

  Morgan kept one eye on Kyri’s hurtling form, calculating her trajectory, knowing she was watching.

  In a moment, the Hunters would close in for the kill.

  Now.

  He sprinted, racing for the edge of the roof, hoping he hadn’t miscalculated, ramming his sword into its sheath, leaping up and out. One hand was outstretched.

  This was going to hurt.

  Seeing Morgan run, knowing what it was he was about to do, would do, Kyri swooped to intercept him as he sprang out into space…

  The trust, the faith in her… Her heart trembled.

  In the next moment their hands came together with nearly numbing force, his and hers locked, his around her wrist as hers closed around his.

  Kyri flattened her trajectory, her wings angled to turn and lift. The strain screamed across her shoulders and through her wings. But she bore it.

  The contact between their clasped arms was enough to tell her Morgan was hurt, bleeding, weakening – her heart wrenched with his pain – and leaving a dripping trail for the Hunters to follow.

  She looked down as Morgan looked up at her. He knew it as well.

  Wind buffeted her suddenly.

  The sky was clear and cloudless save for the smoke from the square.

  Frowning, she looked ahead. There was nothing in the sky to explain it.

  Another blast of wind struck her suddenly.

  Plots within plans.

  “The Wizard,” she snarled, furious.

  The next blast blew her down at least a half dozen yards.

  Clearly, Haerold’s wizard didn’t want to kill them yet, or she’d have used fire.

  They wanted them alive. The thought made Kyri shiver.

  She fought it with every ounce of her strength and skill.

  “What is it?” Morgan said, each blast of wind wrenching them both.

  “The damn wizard,” Kyri answered. “She’s using elemental magic, the wind, air, trying to drive me down.”

  It was the first time Morgan had heard her swear. Had it not been so serious, he would’ve laughed.

  Kyri set herself, furious. “I am the Queen of the Air and no mortal witch will take me in my own element.”

  Fighting the wizard magic to magic would take power she needed elsewhere.

  “I’ll give her flying lessons,” Kyri snapped, all too aware of Morgan – injured below her – with his hand tight around her wrist, but growing weaker.

  She fought each buffet, each hammer from the sky, keeping her shoulders loose so each shift and turn wouldn’t hit Morgan to tear at his wounds.

  They cleared the city walls as Kyri fought for height and then to glide.

  Kyri drew out the horse whistle and blew once, summoning a Fairy horse.

  She tried to make their landing as soft as possible, flaring her wings, despite the sudden downdraft that nearly blew her sideways.

  Morgan staggered, dizzy with blood loss and relief. Kyri steadied him.

  Pain nearly blinded him. Every wound throbbed, ached, or burned. His vision blurred, darkened.

  Kyri eased him to the ground

  Blood stained Morgan’s shoulder, his ribs, deep scores had been raked over him.

  Kyri’s breath caught.

  “Morgan,” she whispered, propping him against her shoulder even as she drew strength for Healing.

  She’d already done work nearly this exhausting once this day for Philip. Somehow she had to find the strength to do it again for Morgan.

  He looked at her, his piercing blue eyes focusing on her.

  “Alive, thanks to you,” he said.

  Morgan touched her face, seeing the fear for him in her eyes, turning them a stormy blue-green.

  Her golden hair was disheveled, half in and half out of the braids, her wings surrounded them protectively…and yet she was still beautiful to him, as always.

  “Don’t do that again,” Kyri said, bowing her head as if to concentrate, drawing power from the earth despite the storm of her emotions.

  A sparkling droplet fell.

  “It would help if those weren’t crystal,” Morgan said softly.

  She lifted her chin to look at him, and bit her lip.

  In all her long life, there’d been no other like him. Like Oryan and Gwenifer. Kyri’s throat tightened. She hadn’t missed it.

  Until now.

  “I love you, too, Kyri,” Morgan said. His voice was gentle.

  His words caught her off guard.

  For a moment Kyri went still and then she laughed with relief and gratitude. “I love you, too, High Marshal Morgan. So don’t you dare die on me.”

  “Better hurry up, or that might be a problem,” Morgan said.

  Already he felt sickeningly weak, a rush of cold washed through him.

  Her eyes widened a little.

  A spurt of fear ran through Kyri, despite knowing different.

  Morgan wouldn’t die, she wouldn’t let him.

  Slipping her hand beneath his shirt, Kyri laid it over the muscles of his chest and the strong heart beneath it. He laid his on top of hers, pressed firmly.

  Her heart clenched.

  Even as her magic sank into him they heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. Far more alarming, they heard baying. It wouldn’t take long for the Hunters to pick up their scent.

  “We’ll have to lead them away for a while,” Morgan said.

  Nodding, Kyri concentrated on his warm skin beneath her hand, on the muscle, tendon and skin knitting.

  On healing Morgan.

  The baying grew close.

  Time was short, but Galan wasn’t here to aid her, to finish, and so she must. Her strength waned, weariness dragged at her.

  Opening his shirt, she smoothed her hand over the scars that now crossed his hard stomach, as she looked for anything she’d missed. She dared not move him and risk something tearing inside him or some small pocket of infection that could grow to be as dangerous until she was sure.

  She was nearly exhausted and Morgan was little better.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Weak, tired, but there’s no pain,” Morgan said, relieved.

  “I can’t replace lost blood, so you’ll be tired and weak for a time.”

  Morgan had guessed as much, a part of him too aware of the howling of the Hunters, closing on them. The sound was avid, murderous. They were angry and out for blood. And growing nearer with each passing second.

  Standing, Kyri swayed, but she reached down to give him a hand up.

  They steadied each other, Morgan taking the moment to touch her cheek. She turned her face into it, taking a shuddering breath before she nodded.

  With a gesture, she had the horse lie down so they could both step on – neither had the strength to do it any other way.

  Wrapping her hands in the Fairy horse’s mane, Kyri said, “Hold on. That’s all you have to do is hold on.”

  As much as Morgan hated to admit it, it was about all he had the strength to do.

  Reaching for power from the earth and sky Kyri borrowed energy profligately, knowing there would be a price to pay for it later – and it would be high – lending some to Morgan and sending some to the horse as it heaved to its feet.

  They raced across the plains toward the not-too-distant mountains.

  “Play elemental magic with me, will you?” Kyri snapped furiously at the witch, calling up wind and water.

  She poured into it all her fear and anger.

  Pow
er rose, a shiver across his skin and Morgan looked around him as the wind grew. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. Lightning blazed as a rush of cooler air blasted past them.

  Kyri had called up a storm.

  “You can do that?”

  It was astonishing.

  Her head pounding with the effort, Kyri answered, “Can, but shouldn’t. We of the Fair are of natural magic. Playing with weather is dangerous, for it has its own rhythms, its own flow. Take from here and there goes dry. If it wasn’t an emergency I wouldn’t do it, but I won’t sacrifice us or the horse to those things.”

  Understanding dawned as the skies opened, washing away their trail. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed once again.

  In seconds they were both drenched and chilled.

  Kyri used every trick she knew for throwing off a predator, wolf, cat or man, changing directions, cutting down and through streams, finding rock and stone to traverse as the rain passed behind them and the sun lowered to the horizon.

  Morgan hung on as she trembled with exhaustion, doing little better himself.

  “Look,” she said, softly.

  The storm had passed. Ahead of them and to their left the sun sank, gilding the edges of black clouds. Behind them a double rainbow arched across the sky, the colors startlingly bright against the angry sky.

  Now Kyri searched for someplace warm, dry and relatively sheltered as darkness slowly fell.

  “Kyri,” Morgan said.

  Her eyes opened. The horse had stopped.

  She shook her head and blew out a breath, too tired to move.

  At a tap of her heels, the horse dropped to its knees to let them off.

  Their cloaks served as blankets, their clothes as a kind of pillow, as they collapsed onto a nearby patch of moss and Kyri’s wings closed around them to keep them warm.

  Kyri woke with the sun sparkling on the dew and Morgan beside her, her wings wrapped around them both. He slept, his brilliant eyes closed, his body wrapped around her, one leg curled around hers, one hand cupped around her breast. It was the first time they’d slept together, she realized with a soft laugh. Turning a little, she sighed and for a time she simply lay looking at him. He was alive. Around them the birds sang and the trees whispered their secrets to each other.

  Reaching out, she traced a finger over one firmly arched brow, down his straight nose, lightly over his mouth. She loved his mouth. He was so handsome it made her heart ache.

  Kyri stroked her hand up into his fair hair, his muscled body was solid, alive next to hers, all the long length of him against her. Here in his arms she knew herself warm, safe and secure.

  She stroked her hands over his broad muscled shoulders and back, his solid chest pressed against hers, the beat of his heart almost tangible against her.

  Awakening, Morgan’s hands tightened on Kyri, pulled her closer, sighing himself as he opened his eyes to find her lying there next to him, watching him. Their legs were tangled together, her soft, firm body pressed against his, her skin like silk beneath his hands. Both of them were enclosed within her wings, the filtered light dappling them.

  They both ached, their muscles were sore, he knew, but it didn’t matter, they were together and they were alive.

  Rolling her gently onto her back with a care for her wings, Morgan lowered his mouth to hers. He needed the taste and feel of Kyri around him as he cradled her in his arms.

  Their tongues met, danced a little, tasting each other.

  Morgan lifted his head to look at her.

  Wonderingly, he ran his hand over her hair, which had mostly come out of the pins and braids.

  Now he finished the job, spreading her silken curls out in ripples across the thick moss. She was so beautiful, with her fine features and incredible eyes.

  He brushed his thumb across her lips and she kissed it. It sent a burst of heat through him.

  He drew back to admire her, the sun warm on them as the air drifted across their skin.

  So perfect.

  Almost in awe, he brushed a hand over her, lightly, down the column of her throat, over her ripe, firm breasts, the arch of her ribs, across that smooth belly, and down her hip.

  Propping his head up on one elbow, his body close against hers so their bodies touched from shoulder to hip, he ran his hand up again as she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes glowed. With a sigh of contentment, he combed his fingers through the tight curls between her thighs, leaning his head down a little to brush her nipple with his mouth.

  Morgan caressed her breast, enjoying the firmness, the roundness, playing lightly with the nipple.

  Everywhere his hand passed, he left a trail of fire behind and Kyri arched, shivering.

  Kyri shifted, parts of her going hot. Her hands wandered, too, over the broad muscles of his chest. Spreading her fingers, she tried to encompass one and couldn’t, laughing. There was such strength in him. He amazed her.

  Her gaze flicked up to his and he smiled in return, tracing his fingers up along her ribs lightly. She quivered.

  Curling her hands across his ribs, she caressed them, ran her fingers lightly over his hip, her arm stretched a far as it would go, so her fingers could drift over his thigh.

  Their eyes met as she touched him, her fingers running lightly over sensitive skin.

  His delight in this gentle play clearly soothed him.

  Heat rose slowly, warming their skin.

  Gently, he kissed her as they caressed and stroked, feeding the fire inside them.

  Wrapping his hands around her waist Morgan lifted her as he rolled onto his back, looking up at her.

  She smiled radiantly. Her glorious hair tumbled down around her, around them, over her breasts, down and around her shoulders and back, to brush over his skin tantalizingly. He smiled in return.

  “I love you,” he said, as he lowered her and she sank onto him.

  Shifting to take him, her eyes widening as he filled her, she smiled and on a sigh of pleasure, said, “I love you too.”

  It was glorious.

  Her wings spread to sparkle in the sun as he lowered her further, joining them completely. Her eyes closed for a moment in pleasure as she settled onto him, her back arching with sheer bliss, her face nearly as radiant as her incandescent wings.

  She surrounded him, all of her, deeply, pleasure nearly blinding him as she closed around him.

  Morgan looked up as her glorious eyes opened so he could watch her pleasure take her, and so she could see it take him.

  Her wings stroked gently, rocking her on him. Color flushed her cheeks as she tightened and he hardened with each beat of her wings, of her heart, moving them against each other.

  Morgan watched Kyri’s face as the pleasure burst through her, locking her around him as she arched. He rose up, piercing her more deeply, to take one of those lovely breasts in his mouth and then his own glory burst through him.

  Arms locked around each other, they pulsed, emptying and taking, filling each other, shuddering before he fell back, Kyri in his arms, her wings spread over them both, to hold and warm.

  Chapter Twenty One

  It was peaceful outside the tent in comparison to the storm inside it, the late afternoon sunlight a warm gold. Above were the trees, swaying and bending in the breeze, below were bushes and stone, rock and lichen. Sunbeams streaked between the trees in brilliant shafts of golden light. Around the tent the camp bustled, people going about their chores, chopping wood, cooking food, sewing clothes, honing swords.

  Normal activities. Peaceful.

  Running her hands through her hair wearily, Kyri stepped out of Philip’s tent.

  Morgan waited, watching her, seeing the signs of strain in her lovely face. He touched her arm and she smiled, reassuringly.

  “It’s….difficult,” she said.

  Morgan couldn’t imagine it, trying to touch the mind of a man who’d been so shattered, so abused, but he could see it in the look in her eyes. And that was all he needed.

  He drew
her into his arms and Kyri let him, resting her forehead against his broad chest for a moment.

  Neither he nor Oryan had ever condoned torture.

  First and simplest, because no man should ever be treated to such pain and suffering at the hands of another, not least because of what it required of the one who did it, that they should ever consider such a thing. What it said about the human spirit in the one who inflicted it was worse than the one he tortured, that they could bring themselves to do it. And simply, given enough pain and suffering, the one tortured would say anything, to anyone, about anything, whatever the torturer wanted to hear, simply to get the pain to stop.

  If it was sometimes effective, at what cost was it to those who used it and to those that condoned it?

  Kyri sighed. “But he should be able to talk now, though. It would do him good. Galan will bring him.”

  “Let’s go tell Oryan.”

  She let out a sigh and nodded, her fingers threading through his as they walked, drawing strength from him in the most natural way.

  It was only when they reached Oryan’s tent that they released each other, Morgan holding the flaps aside for her, Geoffrey on the other side as they stepped inside.

  Heads swiveled to look at them. Oryan’s, Jordan’s – Detrick, who’d led the assault on the walls. A few hours before, after being vetted thoroughly, John of Orland had joined them. His small dukedom was to the south, near one of the fingers of Haerold’s army.

  “Given the circumstances, I thought it likely that I was about to share Philip’s fate. Rather than do so, I thought I’d join the resistance. I’ve told my people to flee,” Orland had said on arrival.

  The other finger of Haerold’s army was still unexplained and puzzling.

  “How is he?” Oryan asked Kyri.

  In all of the long months of exile, the last week or so had been among the most difficult. Dorien had kept him informed, for which Oryan was grateful. Without the phlegmatic Fairy, he would have known nothing, which would have made it even harder. Still, listening as Dorien told him what was happening had been its own special torment. The long wait until Dorien had said that Kyri had Morgan, but that he was wounded and they were being pursued, had been terrible. The next wait had been longer. It had been late before he’d learned that they were safe.