Myla By Moonlight

by Inez Kelley

  Lunian quickly stepped behind Myla and whispered in her ear. Regally, Myla curtsied, first to him and then to his father. Tradition had been observed. A breath blew out he didn’t realize he’d been holding and Balic chuckled before gripping his arm.

  “Not so easy, is it?”

  Taric laughed and shook his head before taking Myla’s hand. It was a wonderful way to begin his morning. It got better when she went into his arms. He could have just held her like that for hours but the antechamber door opened softly and a bright copper head appeared.

  “Time.”

  Bryton’s soft tone intruded in his joy but the task ahead could not be pushed aside any longer. In the small room, tensions vaulted.

  Myla picked up the leather folder containing Elora’s letters and held them like a dagger, her jaw firmed and battle-ready. She was prepared to fight for him and he would go down swinging for every chance to be with her. They’d get through this day and embrace their future.

  “Lu, be easy,” Balic muttered, a pained flash lining his face. Lunian gasped and brushed an apologetic hand over his shoulder. Worry formed hard lines about her lips but she smiled and took his arm gingerly. Balic would not wear his sling, casting off the sign of weakness. He would appear whole and vigorous before the court. His hardened gaze landed on Taric and Taric straightened. Balic, as monarch, sat at the head of the Elders’ Council but today would have no vote. Taric was totally on his own to face Marchen and his daughter.

  Myla’s fingers found their way into his hand and he looked down into her face. He wasn’t alone. He never had been. Myla had always been with him and he would find a way to keep her forever by his side. She gave him resolve and his chin lifted.

  Duty and ritual swallowed him. The Crowned Prince of Eldwyn placed the Princess Presumptive’s hand on his arm and escorted her out of the room. They walked into the waiting flank of royal guards and down the long corridor to his trial.

  Myla felt the throng of people before they came into sight, seething like a den of serpents, hissing and snapping. The bright hall pulsed, a beating heart with a loud murmured rhythm that ricocheted from wall to wall. The hallway seemed overly dark compared to the glow from the room at the end and Myla’s skin prickled in warning.

  Bryton entered from the light. “The Marchens are taking their place.”

  Taric’s nod was silent but the entourage paused. Bryton stepped before the armed guard. Dressed in the royal successor’s colors of deep blue and silver, his fiery hair gleamed like a beacon even though his jaw was tight and serious. He led them into the now-hushed hall and her magical sense for danger twanged like a broken harp string.

  All conversation had softened before their entry but now it halted completely. Myla mimicked Taric and kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead but her magical gaze scoured for threats. While her magic searched, the woman in her fought a blush and she was suddenly very glad Taric had approved her dress. Murmurs rose regarding the braided silver on her head and the significance it carried. Her rank vaulted from special guest of the crown to future queen. To honor Taric, she kept her head high.

  The flanking guards falling to the sides, Taric led Myla straight toward the center of the room with only Bryton before him. His captain reached the small round dais half-circled by a low baluster, spun smartly on his heel and waited. Taric stopped before stepping into the circle of his judgment.

  A few feet away on a similar dais, Marchen shot evil from his silvered gaze. Elora hunched beside him, shrinking from view. Serenely beautiful, the young woman seemed blanched and frightened. She did not raise her face at all. Narrowing her eyes, Myla studied each man at each table assembled before them. Not all could meet her stare. Her jaguar began growling inside.

  “Bry, take Myla to her seat…and stay with her.” Taric’s lips barely moved.

  Bryton’s bright blue eyes flew to his in surprise and Myla whipped her head around. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I will not leave your side.”

  “Nor will I,” Bryton barked in a soft rumble.

  “Bry, take her now. If you’re my guard, guard my heart and take her.”

  Bryton swallowed and shifted but before he could move, Myla whispered in a deadly tone. “Touch me, Sir Bryton, and I break your hand while all watch. None shall part me from my charge.”

  The threat was not empty and they all knew it. Taric sighed in resignation and Myla lifted her chin higher. Every eye in the room fell to them, the weight more oppressive than doubled armor but Taric did not move onto the platform.

  Bryton furrowed his brows in confusion and his low voice barely broke the air. “You have more allies here than enemies.”

  Taric nodded but still did not move forward. He must make the step on his own but he was not alone. Myla’s protective soul battled the urge to lead the movement. She was here as his woman, not his guardian. She would not shame him by leading him for everyone to see.

  Bryton alone could give his friend assurance and allow his pride to remain intact. Two guardians, one human and one magical, locked gazes in servitude and honor, an unspoken agreement reached.

  Bryton bowed to her and pulled a bit of ancient ceremony from his bag of tricks. His head shot up, his sword leapt to his hand and his fist banged his left shoulder. The voice that rang through the hall echoed with clarity and respect but his gaze shone with heartfelt camaraderie.

  “To thee, I have pledged my life and my honor, my prince and my future king. To thee, I give the strength of my arm, the force of my blade and the sacrifice of my blood. To thee and thee alone, do I forfeit myself for the glory of thy realm. Long live the name of Segur.”

  He went to one bent knee before Taric and the brotherhood swelled between them. It filled her chest with vibrating admiration. The pageantry steeled the man beside her. Bryton knew him well. She smiled in recognition of the impish child who had become a mighty warrior and meant every word he spoke. The masculine hand that topped Bryton’s shining locks in courtly gratitude did not even tremble.

  Taric stepped into the elevated circle, Myla at his side, Bryton at his back. Shades of the king he would become blossomed.

  Heated wrath pushed at the air like waves. Myla faced the outpouring and glimpsed the hatred that darkened Emerto Marchen’s face as Balic stepped into the hall. All those seated rose, the scrape of wood to stone loud and harsh in the stillness. The king quietly led his queen to a higher table above the assembled tribunal and stood facing his son. He didn’t spare a single look for his enemy and the slight stung. Myla tasted Marchen’s bitterness like unripened cider.

  A bell chimed and the cacophony of resettling bled away to stilted calm. Myla understood little of the formality but recognized the eleven tables as provinces within Eldwyn. Emeric Marchen sat for his father at the Sotherby table, Nimon Luta for his, both glaring at the entire group. Balic at the high table represented the oldest territory and the seat of the throne.

  With great ceremony, the king lifted his golden judgment chalice and turned it upside down on the glossed wood table. He would not participate in his son’s trial. It left the eleven lords of his realm to decide his child’s fate—no tie could be reached. A knot of tension tightened in the room when Taric nodded his acceptance.

  Balic’s voice barked with command. “Elders of Eldwyn, called to judge, begin.”

  The pretty young woman Bryton had flirted with last night approached their dais. The captain stepped before her. Myla did not miss the smile in each of their eyes although they performed their duties. She handed him two lengths of white rope and he inspected them but his gaze rarely left her face. A slight pink patch marred her neck above her dress line, one Myla recognized as a whisker burn.

  “Sorry,” Bryton whispered with a hidden grin.

  “I’m not,” she replied, looking through flirty lashes. He gave her back the ropes with a wink and resumed his post. The woman approached and bowed to them.

  “I am Katina, Truthbearer for this proceeding. Please give me your wrist.”
Taric held out his left arm and she looped the rope around it twice. “For our record, please state your legal name.”

  “Taric Batu Segur.” The rope shone in brilliant white. Truth.

  “Please state an obvious untruth for verification that the falsehood rope is functioning.”

  “My eyes are green.”

  The rope hummed and blazed a luminescent red. Lie. It stayed lit until she touched it. His rope remained looped and she stepped to Myla, performing the same loose wrapping.

  “Please state your legal name.”

  “Myla.”

  Katina’s face blanked and she glanced at Taric who chuckled.

  “Myla, tell Katina your full legal name.”

  Only two days ago had Balic presented her with written, and forged, proof of her birth for the royal records. The being who was drawn from afar and formed with fire and magic now had parents and a legal identity. Taric had named her himself, drawing words from an ancient language for guardian and jaguar. “I am legally Myla Curato Felinic.”

  The rope shone bright white. Truth.

  “Please state an obvious untruth for verification the rope is functioning.”

  “I do not lie.” Alabaster beamed from her wrist. Truth.

  Katina’s eyes rounded but she bowed her head respectfully. “Understood, Lady Felinic, but the magic must be validated.”

  “My…gown is blue.”

  The rope shone with glimmering red light, far brighter than it had for Taric. Lie. Myla arched her brow. Her first lie was well documented. Katina quieted the hissing rope with a touch before joining her classmate coming from the Marchen dais. They took seats at the edge of the arena.

  A portly man dressed in red rose from his table and began addressing the crowd, outlining the charges leveled at the Crowned Prince and various rules and regulations. Myla listened with only half an ear, squeezing Taric’s arm to offer her comfort. He tilted his head and smiled softly at her. Love filled her mouth, the flavor of blackberries clear and sharp. No matter this outcome, her love would remain.

  The Inquisitor turned to the right dais. “Do you agree with the stated charges brought by you to this Council?”

  Elora’s mouth moved but no words sounded.

  A dashing older man from the northern province of Myrtlewood sighed loudly. “If she doesn’t speak up so that we may hear, her claims should be dismissed. The future of the crown is questioned here. This is no time for womanly embarrassment.”

  Marchen squeezed his daughter’s arm and she loudly yelped her agreement. Several lips firmed at his action. Marchen was not well liked among many of his fellow Elders, their distrust nearly visible in the air. The backers of his war were few but powerful, most bordering his homeland.

  The Inquisitor turned to Taric. “Prince Taric Segur, how do you answer the charge of Bridal Revocation?”

  “I deny it.”

  The Inquisitor read Taric’s letters, his business-like marriage proposal so condemning, and several lords shifted in their seats to glare at him. Many were fathers themselves and their scowls scorched the spoiled prince of legend.

  Her essence stinging with the projected barbs, Myla locked her knees to prevent shielding her charge. Taric did not need a shield. His jaw never lowered nor did his shoulders. Love and pride rose in her chest. How regal he looked. Not spoiled but steadfast, he stood by what he had done no matter how ill-advised.

  Elora’s flowery refusal and written appeal for Taric never to mention the union again erased the condemnation aimed at him, but Myla did not drop her guard. The very air vibrated with evil.

  “Do you deny you rejected the marriage proposal?” the Inquisitor asked.

  Elora, her face still downcast, shook her head. “I do not deny I rejected his proposal…but only the written one.”

  Taric’s shoulders snapped straight and his face whipped toward the right dais. His soul sang with anger and Myla’s heart leapt in time with his pulse. It comes. Treachery’s scent wafted thick like blood in the room.

  “I never spoke of marriage in person to you.” His wrist blazed white. Truth.

  “You did. Twice. And both times I accepted.” White light streamed from her arm. Truth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taric pointed to it, dark splotches of controlled anger on his cheeks. “I challenge the falsehood rope.”

  All assembled broke into spontaneous quarreling and speculation. The din was immediate and deafening but Myla heard Taric’s heavy breath beside her. Katina’s classmate hurried to the right dais. Marchen’s lips split in an oily grin and sweat trickled down Myla’s spine. This was wrong. Inside, her jaguar began to restlessly pace.

  “She speaks the truth.” The classmate’s steady tone quieted the room and every man turned to Taric with bitter glares. Fist balled, Taric raised his arm, the falsehood rope around his thick wrist plainly visible and faced the Marchens. There was no leeway in his words.

  “I offered marriage once, in ink, and never spoke to her about it again.” His wrist glowed white. Truth.

  Voices rose once more from each province, questioning the apparently mismatched truths. Evil vengeance pounded into Myla’s essence and she studied Marchen. The slithering smile twisted her belly.

  “Wait.” Myrtlewood’s lord stood and paused until all eyes fell to him. “Perhaps Lady Marchen misunderstood. It would explain what she believes to be a truth. And if Prince Taric believes he didn’t offer, then he also tells the truth. I think we need the words that were said to make our own judgment.”

  Heads bobbed in agreement before focusing on Elora. The lovely dark-haired woman finally raised her face and the anguished loathing shining from it chilled Myla’s blood. A wounded bird poised to peck at the cat who’d scratched it, Elora fumed with terrorized fury. Pale brown eyes jabbed at the left dais with embittered pain.

  “Last autumn, in Chrisumfield’s Inn, Prince Taric asked me to be his bride in plain words. He just said ‘marry me?’ and I agreed. Then he took me to his bed and the agreement was consummated.” Truth.

  “Never!” Taric shouted. Truth.

  At the tips of her nails, Myla felt claws begin to form and forced them back. The urge to rip the lying bitch’s throat out was nearly too strong to resist but it was her father’s blood Myla longed to taste. The province lords all began speaking at once but Elora silenced them with her hysterical screams.

  “You did! You know you did! I said yes to you in every way. I did. You hurt me and said it would never hurt again. The second time, at Follyswit in April, behind the elm trees with the bluebonnets in bloom. The sun was so warm we fell asleep in the glade afterward. You asked me to marry you. You did. Then that she-bitch came around and you shoved me aside. Admit it, Taric!”

  Chaos erupted. Still screaming, Elora crumpled to her knees in tears. White light blazing from her arm, she raked her hands through her ebony hair. Marchen scooped up the out-of-control woman and strode from the hall as if he couldn’t bear to have her breakdown witnessed.

  Myla was certain only she saw the icy glimmer of triumph in his snakelike eyes. Taric’s face had no color when she turned to him. Shock blanked his features until he dropped his gaze to hers.

  “Myla, I never—”

  “Peace, my prince. Truth has many shades.” Along each tiny hair, Myla’s skin buzzed with mystical intuition. It faded when the Marchens’ auras left the room, answering some of her questions. She turned her vision inward, looking not for facts, but impressions.

  “We shall observe a recess of one half hour,” the shaken voice of the Inquisitor announced. His troubled face settled on Taric. The look was echoed in each lord’s grim expression. Taric escorted a barely aware Myla from the hall.

  ab

  “Told you your flirting was going to get your ass in trouble.” Bryton’s flippancy was meant to diffuse but the strain was stretched too tight. Like dual angry metronomes, the king and prince paced, their paths crossing but never colliding. Myla watched with only part of her mind,
the other reaching through time and magic for answers.

  “I never touched that bitch, not even a kiss on the cheek.”

  “Calm down. Use your head,” Balic cautioned then threw up his hand with a snarl. “How can you both be stating the truth? It’s impossible. Magic ropes be damned, nothing more than a bunch of fancy tricks and flashing lights.”

  “Sorry I didn’t just strangle the little slut last night. I could’ve claimed it was a nightmare,” Bryton joked. No one laughed.

  “Can we show you weren’t in Follyswit—?” The king stopped his pace but Taric shook his head.

  “I was in Follyswit for a good part of April. Marchen’s forces kept me there. And all over Chrisumfield last fall. Shit, I stayed in the inn at least a dozen times.” Myla caught his saddened eyes before they avoided her gaze. “Even had a few of the barmaids. Anyone could place me there if they wanted to.”

  “And who better than your enemy would be able to chart your location?” Myla heard her voice before she felt her lips move. Drawing her essence back into her body, she rose and walked to Taric. “Am I permitted to speak in the hall?”

  Taric’s puzzled frown creased lines between his brows and Myla clenched her fingers to prevent smoothing them. A wild impulse to grab his hand and run into the sunshine gripped her, to whisk him away from the stress of his nobility. She could nearly feel the brush of grass against her legs skimming through the yellow-blossomed meadow, taste the sticky pollen against her tongue and the wind’s kiss along her shoulders. Her temporal heart pounded. It would be easy to escape the guards and hide from the world. Carefree and laughing, he could lay his head in her lap and let her run her fingers through golden silk and stare into maple eyes. She could make him happy, she knew, far away from all the strain the crown brought.

  He shoved the sapphire coronet higher to rub his temple and her whimsical wish evaporated, faded on an exhale. Taric would never be happy if he shunned his duty. He was the Crowned Prince. It was not a title. It was who he was, down to the very last eyelash.