Song of the Fairy Queen

by Valerie Douglas

  Turning his head, Morgan caught her looking at him.

  He looked back, reaching to brush the tight, thick golden curls back from her face as he liked to do, looking into her lovely eyes, the color so astonishing. Shaking his head in amazement, he traced the line of her cheek, that pretty mouth.

  There was no deference to her here, no standing on ceremony, so he drew her mouth down to his and kissed her. She kissed him back, her hand sliding up his back to run her fingers through his hair.

  As darkness settled over them and stars spangled the distant night sky, she tilted her head at him with a mischievous smile. Taking his hand, she rose and tugged gently until he stood. Then she released him, slipping into the darkness, crooking her finger at him. Beckoning him.

  Smiling, his blood heating, Morgan followed her behind the drapes and beneath the canopy of her dwelling, to find her shift, still warm from her skin, lying on the colorful carpet that covered the slate floor.

  He bent to pick it up and then straightened, warmth running through him.

  Light glowed through the thin silk walls within.

  Brushing them aside, his breath caught.

  He found her waiting, dressed in nothing but her golden hair and her gossamer wings. Those wings were closed around her so all he could see of her through them was the shape of her body behind the translucent feathers, her bare shoulders and her beautiful face turned slightly away.

  As he walked toward her, tossing his hat aside, stripping off his shirt, her wings opened to him…revealing her to him once again. With both hands she swept her hair back over her shoulders and then opened her arms to him…

  How could he not love her?

  Looking at him, Kyri’s breath caught. He was magnificent. So handsome. She loved the look of him, his fair hair glinting sparks of gold and red, his crystal blue eyes brilliant. His body was so beautiful. She loved his broad strong chest, the firm muscles there, the tight crisp hair.

  He stripped his belt away, tossed it aside to wrap his arms around her hips and lift her up above him so her wings fluttered. She laughed, looking down at him, at his smile, her hands braced on his shoulders. Her wings closed around them, encircled and enclosed them in a space all their own.

  Morgan let her slide slowly down his body, an inch at a time, relishing her skin against his and kissed each inch that went by.

  Wrapping her legs around his waist, Kyri let herself drop, trusting him to hold her. Then his mouth closed over her breast, his arms wrapped around her bottom and she stopped thinking.

  Somehow they made it to the broad thick cushions scattered with light silken blankets that were her bed. Morgan’s trews were gone and he slid up inside her as her wings spread around them. Each thrust rocked them more tightly together, pleasure growing until finally it burst and flowed.

  The last thought either had was how good it was to curl into each other again, the warmth of skin against skin.

  Chapter Thirty One

  The survivors of the failed raid trickled into the rebel camp, their eyes dazed, stunned by the level of the disaster. Most smelled of smoke, many were bleeding, battered and bruised, only a few were bandaged. Watching them, Morgan shook his head. Galan was already on his way.

  “Either there’s a snitch,” he said, “or we’ve got a traitor in our midst.”

  Carter swore softly. He’d once been one of Morgan’s Marshals, but the constant traveling had worn on his wife, so he’d chosen to retire, somewhat, to something slightly more settled. Then Haerold had overthrown Oryan.

  This band of rebels was his responsibility.

  There was no other way Haerold’s forces could’ve known about this raid, though. It had been a simple foray against a supply depot, to redistribute the food taken from the local farmers in lieu of taxes and hoarded, for return to the starving people who’d grown it.

  Somehow Haerold had known the attack was coming and his people had been waiting.

  Morgan was tired.

  No, frankly, he was exhausted. It had been months since that idyllic day in the Fairy glen and he and Kyri had had only one or two meetings since, if that. The times with her were his only respite, the only occasion when he got a full night’s sleep, or at least felt like he’d had one, although there were times when he traded sleep for time with her.

  He doubted it was Haerold’s intention to run him ragged, it was just happening that way.

  “We have to find him or her, Carter,” Morgan said. “Find out who’s making bed-talk, who’s in debt. Who joined recently that we don’t know enough about.”

  “I hate this, Morgan,” Carter said, bitterly. “Most of the people here were vouched for by someone else.”

  “Until we can get Haerold off that throne,” Morgan said, “that’s what we’ll have to do. I’ll check with my own sources. See what I can hear.”

  He rode out, beating back his own weariness. It was time for a visit to Jacob in Remagne again anyway.

  Caleb looked at him worriedly as he followed but said nothing.

  He knew Oryan and Kyri were both worried as well. The Captain drove himself harder than anyone else. Many was the night when Caleb took to his blankets on Morgan’s orders, while the man himself sat up trying to read reports from some of the other Marshals, or the rebels, by the light of the fire.

  This night was no exception, but there was no use nagging him, he wouldn’t listen. There was too much to do.

  And Caleb knew it.

  Caleb didn’t know how Morgan was doing it. Or how much longer he could continue.

  That’s what scared him.

  As there was no one else to take his place, they all hoped it wouldn’t happen, not anytime soon. It was all they could do.

  They camped safely outside of the city, waiting for twilight, when the light was uncertain and the shadows were dark, Caleb grabbing a quick nap before they slipped down to the city. Morgan, of course, didn’t, reading dispatches and sending off one of their people as a messenger in answer.

  Morgan tapped him on the shoulder, waking him from his doze.

  It was time.

  A wagon stood at the gate, the tired driver talking to the first set of gate guards, trying to persuade them to let him pass.

  While the guards were occupied, Morgan and Caleb slipped past, keeping low behind the wagon, keeping close as it trundled through the gate.

  The second set of guards, assuming they’d been passed by the first, waved them through.

  After that the maze of the streets of the city of Remagne was their only concern.

  Why, Morgan asked himself as they wandered in and out of some of the taverns, did Jacob love places like these?

  Dark and dingy, they were filled with a certain nervous excitement or a dogged weariness. The women had empty eyes, empty hearts. Jacob had always liked games of chance, the roll of the dice, the turn of the card, bad beer and worse whiskey.

  Morgan didn’t understand it.

  A few judicious questions, coins exchanged and stories of money owed and they finally tracked Jacob down.

  Morgan frowned at the look of the place. It was a step down again for Jacob, back into the meaner streets.

  It was more of a shock for Jacob to look up and see Morgan standing in the doorway of the tavern.

  Swiftly, he brushed what was on the table in front of him into his lap.

  There was no need for Morgan to see that and Jacob was only using it to keep his cover safe….

  Caleb went to the bar, to watch for any signs of trouble, or a glimmer of recognition.

  Jacob smiled gladly enough, if carefully and discreetly before a dozen watching eyes, though, to see Morgan drop into the chair across from him.

  It was good to see the man, even if he did look a bit worn at the edges.

  Jacob had managed to get a few messages out, but they hadn’t met as often as Morgan would have liked. Word had it that Morgan had his little piece – the Queen of the Fairy no less – and now Jacob had his.

  Alth
ough Jacob had to be damned if he’d get so tied up as Morgan was said to be.

  Keep it sweet, keep it light…that was his motto.

  He glanced over to where she was dancing, thinking of the night to come and then he looked back to Morgan.

  “Good to see you, Morgan,” Jacob said.

  Morgan didn’t know if it was the poor light, too much bad whiskey or what, but Jacob looked almost as bad as he did, his eyes a little too bright, his dark skin paler, a little gray.

  “Are you all right, Jacob?” Morgan asked, frowning, eyeing Jacob worriedly.

  Waving it off, Jacob thought, do I look that bad? but he only said, “I’m fine. I’m good. What brings you to the bowels of Remagne?”

  Bowels of Remagne was right, Morgan thought, looking around at the men staring desultorily into their mugs of beer, ale or cheap whiskey.

  “You heard anything about Haerold having an ear in the rebel camps to the south?”

  Straightening a little, more alert, Jacob shook his head, frowning, disturbed. He should have. And Morgan wouldn’t be asking if he hadn’t good reason. Was he slipping?

  “No,” Jacob said, “but I know who to ask.”

  “Ask,” Morgan said.

  Jacob nodded. “I’ll send word.”

  “Anything else for me?”

  Jacob looked around. “Not at the moment.”

  His eyes were jittery. Morgan frowned.

  “Truthfully, Jacob,” Morgan asked. “How are you?”

  Keeping his eyes steady on Morgan, Jacob said, “I’m good.”

  He was careful not to overplay it, gesturing to the men around the room, the smoke hanging by the ceiling, a dancer gyrating in a corner to the accompaniment of a bad guitar player, a dice game in another corner. “This is my kind of place. I’ve got a woman and about a dozen games going. I couldn’t be better.”

  That was the truth. Lately he had plenty of energy, so much so that it sometimes seemed his blood was sparkling, although there were times now and then when he got irritable.

  “Need anything?” Morgan asked, clearly still uneasy.

  “Stop worrying, Morgan,” Jacob said. “Truth is, you don’t look so good yourself.”

  Nor was Jacob the first to say that.

  “It’s not the first time,” Morgan said.

  As Jacob knew.

  “Remember that time we were trying to catch those smugglers?”

  They sat for a while, talking, trading stories of old times for the sake of any watchers until Morgan knew it was time to leave.

  He missed Jacob, missed the old days when the worst they had had to worry about was smugglers.

  The dancer’s eyes followed him as he left.

  In the predawn hours the streets were virtually empty, but he and Caleb were careful to stick to the shadows until they neared the gate. Morgan’s legs were leaden with weariness and they still had to ride out, put some distance between themselves and Remagne before they could rest.

  They’d almost made it through the first set of guards before one of the Guards called, “Wait.”

  For a second Morgan debated it and then decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Better to take the chance than to raise the alarm for certain.

  He turned, even as the guard raised his lantern.

  Caleb cursed softly, reaching for his sword.

  It was simply bad timing.

  The light hit Morgan’s face – his handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed and very distinctive face – perfectly.

  Morgan saw the light of recognition in the Guard’s eyes and swore softly as he hit him, one quick punch, fast and hard as Caleb drove his sword through the other.

  Now it was only speed and luck, as they raced through the short tunnel beneath the pediment where Kyri had very nearly died.

  The second set of guards heard or sensed something. One cried the alarm as the other ran to intercept them before the other joined him.

  Now Morgan swore with a vengeance.

  Although no swordsman, the two guards delayed them long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

  Then it was a pitched battle, with swords, elbows and punches flying, trying to break free before more arrived. A blade shot across Morgan’s ribs, missed piercing him only by dint of his having twisted out of its way, his sword tangled elsewhere. Morgan hit that one with his left hand, rammed his shoulder into the one he’d parried, sending that one staggering away. He put his sword through another, turned and ducked the next, hacking to drive the man away.

  His sword arm might as well have been made of lead.

  “Caleb,” he shouted and they ran for it, Kyri’s whistle to his lips.

  The horses came at a gallop, the rest of the Marshals with them.

  Morgan swung up onto his horse on the fly as Caleb scrambled into his and they were off, their archers driving their pursuers back as a volley came from above.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  The Hunters came before dawn, the early morning attack catching everyone by surprise. Liliane reached for her swords even as she turned to her son, the boy she now truly considered her child, and cried, “Run, Gawain.”

  “Mother!” he shouted.

  Looking at him, tears burning behind her eyes, she shouted, “Do as you’re told, Gawain, and run…!”

  Run he did, to be caught up by one of the other villagers, Mairi’s hand clapping over the boy’s mouth to keep him silent, to not cry out for his mother… With Gordon to protect the children Liliane was the only hope for the village now, unless the Marshals arrived in time…

  Liliane set herself, as the memories of old, good times with good comrades came back and she smiled…

  Her boy would be safe here. He’d grown so tall in such a short time.

  Boys, they just grew. Everyone here believed him her son in truth and they would protect him as their own, as she fought for them now…

  Morgan would be proud of her, she thought, although he would likely never know, but she’d made sure the boy would be cared for, trained up proper....

  The Hunters came and she let out a gusty sigh, glad to have her swords in hand for good purpose once more. This was what she was good at, not farming, although she’d tried.

  She faced them, almost smiling, as the young people escaped knowing she would likely die here.

  The Hunters had short tempers and mean streaks of late. Morgan had led them a merry chase and she was right proud of him.

  They came.

  It was better this way. No one would ever know. She was the last link to the boy, save for the Queen of the Fairy.

  She was Liliane and they wouldn’t take her son, for in all the ways that mattered, he was hers now and she would die for him.

  Wolf-like, they circled her, stalking, unknowingly buying her people time to get the children safely away.

  Only one other had ever been as quick as she. Morgan, her Captain, once Lord High Marshal. She remembered sparring with him and even once with the Queen herself. Morgan was the best man she’d ever known, bar none, although Gordon came close.

  The Hunter behind her leaped, but she spun and her sword sliced across its shoulder as it yelped.

  Liliane gloried in the thrill of honest battle, her swords slashed to drive off the next. She held off the next as well, but took a deep scratch for it.

  Another dove in while she was distracted. Its mouth closed over the back of her leg, her hamstring.

  The leg buckled as pain burst through her.

  It didn’t matter, her swords met the next one as it leaped for her throat and she snarled into its face.

  She smiled. Gawain was safe, that was all that mattered. They would never have him now. The last link was broken.

  He was a good boy. She’d steeped him in the stories of his father, the real one…had begun his training.

  Already Gordon stood ready to step into her place.

  The next one leaped for her. Her heart lightened and she laughed as her sword pierced its chest while another
leaped for her throat.

  It took her down, jaws tightening, but still Liliane laughed.

  Joy moved through her.

  In her mind, she reached up for the light…and the Gods welcomed her home.

  Gawain was safe.

  She’d had a good run and done her duty. She gave up her life willingly.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Morgan awoke to gentle fingers touching his ribs and almost flinched away, anticipating pain. He’d finally let Caleb patch them, but every touch had stung painfully. Except that this time there was no pain, just the light tingling warmth of Kyri’s magic. Her soft scent surrounded him. He opened his eyes to find her sitting beside him on the cot, her rippling golden hair trailing over his bare chest softly. Lightly, her fingertips touched her talisman there.

  Her beautiful aquamarine eyes were shadowed, worried, but then they lifted to meet his and finding him awake she smiled, the shadows disappearing.

  For a moment he just drank her in, her lovely face, the long spiraling curls of her hair were like sunshine sliding across his skin at each motion of her head.

  “Morgan,” Kyri said and laid her head on his chest.

  He’d looked so exhausted, so bone-weary when she entered, sleeping so deeply he hadn’t even noticed her arrive.

  It made her heart ache to see it.

  The score across his ribs had been deep, enflamed, but that had been almost less a worry than the fact that he hadn’t awakened when she touched him, or as she listened to Caleb tell her what had happened. In Healing, she knew the depths of Morgan’s exhaustion, how hard and how far he had pushed himself.

  And, listening to Caleb, her concern had only grown.

  It wasn’t like Morgan to make mistakes like this. He was too careful. She was becoming more and more afraid for him, but she knew he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop, so long as Oryan’s people and hers suffered under Haerold’s heel.

  Still half asleep, Morgan stroked her hair, the silken ripple of it soft beneath his palm, inhaling the sweet scent of her. That was soothing in itself. He wanted to curl up around her for hours.