WindBorn

by Windborn (lit)

  "I am not a coward," she said, but something kept her sitting in the middle of her bed with her legs crossed tailor fashion, her hands clenched in her lap as she listened to the wild revelry.

  She thought of Glade and tried to envision him changing into a wolfen but the only image that would come was of feral scarlet eyes glowing from a shadowed face blurred by thick fur. In her mind she heard the click of claws upon the marble floor outside her room and looked up from the jacquard print of the coverlet.

  Something scraped against the portal and she tensed, her back tightening, her head cocked slightly as she strained to hear another sound. When it came, her heart thudded heavily in her chest and she eased from the bed, her bare feet soundless as they touched the floor. She slid like a wraith to the place where her blade hung in its scabbard and with as little sound as possible she withdrew it--though common sense told her there was no way anything could get past the locked security of that weighty door.

  Silently and stealthily she crept to the door. Her fingers flexed around the handle of her weapon as she placed her ear to the door.

  It was a soft, mewling sound that made the hairs stand up on her arms and she jerked her head back. The noise came again, making her think of a lost child whimpering, the resonance giving the impression of great loneliness and hurt. Then something scratched lightly at the door even as that pitiful whining came once more.

  And she knew.

  Hunkering down at the panel, she put her free hand against the wood and called his name.

  "Glade?"

  The mournful cry acknowledged her question and the very heart inside her chest ached for him.

  "I'm here, my love," she said. She stroked the door. "I'm waiting for you."

  The scratching sound came again and something thumped against the door. She had the impression he was bumping it with his shoulder.

  "It's all right," she whispered. "I love you."

  Tears crept into her eyes as she heard the low, miserable whine from the other side of the door a moment before she heard the claws clicking against the marble. She listened until the sound stopped then hung her head.

  She knelt that way for several minutes until her joints began to ache and she pushed up and returned to the scabbard to re-sheath her sword. She glanced at the window, shored up her resolve then walked over to push aside the drapes. Looking down into the courtyard where wolves frolicked--chasing one another and playfully engaging in mock combat--she spied him almost immediately for he was looking up at her window.

  Lauryl drew in an awed breath for he was magnificent. As handsome in his wolfen form as in his human persona, he commanded the attention of the beasts cantering about him. His coat was a gleaming reddish brown in the moonlight and his pale green eyes--with their chatoyant glow--were mesmerizing. She saw him switch his tail and smiled, thinking it a most handsome extension of his long, lean body with its powerful flanks.

  "You are quite the stud, Wolfboy," she complimented and knew he had intercepted her thought for he actually grinned up at her, his fangs bright and shiny though as lethal looking as anything she'd ever seen. She laughed until she saw him turn his head to look at an imposing white wolf that had obviously demanded his attention. Her laughter died as she watched him limp toward the other creature and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was in great pain.

  She had to turn away for she could not bear seeing him hurting. Going to the bed, she lay across it and released the tears that were suddenly stinging her vision.

  He sat down on his haunches and stared up at her room until the first pale streaks of morning light began to brighten the sky. He was tired from his silent vigil and his back was an agony unto itself. Most of his tribe was strolling toward the keep to take a long morning nap in their human form to store up energy for another night communing with the Moon.

  He yawned and lifted his rump off the cold ground. He desperately wanted to shake himself but he knew that would cause more pain so he contented himself with a quick flex of his back muscles, whining softly when the pull brought a twinge of misery to his body. Padding slowly toward the keep, he took one last look up at her window. Though he had lost the ability to speak, he had not lost his ability to feel and the thoughts that were running through his tired brain were all over Lauryl.

  Come here, Glade!" his mother called out to him and he lowered his head to see her standing in the doorway in human form with her hands on her hips, a stern look on her face, a look of battle sparking her stare.

  What now? He wondered as he picked up his pace.

  "Go dress," his mother ordered as he reached her side. "And be quick about it. We will be in the throne room. Don't make me send one of your brothers after you!"

  Glade loped up the stairs and nudged the door to his room open with his snout. As soon as he was over the threshold, he reverted to his human form, gritting his teeth to the absolute agony the transition brought. His eyes watered from the pain lancing his lacerated flesh and he dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from moaning. He eyed the clothes already laid out for him and wished he didn't have to put on the cotton shirt. Grimacing, he snatched the offending garment from the bed and shrugged into it, his jaw clamped tightly closed. The pants were equally telling on his battered body but he managed to get them buttoned, his shirt tucked and his boots pulled on in short order. Flexing his shoulders against the rub of the material on his wounds, he left his chamber and headed for the throne room.

  They were all there: his parents, the two Magi who turned to give him a stern look, the two elderly women who represented the tribe's women's council, his brothers and sisters, and the Master-at-Arms whose face bore a great degree of strain. The balcony doors were open and the King and Queen and Prince Ridge, their Heir-Apparent was standing outside, looking out over the front of the fortress.

  "What's happening?" Glade asked.

  "Join us, Glade," Ridge said, looking around. "You have visitors."

  An uncomfortable spectral finger of dread scraped down between Glade's back as he walked to the balcony. His eldest brother moved back so Glade could see what had engaged the attention of the entire court. Taking in the sight that stretched out beyond the protection of the keep's lowered portcullis, he blinked and blinked again, his mouth dropping open in utter astonishment.

  Hell Hags in the thousands were sitting on massive destriers clad in ebony armor, the segmented crinets that covered the horses' necks and chanfron faceplates gleaming in the early morning sunlight. The warrioresses were likewise fitted in black battle gear and armed to the teeth with lances and broadswords, battle axes and both long and crossbows.

  The one in the front--clad in full battle armor brandishing a long trident pike in her gauntleted hand--rode forward. The beast upon which she was perched was a high-stepping brute with an escutcheon upon the faceplate of his armor that resembled a pitchfork. "I am Torreya, Queen of Bandar," the woman proclaimed. "I seek Glade of the Faolchúnna."

  Glade cleared his throat, feeling the sweat breaking out upon his upper lip. He glanced uneasily at his father then went to the balcony rail. "That would be me," he replied.

  "Where is my daughter?" the Queen demanded.

  "Your daughter?" he asked, brows drawing together. He lifted his shoulders. "I don't know."

  Even from that distance he could see Queen Torreya's eyes widen. "You don't know?" she thundered.

  "Why would I?" he countered. "I've never met your daughter."

  "You deny knowing her?" Torreya challenged.

  "Aye, I do."

  The hell-hags went completely still--so still you could have heard a pin drop. Their Queen kicked her mount forward a bit and the jangle of the horses' trappings was loud in the still air. With force, she drove the trident into the ground and behind her the warrioresses skirled a chilling ululation that made the hair on Glade's arms stand up. The cry began a thunderous trill.

  "Oh, hell that can't be good," Ridge groaned.

  "Hush, Ridgeling!" his father his
sed.

  Glade held up a hand to silence the women. He was unnerved by their challenging battle cry. When they fell silent at their Queen's command, he asked why she thought he would know her daughter.

  "My daughter is the woman you forced to come with you to this heathenish place," the Queen snapped at him. "The one you are holding captive here against her will!"

  Glade blinked again before very slowly turning his head toward his mother. He knew if anyone would know who Lauryl was, it would be his mother. "Lauryl is her daughter?" he asked, his face incredulous.

  Amélia nodded unhurriedly. "She is the heir to the throne of Bandar."

  Glade flinched. "And you saw no need to tell me this?" her son asked, his jaw tight.

  "It didn't matter," his mother replied. "You can't have her either way, Gladeson."

  "Mother, I…"

  "You will hand her over to me, now!" the leader of the hell-hags shouted, interrupted whatever he had been about to say to the woman who had given him life.

  Glade looked back at his lover's mother. A muscle jumped in his lean cheek. "No, I will not."

  An angry hiss shot through the gathering of women warriors and bows were snatched up, arrows nocked, swords drawn.

  "You're dead meat, little brother," Breck groaned.

  "Hand her over or we will…"

  "Lauryl is my destined mate," Glade interrupted. "She is here of her own free will. I'll not turn her over to you or anyone else unless that is her wish."

  Queen Torreya's bellow made her mount shift fearfully beneath her. "You lie!" The animal pranced, reared, wheeled around twice before its rider got it under control.

  "My son does not lie," Queen Amélia pronounced, eyes blazing.

  The Queen of the Daughters of the Night shifted her attention to Glade's mother. "You are Amélia, cousin to the woman to whom this man is legally bound?" Torreya demands.

  "Oh, hell, she knows you're a married man," Slade whispered.

  "I am," Amélia answered.

  "I have heard it said you are an honorable woman."

  Amélia inclined her head. "As I have heard the same of you."

  "On your word of honor as a woman of the Wind," the Queen of the hell-hags stated, "you will tell me if my daughter is a captive here or is here of her own accord."

  "Lauryl is here because she wishes to be with my son," Amélia declared. "Of that, I can assure you."

  "Then he will terminate the bond with your cousin and wed my daughter!" Queen Torreya said. "He has compromised her and…"

  Amélia lifted her chin. "Were that possible I am sure my son would gladly do so but there is no provision for divorce among the Faolchúnna. He is lawfully bound to his Lady-wife for as long as they both draw breath and he must remain with her."

  "He has taken my daughter as his concubine?" The shout was loud enough to startle a flock of birds soaring overhead into scattered flight.

  Once more the hell-hags roared that unnerving battle trill that brought gooseflesh to those toward whom it was aimed. Then suddenly the raucous noise ceased for Lauryl had suddenly appeared at Glade's side.

  "You are well, Daughter?" Queen Torreya called out.

  "Quite well, Your Highness," Lauryl replied.

  Her mother rode forward again. "You have lain with this man?" she asked. "He has claimed you as his courtesan?"

  "He has taken me as the woman he loves," Lauryl explained. "And no, Your Highness, I have not lain with him in the way you mean?"

  "He has not pierced your flesh with his?" a tall woman from the ranks of those closest to the Queen of Bandar shouted.

  "No, Lady Ashlyn, his shaft has not entered me," Lauryl said and everyone on the balcony and in the throne room winced at her salty language.

  "Why the hell not?" a younger warrioress demanded as she checked her nervous horse.

  "He may not as long as his Lady-wife lives," Lauryl said.

  "They slit the bitch's throat and be done with it!" the young woman suggested.

  "I would, my sister, but Prince Glade would pay the price for such an action and I can not allow that," Lauryl responded.

  "Then let me do it," her sister insisted.

  Lauryl looked to her lover's mother, who shook her head in denial. She turned back to her sister. "I regret I can not allow you to do that, Acacia. Faolchúnna law does not permit…"

  "Fuck Faolchúnna law!" Queen Torreya snapped. "I am told Rolanda des Grieves in a worthless cunt who doesn't deserve to draw another breath. If it is she who stands in the way of my daughter's happiness, I would have…"

  "Already my son has paid a heavy price for his love of your daughter, Queen Torreya," Amélia said firmly. "I would not like to see him sent to the executioner's blade because I forced him to Join with the wrong woman."

  "What kind of price?" Lauryl's mother queried harshly.

  "Fifty lashes," Lauryl answered. She held up her hand when her mother would have shouted her next words, realizing what her mother's thoughts must be. "Not because of what I am but because that is the law of this land. The women of his tribe condemned him for touching me not because of who I am but because he committed a sin in their eyes. It would not have mattered who the woman was." She gave Glade a tender look. "The outcome would have been the same."

  Lady Ashlyn kicked her horse into motion until it was nearly side by side with the mount of her Queen. "The women of his tribe judged him and proscribed his punishment?" she asked.

  "Who is that woman?" Glade's mother whispered. "She looks familiar to me."

  "She is Lady Ashlyn Sirion, the General of the Bandar Forces," Lauryl answered.

  "Ah, yes," Amélia drawled with a nod. "I thought she looked familiar. We took the Orders of the Wind together many years ago." A frown tugged at her face. "But she is not a Daughter of the Night, is she? As I recall, she hailed from Balliansloe."

  "She is my aunt," Lauryl explained. "My father's sister."

  "Lady Ashlyn asked you a question, Daughter!" Queen Torreya yelled. "Answer her!"

  "Aye, Your Ladyship. That is what happened," Lauryl responded.

  Glade watched the Bandar Queen and her general conversing, apparently arguing if the exaggerated hand gestures and facial grimaces were any indication. He glanced at Lauryl to see her chewing on her bottom lip. He longed to take her into his arms but his mother was staring at him, his father was glaring at him, and Ridge was looking at him with unabashed humor.

  "It isn't funny, Ridgeland," Glade mumbled.

  "You should see it from our point of view, little brother," Slade said with a low chuckle.

  "Your back is bleeding," Dell said softly. "We need to redress your wounds."

  Lauryl turned at the sound of the gentle feminine voice behind her but when her eyes met those of the young woman who must be Glade's baby sister, there was fury and undisguised hatred gleaming back at her. One look at the faces of the two women flanking the younger told Lauryl all she needed to know about her lover's female siblings--they despised her and would scratch out her eyes given the chance.

  "Draw back your claws, little Dell," Slade suggested, flinging a heavy arm around his sister's slender shoulders, refusing to allow her to buck out from under his hold.

  "She's the reason Gladeson is embroiled in this sordid mess," Moor observed, her upper lip arched with distaste as she ran her uncomplimentary gaze down Lauryl's tall frame. "I fail to see the attraction, myself."

  "Our idiot brother likes mannish women," the third woman snapped, tossing her head and looking pointedly away when Lauryl turned her attention to the oldest of the three.

  "Behave," Breck warned his sisters. "This is neither the time nor the place for your waspish snipping, children."

  "Daughter!"

  Those on the balcony looked back down at the Bandar Queen.

  "Aye, Your Highness?"

  "Come down so we can be on our way," Lauryl's mother ordered. "A full moon sails the evening skies this night and we can not be here when the Faolchúnna revert."r />
  "I am safe here, Your Highness," Lauryl told her. "Prince Glade would not allow any harm to befall me."

  "The harm has already been done!" her mother bellowed. "For him and you!" She shook her head angrily. "No. You come down now and let us put this shit behind us where it belongs!"

  When Lauryl would have answered that demand, Glade put out a hand to stay her. With his hand wrapped around her upper arm, he directed his words to the Queen of Bandar.

  "Lauryl wishes to stay with me and it is my fondest desire that she do so. You can be assured she will as safe as she would ever be in Bandar. I will care for her as the treasured mate I wish with all my soul the gods had made her instead of the harpy to whom I am lawfully bound. "

  "She will come down now!" her mother screamed at the top of her lungs. "I will not leave this gods forsaken den until she is riding beside me!"

  "There will be no debate of this," Glade said. "She stays."

  Once more the skirl of the hell-hags blared from every warrioress' throat--a deafening roar that intimidated with the sheer force and volume of the cry.

  "You are willing to go to war over this?" his father asked in a hissing voice that left no doubt in anyone's mind how the king felt about the matter.

  "I would give my life to keep Lauryl at my side," Glade answered then leveled his gaze with that of his mother. "I've already given my flesh and blood and pain for her."

  Lauryl felt a lump lodge in her throat and moisture prickle her eyes. The hand on her upper arm was like an iron band but the warmth from that hand, the firmness of it was the most sensuous, loving thing she'd ever experienced. She reached up to cover his hand with hers.

  Amélia did not miss the gesture. She stepped forward. "Take your hand from her, Glade, and let me handle this before you launch a blood fest here," she said sternly.

  Reluctantly, Glade removed his hand, forced to move away from Lauryl as his mother came to stand between them. As soon as the hell-hags realized the Queen of the Faolchúnna was about to speak, they quieted down.

  "Each woman here has long since learned that men are not always the wisest of beings," Amélia stated. "They think too often with the wrong head and that head gets them into much mischief."