A moment later, Keelia glanced up to see her cousin standing over her, a frown on Ariana’s pretty face. “What’s wrong?”
Keelia sighed. “I forget sometimes that your empathic abilities were heightened along with your gift for healing.” She forced a smile. “A forgetful seer. How very unfortunate.”
“Don’t try to make light or change the subject. Queen or not, you can’t lie to me.”
“I don’t lie.”
“No, but you do conceal on occasion.”
Keelia set the makings for their supper aside and faced her cousin. Yes, she was Queen. Queen of the Anwyn, a psychic like no other, a shape-shifter not yet accomplished in her new skills, and a soldier in this blasted war just as Ariana was a soldier. “Fine. If you will not allow me to spare you, then I will tell you all the truth you seek.” She reached out and touched her cousin’s arm, her caress kinder than the tone of her words. “Prince Ciro is in the palace. Arik did not take your warning to heart and…”
Ariana’s face fell. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Not yet.” And that was a pity for the emperor, who would be better off if he had died quickly.
Ariana turned about sharply. “We’re going back,” she said. “If Emperor Arik is still alive, we can save him. We can…”
Keelia caught her cousin from behind and turned her about. “We cannot save him. No one can. If we turn back, your efforts will be wasted. We must move forward.”
Ariana did not cry. She had seen too much horror, too much sadness, to sob for one more death. But tears glistened in her eyes. “He was always kind to me.”
“Emperor Arik was a good man.”
“I can’t bear the thought of Ciro in his place.”
“That was meant to be. How long he remains there is not yet known. That’s why we must move forward.”
Ariana’s fears as a soldier were replaced by her fears as a wife, and Keelia saw those fears long before Ariana spoke of them. “Before we left, Arik signed the papers naming Sian as his illegitimate son and his chosen successor. By rights, when Arik dies, Sian will be emperor.”
“I know.” She and Joryn had been two of a few trusted witnesses to that document.
“If Ciro finds those papers—”
“When,” Keelia interrupted in a sharp voice. “When he finds the papers.”
Ariana’s face went deathly pale. “He will send his cursed soulless soldiers after Sian, won’t he?”
“Yes,” Keelia whispered.
“When?”
Some information came to Keelia with such ease, she did not even need to reach for it. She simply knew, as surely as she knew the sky was blue and Joryn’s eyes were green.
But other knowledge did not come to her so easily. It came like a puzzle, incomplete and difficult to piece together.
She closed her eyes and thought of Ciro, Emperor Arik, and that paper naming Sian Sayre Chamblyn as his son and successor. She saw, in her mind, the way Arik’s hand had shaken as he’d signed that paper. She saw where he’d hidden it, after all the witnesses had departed.
“Three days,” she whispered.
“Three days!” Ariana snapped. “That’s not—”
“Three days after Arik dies, Emperor Ciro will find the hidden document that threatens his right to sit on the throne.” Keelia opened her eyes and looked squarely at her cousin, so Ariana would have no doubts as to the seriousness of what she saw. “And when that happens, he will send everything he has after your husband.”
5
SINCE THEY’D RIDDEN AWAY FROM THE FARMHOUSE, Rayne had been looking at him oddly. No, not oddly, exactly. He knew that moony expression; it was simply unexpected from her.
It wasn’t as though Lyr didn’t enjoy the company of beautiful women, as any other man would, but he divided the segments of his lives very neatly and he did not allow them to mingle in a way which would make his life messy and complicated. As Prince of Swords, he had access to women whose duty and skill was to give and take pleasure. There was a time and place for those women. It had been mentioned more than once that when the time came for him to marry, he might wed one of the King’s five daughters. The princesses were fine women, but they were not of the same type as the women with whom Lyr sometimes passed a night—or a day or two.
When he was in the midst of a mission, he did not think of either type of woman, neither concubines nor princesses, and he had never been entrusted with a mission of such importance. There was no pleasure in war, no pleasurable moments of respite—not when his mind and heart must be focused only on victory. To allow his mind or any other part of his body to wander might mean defeat, and they could not afford to lose this war.
And yet the glances Rayne had begun to cast his way reminded him of the princesses and of the concubines. It was impossible that she might be like both, and yet he could not help but wonder…
No, he could not wonder. She was likely trying to seduce him with those looks, as she had seduced Til and Swaine with her silly lessons in cursing. Lessons she had apparently given up. Both of the soldiers had finally told her that she did not curse well and should probably abandon the attempt.
Maybe she was suffering from an abundance of gratitude, and had twisted that gratitude into something it was not. He had never been so desperate as to take advantage of a woman who did not completely understand what she was getting into, and gratitude? It was a poor reason for that inviting glance she was casting his way.
It did not matter where her thoughts had taken her, he could not allow himself to become entangled with Rayne, daughter of a dead magician, beloved to a monster, future mother to a dark fiend if he was not able to protect her from her fate. Since he might be called upon to take her life, it would be best to ignore those meaningful glances she had begun casting his way.
The journey had been uneventful thus far, and Lyr was getting restless. The back of his neck itched, as did his spine, and he felt tension all through his body, from the short hair on the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Had there been time, he would’ve stopped and expended energy in sparring with the men, but they moved endlessly forward without time for any of life’s pleasures, large or small.
Rayne was becoming more accustomed to sleeping on the ground apparently, since for the past two nights she’d nodded off quickly and remained asleep until one of the men awakened her to resume the journey. She wasn’t getting enough rest—none of them were—but she never complained. Not to him, at least. He was not a part of the conversations she had with his men. Cursing lessons aside, Til and Swaine remained smitten with her.
If her death became necessary, would they protect her? Would they choose to fight against him if he had no other choice but to kill?
At the moment Til and Swaine were sleeping. Segyn patrolled the perimeter of camp regularly, and so did Lyr. In an hour or so they would be relieved by the others. Even though all had been peaceful thus far, they could not let their guard down.
Certain that the perimeter was secure, Segyn joined Lyr at a distance from those who slept. The older man, the scarred warrior, had been at Lyr’s side for so many years he wasn’t sure he could remember when Segyn hadn’t been around. As a teacher, a warrior, and in recent years a friend, Segyn had always been a part of Lyr’s life.
His voice lowered, Segyn said, “She is not for you, boy.”
No one but Segyn would dare to address the Prince of Swords as boy, but Segyn often did—when no one else was around to hear. Lyr did not take offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Segyn snorted. “I am not blind nor an idiot, and no one knows you the way I do, except maybe your family, and even then—”
“Yes, yes, you know things even they do not,” Lyr responded impatiently. Segyn had accompanied him when he’d first drunk too much whiskey, and he’d stood in the hallway when Lyr had lain with his first woman. Though his father was often open in discussing such matters, it was Segyn who was willing to discuss specifics, who was w
illing to answer the questions Lyr didn’t dare ask a parent.
“The world is full of pretty girls,” Segyn whispered. “This one would be more trouble than most.”
“I understand that well, and I have no intention of serving as anything other than an escort.”
Again, Segyn snorted. “She keeps making eyes at you and you have begun to look like you’re about to explode.”
“I’m perfectly in control,” Lyr insisted. The older man’s response was not unexpected, and Lyr added, “And if you snort at me again, I’ll drop you in rank and put Swaine in your place for the remainder of the journey.”
“You will not,” Segyn said with confidence, but he did not snort again.
The night was very quiet. Til snored a bit, and on occasion a small critter scurried in the forest beyond their camp, but for the moment the silence was heavy.
“I mean no disrespect, m’lord,” Segyn said seriously, “but you don’t know what kind of trouble a woman like that one can bring you.”
“I have no intention—”
“Let me finish, just in case your mind wanders in an unfortunate direction in days to come.”
Lyr nodded crisply, giving his permission.
“You are a fine leader. You’re a gifted swordsman and I’ve never known one more dedicated to his people and his destiny, but as a man…as a man you’re not quite done.”
Lyr studied Segyn’s rough profile by the light of a low-burning fire. “I am not a loaf of bread.”
“Are you not? Are we all not such? The dough is your basic composition, the gifts from your parents, whether those gifts be magical or as simple as the color of your eyes and the size of your feet. As years go by, your mind and body are molded. Kneaded. Shaped. You rise, perhaps, and then you bake for a long while until you’re done.”
“Is this some sort of kitchen philosophy?”
“I had an affair with a cook once. A kitchen helper, more rightly. It lasted several years. I was not much older than you when it began.” He cut his eyes to Lyr with censure. “While the love lasted, it was wonderful, but in the end it was quite ugly. You could say I was burned. You, m’lord, have never been burned. You haven’t even been toasted, if truth be told. Women adore you, no man can best you sword to sword, your family loves you, and you have many physical gifts—strength, beauty, a steady hand. You have never known the heartache of betrayal, the agony of loss, the sting of rejection. Perhaps you never will. Perhaps your life has been blessed and you will never know any of those pains, but if you never know loss, then you will never be done.”
“What is the purpose of this conversation?” Lyr asked impatiently.
Segyn was silent for a long moment. “I do not wish to see you burned at this time, boy.” Again, his tone was that of friend and mentor, not subservient. He nodded toward a sleeping Rayne. “That woman could singe the hair off your very head. I am glad to hear that you are not so foolish as to think that the two of you might—”
“No, I am not so foolish.”
“If you think of changing your mind in that area, speak to me and I will tell you all the ugly details of what happened with me and my kitchen maid when I was not much older than you.”
“Did she singe the very hair off your head?” Lyr asked, and he smiled when Segyn responded by rubbing a hand on his bald scalp.
“That she did, boy. That she did.”
THE TERRAIN WAS SO DIFFERENT FROM HER MOUNTAIN home that Rayne was fascinated. To the north were distant mountains, while grassy plains spread far and wide. To the south the landscape was entirely flat, and in the distance she saw what appeared to be lowlying water and stark, tall trees.
Swampland. She had read about it but had never thought to see the swamp firsthand. As far as she was concerned, the narrow, infrequently traveled road brought her close enough to the swamp for study. In the books she’d read, there had been much about snakes and large ratlike creatures and a reptile called croc which was capable of snapping off a man’s head with its sharp teeth. The drawing in the book had shown a large mouth opened wide, and there were rows upon rows of teeth.
She did not wish to see a croc. That one drawing would suffice.
Tiller rode close by, taking an interest in her even though she had given up on her cursing lessons. If it was necessary that she tarnish her soul, she’d have to find another way. If the curse didn’t come from the heart, would it affect her soul at all? She thought not. She thought that perhaps whatever sin was practiced had to be embraced for it to touch the soul. Whether for good or for ill, whether an act of kindness or a transgression, one’s actions had to come from the heart.
As they often did, her eyes wandered to the man who led their party. Lyr had barely looked her way in the past two days. Was he angry with her? Bored? Annoyed? At times he seemed to be all three at once.
“He’s to marry a princess, you know.”
Tiller’s words took her by surprise. Rayne’s head snapped around to face her escort. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Prince of Swords, Lord Lyr, he is to marry one of the King’s daughters. Sylia, most likely, though some say Princess Erinda is the most beautiful and they would make the better match.”
Rayne wished she did not blush so easily. A heat rose to her cheeks, but she ignored the telling sign and kept her voice distant, as if she were not at all interested in the subject. “How very nice for him.”
“Nice indeed,” Tiller said. “To have one’s choice of princesses would be an honor for any man.”
Rayne’s lips pursed. She had never actually given any consideration to a future with Lyr, but she had admired him, and to have any and all possibility of more snatched away was annoying. Even though he was only the object of a fantasy, she did not want a future wife intruding on that fantasy.
“He has a choice, you say. Do the princesses themselves have no say in the matter?”
“Of course not,” Tiller said, as if such an idea were unthinkable. “And that is just as well, I suppose.”
“Why?” She could not help the word that sprung from her mouth. What woman would not want a man like Lyr Hern as her husband?
Tiller looked away before he turned to her again. “His family is rather…odd.”
“Many men have odd families, I imagine.” None odder than her own, with a wizard father who couldn’t decide if he wanted to guard her from all harm or offer her up to his compatriots like a tasty supper, and a mother who was, perhaps, not all that she’d appeared to be.
“He has Anwyn cousins who shift into wolves at the rise of the full moon. His mother and his sisters are witches, and quite powerful ones at that. I hear one of his aunts is not safe to be around when she is angry—or aroused—as her very state of mind can affect the weather and the crops and the fertility of a woman’s womb. His eldest cousin died and returned from the Land of the Dead,” he said in a lowered voice, as if he were in awe. “Almost all of his cousins possess some sort of magic. Since the King and his daughters have no magical abilities, marrying into such a family might be a bit daunting, don’t you think?”
“I imagine so,” she said softly.
“Your father was a wizard,” Tiller said. “Are you…”
“I am like my mother, without magical abilities. And I like it that way, though I imagine there are times when having unnatural powers would be convenient.” In truth, she did not like what magic had done to her father. Would he have been a better man if his desire for power hadn’t led him astray? Would he have been a better father? As she turned her attention to the back of Lyr’s head, she asked, “What is his ability? I haven’t seen him practice any sort of magic, and we’ve been on the road for many days.”
“He does not use his gift often,” Tiller said. “But I have seen it once before. Well, as much as any man can see what he does. He is a sight to behold when he uses his magic.”
“What does he do?” Her father had practiced spells for as long as she could remember, and she had never cared for them. S
he hadn’t cared for their unnatural way or the very stink that had risen in the air as her father worked.
“He stops time,” Tiller whispered.
Rayne’s head jerked about. “No one can stop time.”
“He does. He stops time for all but himself, and he moves among us while we are stuck and he is not. He might be right before you, and then a blink of the eye later he’s gone. He might be to the right or to the left or gone altogether. It’s quite alarming.”
Rayne recalled the moment in the basement when she’d been so certain she was about to die. Jiri’s sword had been flying toward her throat…and then it had not. Had Lyr used his magic on her, on all of them? Had he saved her life with his gift for stopping time?
Knowing what he could do shouldn’t make him less attractive, but it did. Heaven above, she was tired of the machinations that came with power and the actions men would take to achieve it. She was sick of manipulations and secrets and enchantment. From here on out, she wanted to know what was real and what was not. A simple life, that’s what she wanted…if she was lucky or smart enough to escape the plans Ciro had for her. A simple life, where she would never need to question what was real and what was not. A simple husband who would like her. Who would even perhaps one day love her. Simple children who would not wield magic or be sought and used for their gifts.
Lyr, with his nicely crafted body and eagle eyes and ability to halt time, was not at all simple.
SHE WAS TOO OLD FOR CONSTANT TRAVEL, FOR SLEEPING on the ground, for wearing the same frock day after day, for eating only what they could carry or catch.
“I have been horribly spoiled in the past few years,” Isadora said as she knelt beside the stream to catch a handful of water and bring it to her face. The splash was refreshing and rejuvenating.
It had been a long time since the Fyne sisters had spent this much time together, and as the days passed Isadora realized how very much she’d missed Sophie and Juliet. They were all older, but they had not changed so very much. The youngest sister, Sophie, was still unendingly optimistic and sunny, and Juliet was down to earth and intuitive. Isadora herself was the eldest sister, the caretaker of them all, the practical one. No, they had not changed very much at all.
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