The Destined Queen

by Deborah Hale

  “Don’t trust Delyon?” Maura pulled away from Rath, her voice cold as a Hitherland wind. “Or don’t trust me?”

  Before he could overcome his shock at hearing her voice his most private fears, she continued, “Do you doubt I am capable of helping you overthrow the Han? Do you expect me to stay placidly on the Islands doing needlework while you go off to risk your life? I would go mad with worry!”

  He reached for her. “As I will if you go ahead with this!”

  She shook off his touch as if it were some kind of shackle. “You will have battles and such to keep you occupied. Why can you not see how perfectly all this fits? You will be doing your part to liberate Umbria in the way you are best suited, by a swift application of force.”

  Her tone warmed a little as she quoted Langbard’s words. “And I will serve in the way I am best suited—with guile and magic and faith in the Elderways.”

  And another man. The thought burned in Rath’s mind but he did not say it.

  “I must do this, and I will.” There could be no mistaking the finality in Maura’s tone. “I wish you could support my decision, but I cannot let you stop me. You are my husband, not my master who I am bound to obey in everything.”

  Though he told himself it was useless, Rath could not keep from trying one last time. This would be the last, though.

  “Not everything.” His hand fumbled toward her in the darkness and brushed against her bare arm. “Just this one.”

  He steeled himself for her answer.

  “Sleep well, Highness.” Maura rolled away from him to the farthest edge of the bed.

  When he could think of nothing to say that would not make things even worse between them, Rath silently turned his back on her and tried to sleep.

  Their quest to find the Waiting King had brought Maura and him together. Rath heaved a sigh in the darkness. Would their battle to liberate the kingdom tear them apart?

  He woke the next morning to find her already gone. It did not surprise him to discover her taking breakfast with Delyon. Planning their little adventure together, no doubt.

  Fortunately Idrygon strode into the courtyard before Rath could say anything he might regret. “Highness, there is one final matter we must discuss, if you would come with me.”

  “Might as well.” Rath shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”

  He followed Idrygon out of the villa and along a narrow path that climbed uphill.

  “For this invasion to succeed,” said Idrygon, “it is vital we present mainlanders with the kind of Waiting King the legends have primed them to expect.”

  Rath made a vague sound of agreement. He wasn’t sure what Idrygon was talking about, but he hated to expose his ignorance. From the direction they were walking, he wondered if Idrygon was taking him to see the Oracle of Margyle again.

  “I fear they will not rally to the cause of a reformed Hitherland outlaw.” Idrygon took a different turn, leading to a part of town where Rath had never been before. “Not even one who claims to be the reborn spirit of King Elzaban.”

  “I made no claims,” Rath muttered. “It was your daft brother who came up with that Staff of Velorken business and the Oracle who said—”

  “Precisely. You saw for yourself how difficult it was to persuade Trochard and his followers that you are the Waiting King. And they are sages who have awaited your coming all their lives. Think how much harder it will be to convince a nation of backward mainlanders whom the Han have made suspicious of all magic and doubtful of the old legends.”

  “The way I used to be.” Rath glanced out at the harbor where more ships were gathering each day, bringing troops from other parts of the Islands. “What do you plan to do about it?”

  Idrygon would never bring up a problem if he had not already worked out a solution. “Sire, I propose we help your subjects believe, by giving them exactly what they’ve been led to expect.”

  Rath arched a brow. “And what is that?”

  Ahead of them stood a villa like Idrygon’s, only smaller. A scent wafted from it that reminded Rath of Langbard’s cottage.

  Idrygon nodded toward it. “We must give them a hero.”

  Rath gazed at the house. “You expect to find one here?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I do.”

  A woman strode out to meet them. She was almost as tall as Rath, dressed in a plain brown robe with a floss of fine white hair floating around her head.

  “Fair morning, Lord Idrygon,” she called.

  “Fair morning, Dame Diotta.” Idrygon bowed. “How goes your work for me?”

  “Done as you commanded, my lord. All that’s left is a final test of my spells.”

  “Then we have come at a good time.” Idrygon gestured toward Rath. “This is His Highness, King Elzaban. Or will be when you are through with him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rath scowled at the faint edge of mockery in Idrygon’s voice.

  “It means Dame Diotta has prepared several spells and magical items that will make you appear to be everything your people will expect from their Waiting King.”

  The old enchantress rubbed her wrinkled hands together. “I have a lovely potion that’ll make you grow a foot taller. When folks call you Highness, they’ll mean it!”

  She clucked with laughter at her own wit. “I have a draft you can gargle that will make your voice carry ten times as far as normal. I can outfit you with armor that will stop any blade, save one forged of ice gems. A sword of rare hernwood honed with powerful spells that will make it harder and sharper than most metals. It’s a thing of beauty, too—the hilt all inlaid with ivory and coral.”

  “We have a special mount for you as well, sire,” said Idrygon. “The beast will also be fed Dame Diotta’s growth potion to make it large enough to bear you.”

  “You want me to lie?” Rath looked from Lord Idrygon to Dame Diotta. “Pretend to be some great hero to dazzle folks into following me?”

  “Not a lie, Highness.” Idrygon bridled. “You are the Waiting King. We simply want to give the people what they will expect—give them hope. Is that so wrong?”

  “I reckon not.” Rath scratched his chin, thinking hard. “I just don’t like the idea of pretending to be something I’m not.”

  From the moment he and Maura had arrived on the Islands, he’d felt as if he was only pretending to be a king. Would these magical aids make him feel more like King Elzaban and less like Rath the Wolf? And was that truly what he wanted?

  “Besides, Highness,” said Idrygon in his most reasonable, persuasive tone, “this is only necessary for a short time—until we drive the Han from our shores. Once they are gone and you are secure on your throne, you may tell the people whatever you like, with my blessing. No doubt they will forgive this small ruse once it has served its purpose.”

  Likely Idrygon was right, as he seemed to be about so much else. Yet to Rath it felt wrong somehow.

  “I reckon I could do it for a little while.” Here was a tool he could use to bargain with Idrygon. “On one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  It was on the tip of Rath’s tongue to demand that Maura not be sent to recover the Staff of Velorken, but he feared she would never forgive him if he prevented her. “The mines. Once we free the Hitherland, I want our army to attack those cursed mines.”

  Idrygon shook his head. “It is too great a risk.”

  “Then the Han won’t expect it, will they? And think what a blow it would be to them losing all the ore and gems they get out of the mines.”

  For once Idrygon seemed to rethink a decision he had made. “True enough, but…”

  “Will you make up your minds?” Dame Diotta glared at them. “I don’t fancy having gone to all this work for nothing!”

  Rath bit back a grin to hear Idrygon scolded so. “What do you say? Do we have a bargain?”

  “Oh, very well.” Idrygon wrinkled his nose. “Perhaps the Giver will smile upon us and we will have the Staff of Velorken in o
ur possession by that time. Now have a drink of that growth potion and see how it works.”

  Maura glanced up from the scroll she and Delyon had been looking over. If they could manage to decipher the writing, it might contain a spell to help her unlock the buried memory of where Abrielle had hidden the staff.

  Idrygon entered the courtyard looking more than usually pleased with himself. Behind him strode a man so tall he had to duck his head to keep from hitting it on the archway.

  Who was their guest? she wondered, glancing at his fine armor. And why had Rath not come home with Idrygon?

  Then the huge man pried the elaborate leather helm off his head. A cup of wine slipped from Maura’s hand, crashing to the tile floor.

  “Rath Talward!” she cried. “What in the name of the Giver have you done to yourself?”

  Before Rath could answer, Idrygon spoke. “Does he not look magnificent?”

  Several words came to mind as Maura stared up at her husband. Magnificent was not among them.

  Unfamiliar. Intimidating. However it had come about, this troubling transformation matched too closely Rath’s recent shift in temperament. A shadow of wariness crept back into her heart—the kind she’d felt toward him when they first met.

  “It was Idrygon’s idea,” Rath growled. His voice was deeper than ever, with a husky rasp that made the flesh between Maura’s shoulders crinkle.

  He no longer looked or sounded like the man she had grown to love so dearly. The thought of sharing a bed with this gruff, hulking stranger filled her with unease.

  Idrygon appeared to approve the changes in Rath as much as Maura questioned them. “This is what the mainlanders will expect from their Waiting King. This is what they will rally behind—a hero of legend come to life.”

  He went on to explain at some length the reasons for the changes in Rath, and how they had been accomplished.

  “So it will wear off?” Maura was relieved to hear that, though not too surprised. Most life-magic worked only for a limited time, then had to be renewed.

  “Both the growth and voice spells will last from dawn till dusk,” said Idrygon. “And we have plenty of the magical agents to affect the change. Once we reach the mainland, it should not take long for word to spread that the Waiting King has woken—a hero of fabled proportions that no Han can stand against.”

  “No ordinary Han, you mean,” Maura corrected him. “I do not think the Echtroi take much account of size. It is just that much more flesh for them to torment.”

  Idrygon picked up a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table, tossed it in the air and caught it. “Which is why you and my brother need to find the Staff of Velorken and get it to us as quickly as possible.”

  Those words deepened the scowl on Rath’s face. Though he did not launch into another tirade against her quest, Maura could tell his opposition had not softened.

  Why could he not see this was something she must do? For all her oppressed country folk. For her parents and for Langbard, so their sacrifices would have some meaning. For him and his small army, so not one more drop of their blood would be shed than need be.

  As long as she could recall, she had been a healer. The thought of so many wounds and so much death appalled her, even if it would be in the worthiest of causes. If the Staff of Velorken could bring it about with less bloodshed, then she would search in the High Governor’s bed, if she had to!

  Rath brushed aside the canopy of netting over his bed and rolled out to face another day. If only he could sweep aside the invisible net of destiny that had trapped him in its web!

  He did not even need to glance at the other side of the bed to know Maura had crept out before he woke. Muttering a curse, he ran a hand through the close-cropped hair that no longer felt as if it belonged to him. Too many things in his life felt that way these days.

  Foremost, the big, ungainly body he grew whenever he took that vile draft. Slag! Dame Diotta should consider selling that stuff to the Echtroi. When it went to work, the pain equaled anything he’d suffered from the wand of a death-mage. It felt as if every bone in his body were breaking at once, every joint being wrenched apart and a crippling ache in his muscles bringing him to his knees. The sour potion that deepened his voice was no better, for it left his throat raw and stinging.

  He wasn’t going to take either of those cursed brews today, Rath decided as he began to dress. If Idrygon objected, too bad about him!

  After spending almost his whole life going where he wanted and doing what he wanted, Rath now found himself forced to do too many things he didn’t want. That made him feel trapped, a sensation he hated above all others…except one, perhaps.

  He glanced toward the bed, wishing Maura had lingered there this morning. His deepest, most secret fear was of being forsaken. His parents, whoever they’d been, had left him before he was old enough to remember. Then Ganny had died, leaving him to fend for himself long before he should have had to. For years he’d never let anyone get close enough for him to miss them if they went away.

  He’d fought against his growing feelings for Maura, believing she would have to leave him for the Waiting King. Those feelings had taken deep, stubborn root in his heart after she’d come to rescue him from the mines when she should have abandoned him to complete her quest. When she’d defied even death to return to him, his feelings for her had become something more powerful and frightening than even love.

  Not that she would have known it by the way he’d been acting lately! As he always did when cornered or trapped, he’d lashed out at whoever was nearest. Haunted by the specter of losing her, he’d gone from clinging too tightly to pushing her away in a vain effort to lessen the dread of her going.

  Little wonder Maura avoided being alone with him. She could fight when she had to, but given a choice, she’d been brought up to hide or flee from trouble. Did she think of him as trouble?

  Rath had to find out and he had to make it right between them. Their time together was running out too fast for him to let this poison it.

  Barging out of their bedchamber, he nearly barreled into Idrygon’s wife. The small, birdlike woman was so quiet and submissive, Rath had paid her no more notice than the tasteful furniture in her elegant villa.

  “Highness!” she gasped, fumbling the basket of neatly folded laundry in her hands. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Everything was wrong. “No. I’m just looking for my wife. Have you seen her? I need to talk to her.”

  “I’m afraid she’s gone, Highness.” Idrygon’s wife backed away from Rath as she delivered the news.

  He bit back a curse better suited to an outlaw than a royal guest in the lady’s home. “Do you know where she went?”

  “With my husband and his brother, Highness. Idrygon said something about getting your wife equipped for her mission.”

  That must mean they’d gone to Dame Diotta’s. Rath muttered a quick word of thanks to his hostess as he strode off.

  She called after him, “Will you have something to eat before you go, Highness?”

  “Later perhaps.” Food could wait. Though the growth potion made him ravenous, Rath was more anxious to break this strain on his marriage than to break his fast.

  He climbed the hill to Dame Diotta’s villa at a dead run, arriving out of breath and in a sweat.

  “Highness.” The old enchantress bowed when she recognized him. “How are those potions I gave you working?”

  Rath resisted the urge to tell her what he thought of her potions. “Well…enough,” he gasped. “My wife…is she here?”

  “Was,” said Dame Diotta. “She came with Lord Idrygon and his brother. I refilled that sash of hers with everything I had on hand, as well as a few herbs she’d never heard of. She was quick to learn the incantations, I must say. If I had her to apprentice with me for a few months, I could make a first-rate enchantress of that lass. I don’t suppose that would do for a queen, though. Pity.”

  Before Rath could catch his breath to ask where Mau
ra had gone, she rattled on, “I made sure they had plenty of those genow scales. But I didn’t put them all in one big sack. Oh my, no. A dozen small pouches I gave them and warned them to hide the things in as many different places about them as they could find—sashes, pockets, the toe of a shoe if one would fit.”

  “Please!” cried Rath when her torrent of talk slowed. “How long ago did they leave? Do you know where they went?”

  He should just go back to Idrygon’s house and wait for Maura to return, Rath told himself, rather than chasing all over the island after her. The tension between them had been mounting for days. Would an hour or two more make any difference?

  “It hasn’t been long since they were called away,” said Dame Diotta.

  “Who called them away?” Rath’s mission gathered fresh urgency. It did matter. He could not stand for any more time to pass with ill will between them.

  The old enchantress pointed over his shoulder. “The Oracle of Margyle. It sounded important. Then again, young ones do get anxious over trifles, don’t they? A shame about the old Oracle passing before her time. It’s an awful burden for a child that age to carry, don’t you think?”

  “Aye, it is.” Rath backed away. “My thanks. Good day to you.” He turned and strode off to the Oracle’s cottage.

  The child’s serving woman nodded readily when he asked about Maura. “The little one sent me to fetch them, and by good fortune I spied them yonder with Dame Diotta. Had some sort of vision, the child did, that she wanted to warn them about.”

  Vision? Warning? Cold fear stabbed Rath in the belly. Had the child seen more of the troubling future she’d told him about? If he’d thought a warning from the Oracle would keep Maura from going on her perilous quest, Rath would have told her, himself. But he feared she was too determined to be daunted now.

  “Are they with the Oracle?” he asked.

  The woman looked around. “I fetched them here. Then I went into the cottage to check if the bread had burnt while I was away. I wonder if the Oracle took them up to the hill. She likes talking to folks up there.”