"Not you!" Bourke shot back. "Somehow I must repair this madness. I must leave a clue, think of a way...Ah! I have just the thing!"
The wizard gave a last rattling chuckle that echoed through the grove of shoreline trees.
He bumped into something hard as stone, immutable, and realized he'd arrived at the place he'd yearned for with the last of his dauntless will. He stepped away from the source of the cold solidity. Yes, good. A wall. He peered through the darkness.
He seemed to be inside a small cell. A monk's cell, if memory served. Bourke smiled. Before him the faint purplish glow was barely visible as the sleeping figure rolled over in the narrow bed and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. The Yune woman was here, among clerics. Safe.
Just as he'd known she would be.
He wafted over to a small chest hidden beneath the bed, willed his vaporous essence to funnel itself into the chest's keyhole, and settled inside.
The contents of the traveling chest were but a few plain garments and one remarkable pinkish stone. As soon as he enveloped it, he sensed its origins. In the recent past it had been swallowed up and carried within the belly of a great winged beast. A terrestar. A rare, very valuable pink dragon stone.
No wonder she kept it hidden beneath drab kirtles and folded wimples.
She was indeed a clever girl.
Too clever to overlook a gift.
With the last of his powers, Bourke transformed his earthly shell into a small inanimate object. A smaller stone, nestled so it was half obscured by the pink one. A stone of brilliant green. The mossy green of a riverbank in shadow. The welcoming green of verdant meadows in springtime. The mysterious green of an old sorcerer's eyes.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Two days after the banquet in the temple, Preece agreed to meet with Taroch. After less than an hour of intense conversation, he'd stormed out of the rough hut and gone in search of Lockram. To announce intentions to leave Ataraxia.
He intended to sail with his cousin to an outer isle lying a few hours away by boat, where an enclave of Waniands still lived.
"Waniands?" Lockram did not look so much stunned as dismayed. "A whole flock of them?"
Preece glanced at Taroch.
"The surviving clan members of Preece and Taroch. Also a few fractured tribal groups, whose members can no longer be traced to specific bloodlines."
Lockram snorted with disgust. "Clans and tribal groups. What would they make of me, do you suppose? A condemned outcast. A man with no proud family, no fortune, and a barren future."
"You wallow in kegs here, Lockram," Preece reminded in a low tone. "You're a soldier, a swordsman, not a - "
"Not a Waniand, though, am I?" Lockram shot back. "'Twas your lifelong dream to see these shores, not mine. Yet here I am, plopped like so much dragon dung. Ah, well. Even dung can have its uses. Mayhap without the Great Warrior, he of silver locks and rare golden smiles, I would be seen as a man of worth."
Preece had not anticipated his friend's reaction. Somehow he'd assumed Lockram would want to continue their adventure, would always fight at his side. The sense of loss pierced him, twisted his gut, and Preece was surprised by his own weakness. They'd both felt Dugan's death keenly, but Preece had banished Bourke from his life in anger, and . . .
What was that damned itch niggling at the base of his skull?
Preece was fed up with it, with the inexplicable feeling that a large chunk of his previous existence was just gone. Obliterated. He was equally fed up with Lockram's childish pranks.
"You're a worthy fighting man, else I'd not want you to come with me. You always knew I fought to make my way here, that for years I longed to visit Ataraxia."
"Oh, indeed! And after forsaking everything to come here, you leave after a few short months on these shores. Always you talked about it, dreamt of it. I'd grown ill hearing of its allure. You even promised Moreya a life in the Ataraxian sun, and yet it means naught. Go with your Waniands. Go in peace and find whatever meaning has thus escaped you. I will stay."
Preece did not understand the hostility in his comrade's tone, or one aspect in particular. "Who is this Mor - "
"The tide, cousin," Taroch interrupted, seizing Preece's forearm in warning. He nodded toward the shoreline, where a small sailing craft bobbed at anchor. "We must make haste or be forced to wait another day. There are rocks that make it unwise to land on the small isle after dusk."
Preece turned back to Lockram. "You're certain you wish to remain behind?"
"Remain in a place of tranquility and ease, where the native daughters find me an appealing new flavor to tease their jaded palates? I'm certain enough."
Preece thrust his right arm forward and gave Lockram a hearty handshake of farewell. "Satan's horns, but I'll miss you, Lockram. Even the arguments."
Lockram's eyes were moist. "I'll die with a curse for your black soul upon my lips, do you never sail back here. I want you to see for yourself how I shall prosper."
Taroch nodded. "He'll be free to return here or visit any realm he chooses, once we've taken our stand in Glacia."
"Glacia!" Lockram sputtered. He tripped over a bit of driftwood and went sprawling facedown in the surf. He came back up, spitting and shouting angrily. "Are you mad, Preece? You can't go back there! They'll slay you if you set foot inside her borders! We're outlaws there. The new monarch may not grant a pardon. He may never lay eyes upon you, afore someone makes you a corpse! Preece!"
Preece heard the wail over the pounding swirl of the breakers. He glanced uneasily at his cousin. "He's right. I must have lost the last of my wits to even consider returning to Glacia. We were condemned to die, about to be executed, when a small flock of firedrakes attacked and liberated us."
Taroch frowned. "Firedrakes? I thought the wizard brought you to Ataraxia. I'm certain he said he'd - "
"Aye, the damned sorcerer. He altered his shape to look like a dragon and swooped down. Then he joined the others in the flock and flew aloft with me and Lockram in his talons."
"Others? He commanded firedrakes to do his bidding? A most talented wizard, indeed."
"Nay, the dragons came because . . ." Preece felt like the world's biggest fool. Trouncing out into the battlefield of passionate speech, only to founder and forget what he'd meant to say. He honestly had no notion what dragons had to do with anything, or why they were even discussing the accursed beasts. "There are dragons in Glacia, but they seldom pose a threat."
What did that have to do with anything?
Oh yes, he wasn't supposed to go to Glacia. That's what was so important, what needed to be clarified. Taroch had to listen. "I cannot return to Glacia. I can train your men, draw a map, but I cannot go myself."
"The wizard could have drawn us maps or told us tales. Nay, Preece. Do you still not fathom the way of this thing? Waniands should rule Glacia. We were the great race before the genocide. Bourke told me of you living beneath a cowl, hiding the truth of your blood. You will hide nevermore. We will hide in seclusion no longer, but take back what is rightfully ours! Your father and mine died because of the greed and ambitions of usurpers. We will take back the throne and vanquish our enemies. You are the key to the rebellion."
"Taroch, I - "
"You will meet my lifemate. My closest friends and best fighters. You will see the hope in their eyes, the fire of longing on their faces. We will never let you be taken. You have been alone, my cousin. You do not understand what I know - what it is to have Waniands at your side, fiercely determined as you yourself are. Do not fear the weak knave sitting on the throne. His time will soon be at its end."
Preece started to argue, but something in his cousin's fervent homily had sparked that niggling itch once again. Talk of Glacia and kings, even the firedrakes, had him searching his mind in desperation for a vital link. Yet he could not find it. He sensed instinctively that he'd played a pivotal role somehow in what had taken place.
Lockram reminded him they'd been condemned, se
ntenced to death. Knights were not executed for minor offenses. A king would not cull his own fighting ranks save for the worst of crimes, yet there was again that huge blank nothing when Preece tried to recall the details of what had happened.
He watched his cousin adjust the sails and test the wind. Taroch was strong, proud, apparently seeing himself and his cause as invincible.
Preece still had scars and ebbing pain in his chest to remind him that Waniands could be defeated. Soundly.
Yet he knew Taroch would never accept nay as an answer. Preece would go back to Glacia. And whatever his role had been in the murky events of the realm's past, he would play a similar role in its stormy future.
The knowledge was oddly reassuring.
"Abbot Zadok."
Brother Fense nodded as he entered the elderly monk's private domain. The room was no bigger than any other cell within Axcroft, indeed seemed much smaller, as its walls were densely covered with shelves displaying bound tomes, loose sheaves of manuscripts, tallow candles, and numerous holy relics. Dust motes swirled about the room as Fense took the empty chair across from his superior.
"I have brought you here to discuss the woman," the abbot announced needlessly.
Fense had guessed why he'd been summoned. He had his arguments well thought out and ready. "You granted asylum, Father," he reminded first.
The abbot sighed. "Temporary asylum. With King Leif upon the throne in Glacia, it is unclear whether she would be at risk to return there. It is, after all, her rightful homeland."
"She has a home there no more," Fense reminded secondly. "Upon her father's death, the king rescinded his leasehold on the residence where the Fas resided and had her forcibly removed from the property."
"Brother, surely you can understand my concern. It is most irregular for a married woman to remain indefinitely amongst an enclave of men...even be these celibate, pious men. If her husband does not come to claim her, she should be taken to a convent, where she might live amongst sisters of one of the holy orders."
"Her husband has not publicly denounced her," the younger monk parried. "I have sent a missive to the distant realm of Ataraxia, where Lady Preece believes her husband would have been taken. I've not yet received a reply. As you instructed, I seek to ascertain whether verily the man is alive. If he is, and seeks to return to claim his wife, would it not be a sin were we to cast her out with nowhere to go? She will not be accepted into a nunnery if she is not taking the veil and forsaking her spouse. Or he his wife."
The abbot scratched his chin. Always a sign of indecision, as Fense knew. In this case, a sign Fense's persuasions brought the desired effect. "I have trained her to copy text, Father, and she shows great promise. She has completed a manuscript in less than a fortnight."
The abbot's brows rose. He was clearly impressed. "Can she not remain to aid in transcription? With Brothers Alphar and Densman working in the garden since Brother Cosmo broke his hip, we can use another scribe. She is quiet and keeps to herself. She has caused no disturbance. Indeed, I would remind you that she is more than willing to remain cloistered indoors, and has asked no boons whatsoever, other than to be granted a cell here."
The abbot rose. "You will advise me at once when you receive a reply from across the seas."
The interview was over. Moreya would be allowed to stay for the nonce.
Fense hurried away from the abbot's office to find her and relay the good news. But she was not in the high garret, busily copying the new manuscript he'd assigned to her. Neither was she in the kitchen or chapel. After looking everywhere else, Brother Fense found her at last in the small monastery garden.
She was huddled beneath a drooping elm tree, staring at the twilight skies.
"My lady, are you unwell?"
She turned and offered a thin smile. "I am...wistful, dear friend. Sometimes it is very hard to keep my thoughts from turning backward. To the darkness. And wondering if he looks up at these self-same evening stars. If he thinks of me and feels the same...misplacement."
Fense thought it was perhaps her words even more than her woeful posture and somber eyes that struck him. She took great care in choosing her words. Unnatural care. Any other woman would wail, beat her breast, openly weep for her lost husband. Even had he spurned her, any woman would gnash her teeth, tear at her hair, rail and sob in anguish.
Moreya Fa Preece delicately stepped over her pain.
The good news he'd wanted to share no longer seemed such gladsome tidings. He cleared his throat. "It's nigh time for us to sup and say vespers. Will you come inside?" He offered his arm.
She turned her face back up toward the heavens. "I'm not hungry this eve. I think I shall speak with the Creator here in the garden for a few more moments, then look in on Brother Cosmo."
Her nursing skill and kindness would have been additional points in Fense's arsenal, had the abbot needed further reminding of her usefulness. Fense bowed his head. "As you wish. The Lord give you peace and good rest. I will look for you at mass on the morrow."
He turned back to glance over his shoulder one last time before leaving the deepening shadows of the narrow walled garden. The woman stared at the stars once more. She was still as a statue, equally fixed and preternatural, lovely and unfathomable. Her eyes gleamed in the half light. He could not read their depths, but they were wide and clear.
And dry.
Moreya hadn't been able to shake her melancholy all evening.
She hadn't confessed as much to Brother Fense, but she'd been shaken by a passage she'd copied from an ancient manuscript. A parable related by a devout pilgrim who'd traveled throughout the known realms.
If his writings were accurate, he'd encountered Waniands.
He'd called them Wintren, or "people of the winter," and described them as being unusually fair of face, sporting hair and beards the color of hoarfrost. Their eyes he described as a cold, bright blue. Remarkable fighters and warriors, their strength and fierce determination made them the most formidable of opponents. Yet they were brutally honest and made equitable rulers.
He described one such man as having the "noble mien of a great bear reigning from a mountain pinnacle, though his throne actually sat in the base of a deep natural bowl."
Moreya was certain he'd written of a noble Waniand leader. Ruling Glacia.
She'd desperately tried to harden her heart against Preece. To tell herself he was but a mercenary, opportunist, cozener. A knight who would deftly manipulate any situation to his advantage. That his written oath proclaiming he'd wed her to foil a complex political plot had been nothing more than shrewd exploitation.
But now, tonight, as she undressed and crawled into her narrow, lonely bed in the bleak cell she'd occupied for weeks, she could not shut out the haunting truth.
Preece was trueblooded Waniand. Fighting for survival was instinct, both human and animal nature. He'd been scorned and maligned and made the object of horrific, appalling jests. He'd been forced to hide his face in shame.
Knowing that once, long ago, his people had ruled the very realm that so despised him. His parents had been murdered before his eyes. His was likely very thick, noble, if not royal blood. Yet he'd been treated like a leper and forced to sell his sword.
Would such a man not also sell his honor, his very soul?
And as she clutched her pillow to her breast and stifled a sob, Moreya accepted yet another unpleasant truth: she'd willingly bartered her own from the first moment she'd glimpsed the stunning face beneath the black cowl. Without full knowledge of the man behind that face. Without thought of what cleaving to him might cost her, until she was far too caught up in the pleasure and mystery of all he represented to care.
She had brought herself to this pass. And whatever he was, wherever he might be - longing for her as he gazed up into the night skies or not - she missed him and loved him still. She was his wife and lifemate, and he had taken a part of her with him into the sky that horrible day.
A part she could only no
w search the heavens in hopes of reclaiming, knowing it might remain far, far beyond her reach.
* * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Seventy-nine Waniands: a dozen or so of them mere children, too young to fight; a handful too elderly to withstand a battle; sixteen females.
Preece counted again, including himself, and groaned out loud. "Tarochin!" This was the appellation he used in referring to the cousin who'd brought him to this small outer isle, for there were a number of Taroch clan members present. All knew the affectionate suffix meant both "head" and "dearest" in their tongue; therefore, it was understood Preece addressed his cousin, their tribal leader.
The madman who misbelieved he could take Glacia's royal castle with less than fifty men.
"This will never succeed. The Glacian royal castle has more servants within its keep than our number, and ten times as many armed men in its garrison. You might as well line up behind me to place your necks upon the high executioner's block. The new king will have all our heads on pikes."
A woman laughed with a throaty sound. "I told you he was chary, and even more stubborn than you are." This observance came from Vulpina, Taroch's lifemate. She was but half Waniand, with fine yellowish hair framing a face that suited her name. Her bright eyes and pointed nose reminded Preece of a forest vixen.
Taroch merely grinned at her taunt.
He did so far too often and far too easily, in Preece's opinion. Most of the Waniands spoke little and maintained somber miens. Not their leader. He was convinced the battle was already joined and won. But he had never set foot in Glacia, never seen the thick stone walls he proposed to scale...had never yet fought on a battleground or tournament list in his young life.
Preece had so far tried to convince him - through arms practice, through various tests of swordsmanship and fighting dexterity - that he stood a poor chance for securing victory. Nay, worse than a poor chance. No chance at all.
Taroch merely nodded or pleasantly smiled. Then shouted for his men to line up and undergo yet another brutal round of punishment. However brutal weapons practice could be with wooden shields and swords.
Biondine, Shannah Page 16