Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  A snicker rippled across the deck. Moreya stayed behind Preece and kept her eyes averted. They fell into step with Lockram and Dugan, then passed rough-looking sailors, more soldiers, and the inevitable curious gawkers gathered near Zankarat's docks. Preece halted. So abruptly Moreya nearly plowed into his back.

  Sieffre stood beside a contingent of guards in the royal purple of Cronel's court. While the king himself had not yet arrived in Greensward, his troops preceded him and had already seized the young knight. Moreya had hoped he might escape, for he alone had not been sleeping aboard the vessel. He'd been left at the stables with Preece's tahr and the horses. He was to help load them onto the ship later that morning.

  "They found Sieffre," she whispered. Preece did not react.

  Then Sieffre pointed at them. "That tall one with the white hair. He is Preece the Warmonger, a known mercenary in the employ of King Cronel. He was ordered to deliver the Yune to the Greensward Palace for her marriage. But once we reached Dredonia, he instructed me to come here and secure a ship. He claimed the Yune for himself and means to take her to a far-off land. She agreed to go, rather than wed your prince."

  "You baseborn clump of dung!" Lockram spat. A guard silenced him with a blow to his belly. Dugan swayed on his feet and frowned as if he couldn't quite put matters to rights in his mind. Moreya couldn't blame him. She wished she did not understand, but it was clear to her that Sieffre had betrayed them.

  After she'd defended him to Preece, insisting he'd been weakened by his shoulder injury. She realized now he'd feigned the weakness and his irritating bumbling had been staged to create delays. Similar to his two-day delay in returning to Tivershem's.

  He'd purposely slowed their progress so they'd still be in port when Cronel's guards arrived.

  Another pair of guards marched up, Glaryd held fast between them. Moreya started to reassure the older woman, but held her tongue. If a murderous glower could fell a man, young Sieffre would already lie bleeding to death. Glaryd had never given anyone a look so unforgiving. As they were hustled forward into a waiting wagon, Moreya saw that Glaryd kept her eyes fastened on the traitor. The lad she'd fussed over and tended. The lad who would repay that kindness by watching them hang before the week was out.

  Unless Preece got his audience with Queen Vela's advisors and somehow worked a miracle. Just what message he thought could salvage the situation, Moreya could not guess. Mayhap he would elaborate on his fabricated tale of abduction. A hostage-taking might bring leniency for the women, but it would condemn Preece and the men. Lockram and Dugan would be denounced as accomplices. The monarchs would say the knights could have ridden off when Preece declared his intention to take Moreya away. They could have done as Sieffre did, and saved themselves. But they'd chosen to support Preece.

  Who had indeed married Moreya, made her his Waniand lifemate.

  They'd all known the tremendous risk, yet Moreya had never accepted the possibility that the span of their "lifetime" bond truly could be so short.

  Moreya paced to the small window of her chamber again and peered out.

  A grisly scene greeted her eyes. Carpenters had erected a huge platform stage, complete with a large chopping block. Now they were hammering wooden steps in place at two corners. One set near the dais they'd built to elevate a trio of high-backed chairs, the other at the diagonally opposite end of the rectangular platform.

  She'd been locked in this room for two days. She had not been allowed to see the others, had merely been told that Glaryd was in the room next to hers, the men in similar cells on the floor somewhere below this one. Her repeated requests to see or speak to her husband were flatly denied.

  A rap sounded at the door. Moreya did not bother turning to face it. She had no appetite. "Take the food away. I'm not hungry."

  "I've got fresh water and towels, milady. You must need to bathe and refresh yourself."

  Before she could answer, the door swung open. An elderly woman shuffled in. The poor thing moved stiffly, as though each halting step pained her. Moreya glared at the male guard who stood with his back against the open door. "Send my own maid. This poor woman has bad joints. My maid can help me bathe."

  "Nay, I wished to serve you, milady," the old servant asserted. Bony fingers shook slightly as she laid out towels and fumbled for a crust of hard soap from one pocket of her faded kirtle.

  Moreya closed her eyes against the sight. Everything she'd ever heard about King Cronel's brutishness must be true. He allowed this pathetic crone to spend her days climbing stairs, lifting, scrubbing. Or mayhap no one younger and more capable had been willing to attend a Yune traitor to the crown.

  A Yune who'd copulated with a Waniand.

  Oh, Moreya had heard every bit of the crude talk and wicked speculation.

  She only now fully comprehended how ridiculous it was. The tales spanned all measure of depravity: stories of her husband forcing her to mate with his tahr while he watched, reports he transmuted into such a beast himself whilst rutting, or murmurs of unholy demon worship. One guardsman was sure that Waniand men could not spill their seed unless fed honey beneath the light of the fifth moon. Just where this fellow believed Moreya had found a hive in the Dredonian wastelands wasn't clear.

  But that Moreya was a pariah was abundantly so.

  From the moment of their arrest at the harbor, the people of Greensward had gathered in throngs to stare at her. Should she gaze directly at them, they invariably gasped in horror and made a gesture warding off evil. On the brief journey from the harbor town of Zankarat to whatever city this was, Moreya had seen dozens of villagers lining the streets and square, murmuring and shaking their heads.

  She might have been a captive firedrake for the morbid curiosity she inspired.

  While Preece provoked a mixture of hatred and envy - from the men. He aroused a different sort of interest from the women.

  Moreya had oft wondered how other females would react to the sight of him without his cowl. Now she knew, and didn't care for it one whit. Had they not been planning to leave this realm, she would have wished to, after what she'd witnessed. Too many women gave her husband looks of sly invitation.

  "Welladay, has it ever been," came a voice intruding into Moreya's thoughts. "A dairyman's wife stripped her bosom bare and bade him sample her charms when he was but a callow stripling who'd barely reached ten and three winters. I knew then he would ever draw wenches like jackals to fresh meat."

  Moreya whipped around in confusion. A man had spoken, but the guard had left and bolted the door behind him. There was no one left in the chamber but the old serving woman . . .

  Who straightened her spine, fluttered for an instant like a hopping pigeon, and became a wizened old man with a flowing white beard and glinting malachite eyes.

  "Who - what h-happened?"

  A gnarled finger rose to his lips. "Unclothe yourself and get into the tub, Lady Preece. We will speak, but should they spy - and they will, rest assured - they must see what we wish them to see. A noblewoman at her bath with a clumsy old chambermaid."

  "You are not a woman, though. Now." Moreya frowned at him. He looked well pleased. One might even say amused. "You can make them see you as one, though - can you not?"

  "I can make myself look like any object I wish. For a time. Altering my physical appearance is my most useful power yet remaining. I had others, long ago, which are mostly faded now. Your bath, mistress," he reminded.

  Moreya glanced over at him to chastise him for watching as she'd begun disrobing.

  He was gone. The chamber was empty.

  "Proof they detain my body, but not my mind. My wits must have deserted me, for I've begun speaking to myself," she muttered. But as soon as she sank into the water, a ewer rose from the floor, tipped over her tub and poured a fragrant oil into the bathwater. The pitcher returned to the plank floor, stretched and grew from a modest pewter ewer into a long gray robe. The sorcerer's arms popped from its sleeves. His beard slithered out of the neckline, foll
owed by his smiling face with its sharp green eyes.

  Not a dream or some bizarre quirk of her imagining.

  Her skin was wet. She could smell the odd scent he'd added to her water. Something like night blooming starpine. She snatched a cloth to press against her bare breasts and recalled his earlier comment.

  "A woman sought to bed Preece when he was but a child?"

  "Not a woman. Many. The males of other races seek to frighten their women with warped tales of monsters and bestiality. However, our Waniand has the visage of a hallowed saint and the lithe body of a trained warrior. Whispers of mysterious evil do not make women fear Preece. To the contrary. What woman doesn't secretly long to either corrupt a pious mortal man or be corrupted herself by a handsome devil?"

  Despite herself, Moreya had to laugh. "Neither will happen."

  "Nay. The wiliest of females gained but a brief hour of mindless copulation and were promptly forgotten evermore. But not you."

  She began to bathe herself, as if doing so before a total stranger was the most natural thing in the world. "You are the wizard he told me about."

  "Bourke, at your service, my lady," the elder said with a grand wave of one gnarled hand. "I raised him from a toddling youth. He was only a few summers when his parents were slaughtered. Somehow he escaped their attackers and made his way into Ambrill Forest. I found him wandering there, dirty, frightened, yet determined to avenge his parents. He was sharpening tree branches into spears."

  "Why have you come to me? Is Preece . . .?" She rose to her knees, heedless of her nudity or the water that splashed from the tub. "Nay, I would know if he'd died. But I know the guards punish him. I have felt deep pain. How badly have they hurt him?"

  The wizard leaned closer, peering into her eyes, and Moreya was frozen. "He must not die here. He has not yet fulfilled his destiny. That is why I've come. Preece's life cannot end in this place or time. You can help me guide him to what yet awaits."

  Moreya had the very discomforting feeling the mage already knew exactly when and where Preece's life would be forfeit. Her own, as well. But he revealed nothing. His eyes had clouded from shining green to the murk of a mist-shrouded glen. She found no answers in them, only more questions. "How can I help? They refuse to let me see him. I'm not even allowed attendance by my own maid. She's been taken prisoner also, each of us to separate quarters."

  "Preece has told me of your rare gift."

  Oh, Good Creator! Moreya became instantly indignant. "Do you suppose I've not fretted for hours, trying to think of a way I might use it? I've watched them building the platform." She gestured toward the window. "Yes, it is out in the open, but this is a city. There cannot be dragon lairs close by. Even if - " She shook her head and wiped the soap lather from her face with a cloth. "Even did they swarm, 'twould be disastrous. Untold people might be slain or injured, and I cannot bid the beasts carry Preece to safety."

  "Can you not? Even if one of the flock only appeared to be a firedrake?"

  Moreya gasped audibly. "Can you?" Of course he could. She'd seen what he could do. "But we must plan how you are to save him. Don't worry over me. The firedrakes do not harm me. But - "

  "'Tis dangerous to plan further now," the wizard whispered. "Listen to the sighing of the night wind. Know always the walls have ears."

  Moreya looked up from rinsing herself. Once again the chamber appeared empty.

  Yet she somehow knew the sorcerer planned to be in place when the tribunal commenced. A public execution would be held on the morrow, no matter the polite lies the guards fed Moreya. She knew more about Cronel than they probably did, knew of his utter ruthlessness. He'd not tolerate failure, let alone outright defiance. The knights would pay with their lives. She and Glaryd might be condemned also.

  If the fat bastard even recognized Glaryd, recalled what he'd done years ago.

  Moreya did not take to her bed until past midnight. It was no struggle to maintain a vigil in the darkness, for in truth, she'd had difficulty sleeping without Preece beside her. Feeling his almost palpable distress, the sorrow of separation and failure. Their bright hopes for a future had been extinguished like the flame of a tallow candle, leaving naught but dissolving smoke and cold.

  She waited by her window, unmoving. Listening and waiting until at last the darkling air shifted and swirled. It lifted tendrils of her hair and then was gone, the night once more still and solemn.

  Dragons.

  In her mind's eye came a vision. A nest clung high in a forest canopy, not many leagues from where she stood. She could almost smell traces of sulfur and spoor.

  Dragons were near enough.

  The rest was up to her.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next day dawned bright and crisp. Entirely too fine a day for public beheadings. Yet that was what the populace had come to see.

  Moreya and Glaryd were the last prisoners to be escorted through the crowds to the tribunal platform. Moreya reached the top of the stairs and froze. She should not have been shocked, but she was. The trio of knights stood shackled one to another before the raised dais. Dugan was barefoot, his clothes bloody. Lockram's face was a mass of mottled bruises. He held one shoulder higher than the other in an unnatural stance. Moreya realized his shoulder had probably been dislocated - deliberately.

  She turned her gaze to Preece.

  The most well-favored man she'd ever met was unrecognizable now. His right eye had blackened and swollen completely shut. His lips were split. Blood caked his left ear and the side of his throat. He hunched and seemed to pant. The guards had broken his ribs, and likely done other damage too awful to speculate upon. She'd felt much of it and closed her mind against the knowledge.

  She was rudely shaken out of her reverie by a soldier who ordered her to focus on the dais.

  Utter contempt etched Cronel's features. He nodded to her in silent acknowledgment, wearing a sneering grin. Six grotesque, bejeweled fingers waved in the bright sun as he raised his right hand for silence.

  The crowd immediately hushed.

  "Lady Fa," he intoned, glancing at the other monarchs, seated to his left. "You will look upon the prisoners and confirm that these are the men I charged with seeing you through Dredonia to Greensward Palace."

  Moreya could barely force herself to glance again at the battered trio. Preece's good eye caught the sweep of her gaze and held it for a brief instant.

  Save yourself.

  She heard the words in her mind as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud. Shouted them. The intensity made her gasp. She could not doubt his sincerity. She felt the power of his stubborn determination like a blow. He seemed to stand a bit straighter, but Moreya was not fooled by the ploy. She did not look at him now, but at Cronel.

  "I cannot answer with certainty, Sire. These men are dressed in pauper's rags and are unkempt and filthy."

  The young man seated at the far end of the dais laughed aloud. "Perhaps the lady thinks we should garb traitors in satin and velvet."

  He could only be Velansare.

  One look and Moreya detested him.

  She'd had weeks to form a mental image of the prince regent. Naturally, he would be soft and spoiled and pompous. In the flesh, he was all those things. She'd heard the men speak of his "preferences," and had expected from their derision that she'd know by his manner of speech or gestures that he desired to mate with other males. She saw that assumption had been wrong.

  It was unlikely Velansare felt desire for any person, heedless of gender. He was far too fond of himself.

  "My point, Your Highness," she said to Cronel, pointedly ignoring the younger ruler's outburst, "is that these could be any three prisoners from any dungeon in Greensward. They could be common thieves, or drunken sailors off the last vessel to put into port in Zarankat. I was never permitted to see the other prisoners during our confinement. I cannot attest that these men are indeed the knights who - "

  "The uncommon thieves who thought to steal my bride f
rom under my very nose?" the prince demanded. He flung a hand toward the nearest guard. "Clean them up."

  Soldiers produced buckets and unceremoniously tossed water over the shackled knights. A guard stepped forward to jerk Preece's locks back from his brow and face, which Moreya saw was more bruised than she'd realized. Preece stood unmoving, as if hewn of stone.

  The prince regent nodded. "That tall one is unmistakably Waniand. Do you dispute his identity now?"

  Moreya held her tongue, noting the woman on the dais scrutinized the prisoners before her. Queen Vela had dull reddish hair, beady eyes, painfully gaudy taste in gowns, and seemed excessively fond of jewelry. She wore a diadem in her hair, multiple bracelets, chains about her neck and throat, and rings on most of her fingers.

  Oddly, she also toyed with a jeweled meat dagger, twisting its tip against the wooden arm of her tall chair. Mayhap luncheon was to be served after the guards cleared away the severed heads and gore. Moreya shuddered as the queen leaned forward with a glint in her eye.

  "The tall fellow certainly has the look of a Waniand warrior." She sniffed at Cronel in disdain. "And you trusted such a man's loyalty? Gave him the task of escorting my future daughter-in-law?"

  Moreya sensed at once where Velansare had learned his humility.

  "He'd served me well in the past, and I had been assured . . ." Cronel paused to glare first at Preece, then at one of the advisors silently standing beside the dais, "that the man's very nature itself would ensure the maid arrived unsullied."

  "Well, are you?"

  The queen had barked that question at Moreya, but Prince Velansare straightened in sudden interest. Moreya suspected he relished her reply, for it would contradict his mother's wishes - if the rumors that only his mother sought the royal match had truth behind them.

  Surely both the queen and her son had already been told Moreya was found nude in Preece's bed at the time of their arrest.

  "I am maid no more," Moreya said with quiet dignity, "but fully his lawful wife."

  A roar went up from the crowd. Soldiers raised their lances in warning and Queen Vela waved a hand. The people quieted somewhat. Vela turned to Moreya. "You knew you were to wed my son, a prince regent. The future king of the realm."