by Inez Kelley
Nimon appeared in the corner of his vision, lounging voyeuristically on the wall, watching the lusty display. Watch all you want, turd boy, but you touch and I’ll pluck your eyes out for sport.
Mouth gliding along his ear, Myla whispered, “Flee now. This night Marchen is not your threat but Luta. Marchen knows nothing of the plot afoot. Luta is the rat in this tale. He seeks the ransom your tortured hide will bring to the highest bidder willing to offer the most protection. There is no peace to be found here. You will not be allowed to leave your bedchamber should you seek it. Already a set of four guards stand in the shadows above. Go now, Taric.”
“Not without my sword.” He palmed her hips and yanked her into him. Nimon’s rat-like eyes followed Taric’s hand, which delved under her skirt and caressed the soft thigh inching along his leg.
“The sword is nothing. Leave it.” Sharp teeth nipping his neck hid her angry hiss.
How could she still taste of blackberries? His tongue diving into her mouth, Taric drank until his head swam giddily with fruited lust. Only at the snicker behind him did he remember this wasn’t real. He licked down her jaw. “I will not leave the Segur sword in a house of traitors.”
Against his body, her chest stilled. She raked sharp nails down his back. Unconsciously he arched into her, forcing his throbbing heat into her soft belly. Her low moan barely reached his ears but her words filled his brain. “Very well. Then I shall retrieve it. Wait in the courtyard beneath the window.”
“How?” One more sip, just one. I need one more. Their lips and tongues dancing, he tasted her laugh.
“Smile, Taric.” She pushed him back, this time with full blazing lust written across her face.
But she turned to Nimon and crooked her finger, inviting the skinny whelp to join them. His small eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He stared at her and then at Taric. Taric did her bidding and smiled at the young man though it turned his stomach. His eyes shining with clear enthusiasm, Nimon hurried toward them. Myla caressed his cheek and dropped her hand to his neck. Her fingers whitened and Nimon’s eyes rolled. He crumpled to her feet in a heap.
She whirled on Taric. “Go! Stay in the shadows! I will get your sword, my charge.”
“But the guards—” She stilled him with a finger to his swollen lips. Then she shrank. Between his feet, an inky barn cat twirled and purred. Two half-moons of white shone behind the cat’s ears…just like Myla’s combs.
Taric gaped. “Soot?” The beloved pet of his childhood suddenly had new dimensions.
The Myla-cat shook her tail at him and winked. The damn cat winked! In a flash of midnight, the cat ran up the staircase. A passing soldier didn’t even glance at the cat’s path. Taric sank into the shaded night. Humid air descended like a wet, wool blanket and he kept his back pressed to the stone walls.
Beneath the shutters he’d opened earlier, he stepped into the moonlight and whispered, “Myla?”
Her bright face appeared above him. The scabbarded sword of his ancestors held in one hand, she leaned out the window and let go. It fell straight into his hands.
“Go. I will follow,” she urged, scanning the darkness from her high perch.
She can bleed. Panic welled inside him at the thought of her blood spilling again. Buckling the belt quickly, he vowed he wouldn’t leave her. “No, now. Come on.”
The frown she blazed on him tapered her luminescent eyes. “Do not argue, Taric. Go. Bryton waits at the stables.”
Taric pressed his lips tight and glared. Her words rang through his memory. I obey when you call. “Myla, return to me, my guardian. Return and stay within until I call for you.”
Her mouth open, she stared at him with horror before purple vapor surrounded her and she misted through the night against her will. Apparently she was incensed because, for the first time, her re-entry seared him with lasting pain.
His teeth clenched against the burn, Taric hurried to the stables. Bryton was already mounted and threw Falcon’s reins to his outstretched hands. Taric swung his leg over the saddle but couldn’t stop his cry when a sharp stab pierced him from within.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” Taric gasped and a wave of torturous nausea blanketed him.
“What happened? Myla just said to get the horses and blew pepper in my face.”
“My ass was on the dessert tray and Myla is pissed. Let’s ride for home.”
The thunder of horse hooves shook the drawbridge in the same second the alarm sounded within the bailey walls. The Crown Prince of Eldwyn and his peace-talk half-platoon became prey hunted in the night by not one but three full battalions. Only their magically aided head start allowed them to escape.
ab
The pain never really left so Taric knew Myla was still furious. His hair clung damply to his head and his thighs quivered with exertion. Riding full gallop the entire way home to avoid slaughter, his half-platoon had arrived when the moon crested high in its arc. Falcon was lathered and puffing beneath him while Myla dug into his soul with razor claws.
When Taric least expected it, a stinging twinge of fire erupted in his gut, nearly forcing him to his knees. Damn, she has a temper. His hand pressed tight to the healed wound, he leaned over a writing table and wheezed in agony. The anteroom to his father’s chamber was normally his stepmother’s domain and he rarely ventured in unless it could not be helped. Primada had been rather strict with the rule, scolding a younger Taric on many occasions. Her successor, Lunian, held no such formality. He liked the second stepmother better for many reasons.
Taric hated pulling his father from bed but he needed answers and could not wait. King Balic had kept a vital fact from him, an explanation of this damn war’s beginnings. Why? A nagging sense of being cosseted had grown during the ride home, stiffening muscles already battered from the fast pace.
“Taric?”
“Papa,” he grunted. The ache eased immediately. Thankfully, Myla respected his father’s presence enough to allow him to be able to speak without torture.
The deep breath he drew, the first since Myla had returned to him, smelled of horse and sweat.
He relayed the events of the day and Balic’s face evolved from shock to anger to abhorrence. The king paced the room, his long strides eating the distance from one side to the other in chomping bites.
At the mention of Myla, he halted. Two sets of eyes that matched met and held. “You see her still?”
“I always have. I just stopped telling you because…I know you don’t care for magic.” He loved his father and pledged his devotion with ease, both as his son and his vassal.
“Hmm.” Balic continued with his pacing, waving his hand for Taric to finish the tale.
Exhausted, Taric hung his head and ended his story before lowering into a sturdy chair. Careful to keep his muddy boots from the rug, he watched his father pace in quiet contemplation before speaking. “Marchen said he knew my mother.”
Balic slowed, his spine straightening and his chin rising before he faced his son. “Yes, they grew up as neighbors.”
“I got the sense it was more than that.”
A dark gold brow arched at his words but Balic didn’t deny it. “On his part only. Tarsha was my heartmate. You’re proof enough of that.”
“And you didn’t think that was important-enough information for me to have?”
“There was nothing to tell you. It was a private matter between Tarsha and myself.”
“You should have told me.”
“Taric, son or not, my love life is none of your business.”
Fury churned with rabid snarls through Taric’s gut and infused his aching muscles with vigor. Boot mud forgotten, he bounded to his feet, face hot with anger. “Papa, those are my men dying out there, mine. I’m the one wading through blood. You stepped aside for me to lead them in this war. The hell with your love life, you owed me the truth behind the cause!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me!”
Smarting for being ca
lled on his behavior like an adolescent, Taric averted his face. He forced calm respect into his tone. “I’ve been searching for a reason, a motive for Marchen’s hatred so I can end this death wave, and all this time you knew it. He loved her, didn’t he? This isn’t a battle for land or money. It’s revenge for a woman you both loved but who chose you.”
Resentment carved deep lines along the edges of the king’s short goatee, circling a mouth firmed in anger. He faced Taric with a straight spine and a jaw thrust forward. “Yes. It’s a war of retribution, not territory or gold or anything else. There’s no end to it until either he or I am dead. You’re right, I should’ve told you the truth before now. You’re not a boy. That fault is mine. But I did nothing to wrong that man except love a woman who loved me back. He couldn’t accept that and has been consumed with a bitter loathing to see anything I possess destroyed. He’s mad and his madness only grows more every season.”
“I don’t understand.” Taric shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “So Mother chose you and it hurt his pride? His ego is how this bloodbath began?”
“You’ve never been in love, Taric. I don’t know if you can understand it.”
“No, but I’m not exactly a virgin, either. I just don’t see how loving one woman could start a war.”
A soft snort accompanied Balic’s shaking head. “You’re talking about a different type of love. Sex is easy. Love is hard. It’s harder than any battle you’ll ever fight, any steel you’ll ever swing and any shield you’ll ever grip. It has more power than a thunderstorm. Can love of one woman start a war? Oh yes. That and so much more.”
“Bluntly, love sounds like a pain in the ass I can do without.”
Balic walked away, hands clasped behind his back, and gazed out the open window at the night sky. Sorrow colored his words with never-forgotten memory. “Then you’d miss the sweetest part of life. Love is a sword. It has two edges. The sweet…well, I hope one day you do discover that. The sour I pray you never taste. Both sides cut deep. Perhaps, being Segurs, our love is deeper. The bondmarks… Not all heartmates match, Taric. Some suffer knowing their beloved is bound to someone else. But that isn’t the worst torment a Segur faces. When death claims your bondmate, madness rushes in. Your foothold, your grasp of reality is…strained beyond words.”
As if pushing back the remembered demons of insanity, Balic ran his hands through short dark-honey hair and sighed. Taric saw not a king, not a father, but a man before him, a man who carried burdens no one could comprehend. The bitter words he’d flung now felt petty.
“When your mother died, I didn’t think I’d… Well, let’s just say I wasn’t myself for several hours. Maybe I never would’ve found my mind again except I had no choice. You cried. You needed to be fed and…I had to remain sane for you, for the crown, for Eldwyn. Marchen didn’t have that grounding. His love shattered his already-weakened mind. Tarsha never belonged to him despite what he wanted and he hates me for it.” He drew a deep breath and stared deep into his son’s eyes. “He hates me for you.”
“Me?”
“You’re my son, mine and Tarsha’s. Marchen has no children and never will. He’s a Segur on his mother’s side, although he denies it.”
“Wait.” Sitting back in the chair, Taric massaged his temple. “He said he left his son to oversee the fleet. I’ve met the little rat-face weasel.”
“Not his blood child. His late wife’s…although that’s another secret he’ll never reveal.”
“And Elora?”
“Also his wife’s. She had a lover for most of their marriage. That’s a not-so-well-hidden secret.”
The inner door opened with a soft rush and Queen Lunian entered the antechamber, tying the sash of her crimson silk robe. Long brown hair spilled over her shoulder and there was a crease along one cheek from her pillow. Concern slowed her steps. Her bright eyes darted rapidly between the two men. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Lu.” Balic’s face softened at the sight of his new bride but his voice was hard. “Luta has aligned himself with Marchen and attempted to use Taric as bait for a royal mousetrap.”
“What?” Shock paled her rosy cheeks and she rushed to Taric’s side to run frantic hands over his arms and chest, searching for wounds. “That traitor. Are you hurt? What did he do?”
An indulgent look passed from Taric to his father. Lunian was far too young to be his mother but it hadn’t stopped her from trying to fuss over him. With a gentle smile, he pulled her hands away. “Never fear, Stepmother, I managed to get away before one hair had been touched. I’m sorry to bother you so late at night, I just—”
“Taric, bother us! That’s what we are here for.” A gentle lift of her lips accompanied a swat to his knee and a mock scowl. “Balic, tell your son to let me worry over him. It is a queen’s right…and a stepmother’s.”
“And a father’s.” The tenderness in his father’s gaze pinched Taric’s chest but it was quickly shielded behind determination. “Lu, go back to bed. We’re nearly finished here. I’ll be along in a moment.”
She took one long moment to assess for herself that Taric was unharmed before smiling softly. “Do not keep him long, Balic. And you, sir, go to bed straightaway…after you bathe. You reek of horse sweat and look exhausted.” She patted his knee then crossed to Balic. Taric averted his face when she brushed a brief kiss across her husband’s mouth. The heavy door closed without sound.
“You chose a good bride,” Taric said simply to fill empty space.
“I did.” A deep sigh lowered the ruler’s shoulders and he stepped to Taric’s side. Like when he was a boy, Taric felt his father’s hand land on his crown and gently rub his hair. “She’s right. Go to bed. I think I gave you too much to think about in one night. Think on it tomorrow.”
“Papa…the Segur bonding marks and their powers? Are they real? Or are they a myth?” The soft question seeped out before he thought better of it and Taric clenched his eyes in preparation for the reply he already knew in his heart.
“Yes, they’re real. I carry your mother’s…and so does Marchen. They’re both a blessing and a curse. There’s no love like the love of bonded heartmates. And there’s no torture like losing one.” The hand left his head and Balic sucked in a deep breath. “Have you—”
“No. I don’t have a mark. I just wondered.”
“You will one day…when one woman touches your heart like no other.”
Taric’s thoughts jumped immediately to Myla. What if the one who touches my heart isn’t real?
Chapter Four
Volcanic fury channeled through her being and Myla lashed out with formless fists. Fear merged with anger, fed by a fuel she did not recognize. How dare he command me to stay within! If a danger arose, he had bound her hands and she could do nothing for him. She kept her guard high, searching, reaching, detecting, but no impending threat loomed while he raced to Eldwyn. Each time he began to relax, she struck out again, sending a current of agony through his core. Though he had experienced pain in his life, he had never felt her wrath. And she made it hurt viciously. Taric would not be so cavalier of her limitations next time he grew angry.
His thoughts resounded in her consciousness, echoing over and over with the need to get answers, to understand, to stop the destruction. A dull pain formed within her, sensing his confusion, his turmoil. Arms with no substance ached to hold him and she shied from the yearning. She should not feel those emotions for him. In a wave of irritation, she blasted outward with a volley of short painful spikes and heard him gasp.
Satisfied Taric was suffering just enough to learn a lesson, Myla shifted her focus to the tumultuous emotions swirling through her. A field of yellow shimmered into memory and she relived each sensation. The explosion of flavors, the caress of the wind, the tickle of the sun on her bare arms all faded away. Taric had kissed her and she’d kissed him…and she had responded as a woman. Fear of the unknown wrapped around her and pressed deep into her essence. The imprint of his mouth
still lingered.
Myla fought a formless sadness, tasting the first wishes to be more than magic, to be human. Were she human perhaps she might understand the emotions flowing through her when his mouth pressed to hers. But it was not mean to be, could never be. She was his guardian, nothing more. No matter how her body responded to his touch.
To protect him tonight, she’d played the whore to his advances. It shamed her that the role had been so easy to imitate. Taric’s hand in her hair and his eyes on her body thrust her heart rhythm to speeds unimagined. Not even a wrestling match or battle could produce the breathless burn his lips had when tracing her throat. Keeping him safe should have been her only desire but he’d cupped her breast and her mind had scattered.
She had given no real thought why she appeared as a woman to him. Maybe a male guardian would have better served him. Perhaps her gender was because his mother had created her. Had Tarsha wished her to be able to comfort her child without fear of replacing his father in his young eyes? It didn’t matter, female she was and could be nothing other. But she had never felt as female, as feminine, as when he pressed against her with that part of him which was most male. The salt of his skin tingled her tongue, coating it with thick wine-like desire. She could not drink in enough of his taste.
Myla forced her thoughts from her lusty yen and focused on her anger. Taric had placed himself in harm’s way needlessly. She knew him. He acted to protect her like one of his subjects. She was the protector, not him. The twisted logic wrenched another jolt of venom from her essence and she fought to prevent lashing out in the presence of his father. How could Taric be so uncaring of his well-being? He had bound her with magical ties and should danger arise, he would die while she watched from within. Helpless.