Moreya edged away from him, disconcerted by his frank admission. "I...Good night, Sir Preece." She pecked his cheek and darted for the safety of the tavern.
Preece stared after her. He had an inkling she'd come looking for him, to apologize for starting the ruckus earlier, though that had naught to do with why he'd come to the stable. He wasn't cowed by the strangers. They might scowl and grumble, but they'd learned what happened to men who taunted a Waniand warrior to his face. They were no threat.
Moreya herself, and the strange anger that had come off her just before the fighting broke out...that was something else again. She confounded him. Her anger disconcerted him. That it came in defense of him scared the hellfire right out of his soul.
"If you had taken a bat's rump, you wouldn't be longing after hers."
The voice came from the shadows near the doorway. A stranger entered. One of the patrons Preece recognized from the tavern. This one had been lounging inside at a separate table and hadn't joined in the furniture-tossing melee.
Preece had thought him a haggard coward. Until that bat comment. "You might have lifted a finger to help in there, Bourke."
At his name, the sorcerer let his appearance ripple back to its true state. His deep voice became again the rasp of skeletal tree limbs in a winter breeze.
"You had them trounced without need of aid. Been waiting here since the day after you left Inner Glacia. I know you always stop at Tivershem's on your way through this part of the barrens. I've news. You're so late in coming, I feared you'd run off with the little Yune."
"Nay, I was off rescuing her from a dragon. She was held prisoner in its lair, some two hundred yards above ground in a small cave. It seems she has been snatched by firedrakes several times. She deliberately let the beasts come, to thwart an attack by Raviners. Other than that, it's been a dull journey."
Preece expected Bourke to lift his scraggy white eyebrows.
Instead they pulled down into a scowl, and Preece didn't care for the way that made the hair at the back of his skull ripple...as if some unseen cold hand had just caressed his nape. The stable was suddenly filled with a charged wrongness.
Preece recognized the sensation from years of battles fought and survived.
Danger was present.
Bourke folded his legs under his robes and wafted up to the ceiling. "I'm afraid, my son, your report meshes uncannily with my news. To form a dark net of misery and intrigue."
"Ah! Is this some new kingly plot?" Preece knew the answer. For more than twenty winters, Bourke had claimed every occurrence in Glacia to be proof of wicked scheming on the part of King Cronel. If birds migrated east instead of west, if corn stayed green or snow fell in clumps instead of granules. Why should a woman flying with dragons be due to any different cause?
"I believe the girl's father was murdered."
Preece had already been told the man choked to death during a banquet. "By a hunk of meat?"
"Did you not find it strange the palace cook was executed the morning after that feast? Lady Fa was not summoned to court until after her father was buried and the cook slain. Do you make nothing strange of both deaths following directly upon the heels of Lord Fa's return from Greensward?"
Preece shrugged. "Men die every day."
"Indeed, but seldom after securing royal betrothals for their only daughters!" Bourke wagged a forefinger in the air. A bale of hay began to dance in time.
"Please, Bourke," Preece chastened. The finger lowered and Bourke continued speaking in hushed tones.
"Anthaal Fa was able to negotiate a contract for his daughter to marry a prince. This daughter, whom you just stated has a peculiar affinity for dragons. Do you suppose Cronel did not know this about her?"
Preece folded his arms across his chest. In point of fact, he hadn't given thought to that aspect of the matter...though he should have. Very little escaped Cronel's notice, or that of his paid informants. Servants in Moreya's home must have known. One of their own was maimed. And 'twas common knowledge that retainers in the manor house were placed there by order of the king.
"I assume he must have. She claims she was blamed for her own mother's death and an injury to a scullery worker caused by one of the reptiles. Cronel must know." Preece reflected upon his own role and warmed to the topic. "Then 'tis likely he sent me and my men in hopes we'd share her mother's fate. Cronel uses my blade, but can't truly abide me."
Bourke shook his gray head. "The father's fate. He needs you to get the maid to Greensward. He wants this alliance with the prince regent. Afterward you should die. Quickly."
Preece's own brow knitted. Why this alliance? Greensward was no threat, lying beyond Dredonia, a thousand leagues from Cronel's kingdom. The people of Greensward had ever been known for farming and raising crops, not arms. The only advantage the realm had was a long coastline and harbors along the Great Seas.
"Trade routes," Preece guessed.
"One might surmise as much, or to claim Greensward, then proceed to squeeze this realm, Dredonia, out of existence between the other two strongholds."
Preece did not follow. "How does Moreya Fa aid in this?"
Bourke's eyes narrowed until their pupils nearly disappeared. "It may be of interest to note what I've learned of Greenswardian custom since you began this trek. You know Prince Velansare's elder brother died some years ago. He was heir to the throne. I do not think Queen Vela would press her sodomite son into marriage, were there any other branches of the royal bloodline capable of producing a future heir to the kingdom."
Preece's head jerked up. "He is in truth as unnatural as they say?"
Bourke nodded and went on. "There is an old custom that the king or prince must lead his new bride in a procession, across the great meadow outside Greensward Palace. The queen rides just behind the royal couple on her own palfrey."
"Moreya in a procession across a meadow?" Preece shuddered. "Nay, for of a certainty - Satan's bones, she's a weapon! Cronel's sending her there to smite down the royal family."
Bourke drifted back to the stable floor and began picking loose straw from the hem of his robe. "A great tragedy. A freak occurrence. And the girl will be eliminated once she has served her purpose. Like her father. Like you. So now what say you, Warmonger? Is the duty still worth the chance for great coin?"
A death warrant against him would not spark a reaction, as the old hermit knew. Preece had been on too many battlefields, fought in the tourneys, been issued private challenges too often for death threats to strike fear in his heart. But using a maiden to start a war - or allow Cronel to conquer a distant realm without one - then dispatching her. This Preece could not calmly accept.
Particularly when the maiden in question was Moreya Fa.
"I must reflect upon your tidings. Have you proof of any of this?"
"None beyond the obvious," Bourke replied. "The timing of it all: Lady Fa's betrothal, her father's death, the slaying of the cook before anyone could question him about the possibility of poison at the banquet. The warrant against Dugan luring you to court, even as Cronel needed a knight for escort. A Waniand to escort a Yune. There is beauty to this plan, and so far the execution - excuse the choice of words - has been flawless."
"I can stall here a day or two."
Bourke pointed at the open stable door and shuffled toward it. "Aye, there's a nasty storm brewing. Three days of rain, no less. But you must decide whether to forge onward, or mayhap tell her of your suspicions, and let the Yune decide."
"Nay, she must not hear of this," Preece said with conviction. Moreya could not be told. Such cruel news would devastate her. "She's been through enough with the loss of her father. I'll not have her learn she was to be used in such a reprehensible manner...by the monarch she seems to respect. If only fate had given me an extra digit, instead of this face and pale hair."
Bourke shrugged. "Fate has given you the Yune with her dragons. Reflect upon that." Then Bourke vanished into the night air.
Preece cursed
so violently his tahr stopped munching oats and looked up. Preece shook his head and stroked the animal's nose. "Eat. We'll meet our foes yet, but first I must decide upon a plan. I need a strategy. Something clever, befitting the worst predicament of my life. I'll leave you to your oats."
Preece swore again, silently this time. Formulating what to do would be simpler if he weren't facing three days of rain in a rundown tavern with a known sot, four hostile strangers, and a Yune woman.
Foul weather and foul male tempers he could handle.
Dugan on a swilling spree was nothing new.
But three days of enduring Moreya's eyes on him? And her attempts to engage him in conversation, which only made matters worse. How would he endure that? He'd tried to ignore her and met with little success.
And beyond the days were the three restless nights. Satan's tail, but he'd never get a moment's rest! Each time he stripped and took to his bed, he was pestered by mental images of Moreya in her night shift. There in his chambers with him - or standing in the doorway of her own chambers. Smiling. Beckoning. Glowing.
"Bah!" At the moment, Preece could only plan to go inside and get very, very drunk.
Preece admitted to himself that settling down with a tankard and a determination to drink until he forgot his woes had been an idiotic exercise. He hadn't forgotten a word of his chilling conversation with Bourke. His gut was already sour and protesting the strong spirits he'd hoped would cause him to fall into a stupor.
He wasn't anywhere near swooning.
But he was very close to pulling his dagger and taking a life as he overheard snippets of talk drifting from the table in the corner. His tormentors hadn't given up. Now they were casting lots, betting on whether his cock was long and thick or, of all absurd things not even possible, reed thin and prehensile.
A prehensile cock?
"Hell, I'd hoist my tankard with it, could I get it to curl," he snarled to no one in particular. He glanced at the ringleader's neck. It didn't look terribly thick. "Mayhap I'd knock you to your knees and strangle you with my erection, you worthless glob of pox."
Preece shoved his bench away from the table and got to his feet. He reached down to the fastenings of his leggings. "Here, if you're so damned interested. Have a look at my blade!"
He didn't realize he'd caught the dagger hanging at his waist in the lacing at his crotch, or that the dagger's blade now extended straight in front of him. Benches flew back and men scurried in all directions, leaving Tivershem and Lockram guffawing on the floor.
Preece was abominably tired of men laughing at his sexual prowess. Or what they saw as a lack of it. "Not a true man, am I?" he scoffed, belching. "Showed you! Ha. Well, 'struth, you were too affrighted to look, craven fools. But I've a perfectly good rod and bollocks down - "
He did, somewhere down there. He was certain of that. But his fingers were oddly numb. The hem of his tunic kept getting in the way of the damnable lacings. He looked down and the floor rushed up at him.
After a stunned moment, during which he reassessed his closeness to swooning like a buffoon, he sat up, muttering. "You lackwits know naught of my kind...our ways." He hiccupped and got to his feet. When the nearly empty taproom dipped before his eyes, he braced his hip against the corner of his table.
Satan's hoofprints, but he was a thrice-damned fool. The ale had fired his blood. The cock he'd misplaced temporarily was there whence it belonged again. Thick enough, even in its flaccid state. He knew who'd appreciate it for the capable masculine tool it was. He'd wager on that.
She wouldn't go running off, screaming like she'd glimpsed a monster. Then again, the noblewoman in question visited monsters in their lofty homes. How could she possibly take offense? He chuckled, liking that reassurance more by the minute. Aye, Moreya Fa Yune was no chary, squeamish female, but braver than these brash-lipped louts, braver than any woman he'd ever met.
She dealt effectively with whatever strange creature she happened upon. Witness that first night at Cronel's castle. She'd had Preece baffled, bound in knots from his first glimpse of her. Garbed in a sleep shift, gentian tresses long and gleaming, her incredible amethyst eyes and smile offered for him alone.
He remembered too her dusky plum nipples. His belly clenched with the picture of them outlined by thin linen. What did they taste like, he wondered? Blackthorns, wildeberries? Deep, dark wine?
He shouldn't wonder, shouldn't care in the least. He certainly shouldn't go trudging up the stairs toward her chamber in search of answers to such pointless questions.
But fermented crops had a strange reverse effect upon Waniands. They dulled reflexes and slowed bodily functions whilst heightening other kinds of awareness. Like mental curiosity. And now that he'd allowed himself to idly muse on the subject, he couldn't seem to shake loose of it.
Of a sudden, he itched and burned. He simply had to know, had to see Moreya again in her night shift to verify his odd recollections...or completely destroy his illusions. He would rap at her chamber door and refresh his memory.
The worst possible plan, but a plan nonetheless.
At least now he had one.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
A muffled sound awakened Moreya. "Glaryd, is something amiss?"
The maid answered with a wheezing snore. Moreya could see Glaryd's outline by the faintly glowing embers of their small brazier. Glaryd couldn't have rolled out of bed or thumped the wall; she slumbered on a pallet near the center of the room.
Moreya heard another sound. A muffled groan reached her - this time, she was certain, from just outside their door. She supposed midnight thumps and moans were not unusual in a tavern like this in the hinterlands of Dredonia.
Scowling, she slid her feet to the floor and pulled on her wrapper. Some lout likely pawed some serving wench or staggered in the corridor, on the verge of being ill. Moreya snatched her empty chamber pot and tiptoed to the portal. She knew Preece's men were belowstairs and would come if she screamed, but mayhap she could dispense with the sot herself, rather than alerting the whole tavern. If yon fool was so deep in his cups as to bounce off the walls, a good cosh on the noggin should have him slumbering till morn.
But when she unbolted the door, it swung inward abruptly, depositing Preece at her bare feet.
"Preece, was that you I heard?" she asked, frowning.
He must have decided to guard her door all night again. "Are you unwell? Likely the cause would be the questionable foodstuffs Tivershem served. Here, try to sit up." She reached down for his hand.
He blinked up at her and began to chuckle.
She could not have been more stunned if his clothing had burst into flames before her very eyes.
This was Preece the Warmonger.
Preece rarely smiled. He did not laugh. She'd never heard him make sounds of mirth. His followers guffawed and bandied about jocular comments. Dugan was generally so besotted, he seemed to find everything and nothing vastly amusing. Lockram was wont to spin bawdy tales. Young Sieffre enjoyed ribald stories or clownish jests.
Preece had not once reacted with so much as a grin.
Yet now he sprawled on the floor, huffing with what seemed to be great mysterious amusement, making no attempt to straighten up. She pressed her fingertips to his brow. He looked and acted feverish, but his flesh was not overwarm. Had he fallen into an ale keg, as his men often did?
"Your glow is making the entire hall gentian as your tresses. I admire that streaming mantle of yours. The odd color, the light it gives off. I've never known anyone's hair to gleam of its own accord." He ended this pronouncement with an overly loud hiccup.
Ale fever, right enough. She hadn't known Preece to overindulge. But she could find no other explanation for his moonsick rantings. She'd noted earlier it was cloudy without, that nary a single moon was visible in the charcoal skies. He could not be moonstruck, but was more likely awash in strong brew of some variety.
"Get up, Waniand," she commanded. "You're befouling my flo
or. Your assigned chamber's on the other side of the hall there." She gave him a nudge with her big toe for emphasis.
He glanced at her foot and laughed once more. "Did you know purple sparks strike from your eyes when you're wroth with someone? Dragons. Sparks."
"You're in no condition to guard anyone's door. Go sleep the ale or wine from your sodden brain. You've drunk too much this eve."
He sat up and clutched the door frame, levering himself to his feet. "Waniands do not drink overmuch. Merely enough to be as manly as the next fellow."
She inwardly groaned. He was still chafing from the confrontation with those strangers earlier. That was the source of his uncharacteristic behavior: drinking, laughing, spouting flattery. He wouldn't have been subjected to slurs against his manhood if she'd let him don his cowl before their arrival.
She peered up into his eyes. She noted the orbs weren't reddened, as they should have been after an eve of carousing. They remained the clear blue of mountain streams in springtide, and sparkled as they met her interested gaze.
"You do not have to prove yourself a man, Preece. I - no one is in need of further demonstrations, after your fight belowstairs earlier."
"Lot of buffoons," he concurred, offering another hiccup.
"I wager you're more capable in almost any endeavor than those boorish Dredonians. 'Twould be no surprise to learn you outdrank them." Then she had a worrisome afterthought. "You don't think those men you fought would attempt access to my bed? Is that why you've come?"
His amusement vanished. He squared his shoulders and reached for the hilt of the dagger he wore at his waist. "I'll cut their bollocks off and feed them to Tiver's pet mongoose!"
Moreya almost smiled at the vehemence of his response. "Your mere presence would deter them. I think they discovered the folly in provoking a trained Waniand warrior. You didn't even need your weapon to trounce them."
"They deserved it for insulting you."
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