FOREVER ENCHANTED

by Maggie Shayne

  "Nor do you without mine."

  She crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her gaze. "So this talk of love... It was but another ruse to convince me to agree to this proposal of marriage. Just another tool in your cache of weapons to be used in regaining the throne."

  "It was... whatever you believe it to have been."

  "I believe it to have been an outright lie."

  He shrugged and walked past her, picked up the platter of food, turned and held it out to her. "It's cold by now. But you should eat, Bridin. You'll need all your strength when we return to claim our kingdom."

  "I have not agreed to join forces with you, Tristan. You assume too much." She looked down at the plate, but he still held it there, so she took it and went to sit on the trunk that was the only piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. And she didn't want to be on that bed. Not with him so close.

  The cold scrambled eggs and toast stuck in her throat, but she forced them down all the same. He was right, she would need her strength. She'd need it to carry out her escape.

  "When I rule my kingdom once again, Tristan, I'll see to it your people are allowed to remain there, as my subjects. They'll never again be banished... so long as they pledge fealty to me."

  "You are an arrogant little witch," he told her. "But you will agree to wed me, Bridin. You can hate me forever, if you like. But you will be my wife, and my queen. Think of it as a marriage of convenience. Think of yourself as a martyr, if you will. That would suit your haughty self-image, wouldn't it? Marrying me could be your great sacrifice for the good of the kingdom."

  "I don't need your permission to hate you, Tristan. I've been doing so quite well without it. And will continue to." She finished the food and reached for the glass of milk that rested on the platter. She took a large drink, and then frowned. "It's sweet. What is this?"

  "Milk and honey, my lady. The traditional offering to invoke the goodwill of fay folk."

  She scowled at him, but sipped some more. It was good. Setting the glass down, she got to her feet, picking through more of the clothing on the bed. Nightgowns and robes, and a pair of those denims she'd grown so fond of during her time here. Some flat shoes, and blouses. "How did my things come to be here? We didn't bring any along."

  "Tate fetched them for you. You can thank him when he returns with news of what we face in Shara."

  So the Wood Nymph was on a spying mission. She'd guessed as much. "Did he bring... all of my belongings?"

  Tristan cocked one brow. "Is there something in particular you're wanting?"

  "My scrying crystal. I need it. You stole it from me, Tristan, and I want it back."

  "So you can peer into its facets and try to discern the identity of this man you are fated to marry?"

  "What good would it do me to know who he might be, while I remain here in captivity?" She lowered her eyes, sighing deeply. "No, Tristan, I want the crystal because in it I saw the face of my mother. She spoke to me through it, and I... long to see her again."

  He stared at her for a long moment. "The crystal is in one of the boxes Tate brought along. If you want it, Bridin, it's yours."

  She nodded, glad he wasn't going to argue over that. "There is one other thing I would ask of you," she said, wondering if it was wise to press her luck just now. But he looked at her, awaiting her request, so she pushed on. "My sister. She'll be concerned about me. I need to get word to her, let her know I'm all right."

  "I'll have to think on it," he said. "There is no telephone here, and to leave the island would be to risk another attack by my brother's assassins. Perhaps when Tate returns..."

  Bridin nodded, but didn't accept his answer. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of being here when Tate returned.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tristan picked up the platter and carried it with him to the door. He didn't think his efforts at convincing Bridin had done a bit of good to his cause. She'd shown no signs of listening. Hearing, yes, but not listening.

  Except... for that softening he'd detected in her voice when she'd asked him about his mother. Only natural she'd respond to that, he supposed. And she likely would have felt that response no matter who'd been telling the tale. Be it Tristan of Shara or the Lucifer of Christendom. She had a heart as big as the Sharan sky. Always had. It was one of the things that made it so impossible for him to wish her ill, ever, even though she'd been the most serious threat to his rule. She had the capacity to care for someone who was hurt. Even when that someone was him.

  And she'd lost her mother as well. So naturally, his similar loss would move her. Not enough to change her mind, however. He was beginning to wonder if anything ever would be.

  "Am I confined to this chamber, Tristan?"

  He stopped, his hand braced on the open door. "Of course not." Then he turned to face her again. "Bridin, I've told you, you're not here as my prisoner, but for your own protection."

  "As long as you refuse to let me leave here at will, I am a prisoner. Though you paint it with pretty motivations, Tristan, it doesn't change the facts."

  He drew a breath and sought patience, though his supply was running severely short right now. "You're free to roam the house, Bridin."

  "And what about the island? Am I free to roam it, as well, or will I find bolted doors and sealed windows should I try to leave?"

  Tristan studied her, looking for signs she was up to something. Then again, it really didn't matter if she was. There was only one way off this island. By boat. And the only boat hereabouts was well hidden, in a secret cave she couldn't find even if she knew it was here. "Fine," he said. "Explore the island, but be careful, Bridin. Never forget, this was supposedly a wizard's home. The home of a man not only powerful, but dangerous."

  She lifted her delicate brows. "So nothing's changed, then, has it?" And then she tilted her head. "What do you know of the man who created this place?"

  Tristan held the door for her as she passed, and it seemed to him that she looked around her with a newly curious eye. Good. Something to amuse her would keep her distracted, and perhaps she wouldn't try anything foolish. For a little while, at least.

  "If he is the same man I'm thinking of—the only Sharan wizard I know of ever having been banished—he was one of the masters assigned to tutor children in the temple. Hundreds of years before my time, it was, but I've heard the tales. He was incredibly powerful. Some said frighteningly powerful. Some even claimed he'd unlocked the secret to immortality."

  He walked beside Bridin along the corridor, and she pushed open one door after another as they passed, peering inside, seeing chambers much like her own. Small, each with a stone hearth and little else besides cobwebs and dust. The ceilings were vaulted, but not as high as it seemed they should be. The hall, not as wide. The place seemed like a small replica of something bigger. Bridin wondered if the legend was true, if it really had been built by someone from the other side. She walked slowly along the dim, chilly corridor, dragging one hand over the cool, rough stone of the wall.

  "Why was he banished?" she asked, peering through the last of the five wooden doors.

  "Several of the children he tutored took ill, in succession. One after another. Each seemed to have contracted some sort of wasting illness, wherein they would grow thin and pale and weaker with each passing day. At the same time, this wizard seemed to be growing ever stronger and more powerful. And... he never seemed to age, or so I'm told."

  Stepping away from the door, Bridin faced him, wide-eyed. "He was stealing the children's vitality? Somehow taking it for himself?"

  "That was what the superstitious minds of the time concluded," Tristan said. "Naturally, we've since realized it was more likely a form of malnutrition. Once our people began slipping out of the dark side to gather food, the illness disappeared."

  "Then he was punished for something he didn't do?"

  Tristan shrugged. "He was banished, not only from our dark realm, but from all of the enchanted world. Word of the deaths spread, a
long with the tale of the alleged cause. He'd have been stoned to death had he remained."

  Again that softening in her eyes. "But if he was innocent—"

  "Innocent people are believed guilty of crimes all the time, Bridin."

  He referred, of course, to her steadfast belief that he had killed her family. But she refused to rise to the bait, and instead stuck to the subject at hand, much to Tristan's disappointment.

  "He came here, then?" she asked.

  "So the tale goes. It's said that the sickness of the temple children began to fade shortly after he left. Enough to convince even those who doubted of his guilt. So he came here, and built a castle for himself, a miniature replica of the temple where he'd lived before. And then he conjured the magical mist that enshrouds the place to this very day, guarding it from mortal eyes forevermore."

  "This place," she whispered. So like a child, she was, eyes wide with wonder. "Is it, Tristan? Is it this place?"

  He tipped his head to one side, better to appreciate the full, parted lips. "It very well could be. This place is quite similar to the temple where I was raised." He looked around him, and shuddered. "A bit too similar."

  "You hated it so much then?"

  He stared down into her curious eyes. "It was a living nightmare for a child. I'd never have come here if I'd known it was so like that other place."

  "How is it similar?"

  He took her arm, possessed suddenly of a need to touch her. The warmth of her skin heated his palm where he held her, chasing away the chill of the memories invoked. He led her to the top of the stairs. "The chambers were like these. Small, and each with a fireplace, though there were a great deal more than five in the temple. The front hall is set up in the same fashion, with the hearth on the far wall, and this curving stone staircase to the left. Of course, our kitchens were far larger and more efficient. This one has only a small room with storage space for food, and a cold spring feeding through a space in one wall, for a cooler." They walked down the stairway side by side. "This place has surprisingly modern bathing rooms. Toilets like mortals have, and a hot spring feeding the tub."

  "A tub?"

  He glanced at her, saw the longing in her eyes. "A hot bath appeals to you, does it?"

  "More than you know," she said.

  He almost smiled at her. And then he did. Why not? Animosity between them was one of the many things he needed to eliminate, after all. "Come with me. I'll show you." And he led her through the front hall, past the kitchen, and to the large bathing room beyond. "It's close to the kitchen for a reason," he explained. "The same hot spring is piped into the sink there. All gravity-fed, of course. No electricity needed." He opened the door with a fluorish, pleased by her slow sigh of surprise.

  The tub was closer, in fact, to a small pool, and sunken into the floor. The room was warm, due to the hot springs being directly beneath it. Steam rose from several vents in the floor, creating a mist almost as enchanting as the one that enshrouded the island. A warm, damp mist that was soothing to the lungs. Sunlight poured in through a wall of thick leaded glass that distorted one's view of the outside, and added to the room's warmth.

  Tristan bent, moved a valve, and steamy water began streaming into the tub. No high pressure. Just a natural stream. He dropped a stopper into the drain at the bottom, then straightened again.

  "You've no need to wait on me, Tristan. I could have drawn my own bath."

  He turned slowly, and then went still. Bridin stood in a pool of yellow sunlight, and it glinted in her hair, making it shine like spun gold. She looked like a mystical goddess of old just then, with the sunlight and the swirls of mist surrounding her. And the sight of her took his breath away.

  "Were you my wife, Bridin, I would draw your bath for you every night. I'd stir rose petals and vanilla oil into the water for you, and when the tub brimmed full, I'd remove your clothes, and scoop you up in my arms, and lower you into the water. With my own hands I'd bathe you, and I'd wash that glorious hair in henna and myrrh, And when your water began to cool, I'd carry you back to our bed, to keep your feet from touching the cold floor, and rub you dry with towels of fleece. Or kiss the dew from your body with my lips and my mouth. I'd—"

  "Enough." She'd lowered her head, and then turned her back to him as he spoke, but he saw her tremble, and thought perhaps the picture he painted for her with his words was one she found appealing. "There is nothing you wouldn't say to convince me, is there, Tristan?"

  "No. Nor nothing I wouldn't do." He lowered his hands to her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. "Shall I show you, Bridin, how it will be with us?" He pulled her closer, and she didn't resist. He lowered his head, sliding his arms down along hers until he could lace his fingers in hers. He kissed her, holding her hands, feeling them clench tighter. Her lips softened, opened to him, and he tasted her mouth with his tongue. The fire she could so easily ignite in his soul came to life again, but he battled the blaze. Kept it in check. His kiss was as tender as he could make it, and though he didn't want to, he ended it, and lifted his head to stare into her bewildered eyes.

  She blinked up at him. "The tub is filling," she whispered, her voice raw with the hunger he knew she felt. "And I'm capable of bathing myself." She lowered her eyes. "I want you to go now."

  "No, Bridin, you don't. Not really. But I will go all the same." He released her and turned toward the door.

  "Tristan?"

  He closed his eyes and waited, praying she'd ask him to stay.

  "No matter what else has gone between us, or what lies ahead... I..."

  He turned to face her, tilting his head to one side. "Go on."

  Licking her lips, dipping her head and then lifting it again, she whispered, "I'm truly glad you're alive."

  He smiled then, and reached out to stroke her hair, just once. "Well," he said. "That's a start."

  "No it's not. It just... is."

  As she soaked in the tub and plotted her escape from this wretched little isle, she was glad she'd told him. It was little more than the truth. She was glad he was alive, despite the trouble he always managed to cause for her. She'd been too angry at his dishonesty to react when she'd first discovered that he hadn't died at his brother's hand. And she was still angry, of course. But now, with a bit of time to mull it over, that anger was tempered by a profound sense of relief, even gratitude, that he'd been spared. She'd mourned him sincerely and painfully. Dreamed of his darkly handsome face, and awakened only to cry herself to sleep once more. She'd missed him. And she was glad he was alive. Truly glad, right down to her soul.

  And glad she'd told him. Because who knew when she would see him again? Yes, it was good that he knew how she felt. It eased her mind that she'd bared her soul to him at last.

  And now she would escape.

  Because she couldn't remain with him. If she never regained the kingdom and the throne, so be it, but she couldn't stay here. She couldn't listen to his tender words, his promises, or see the love shining from his eyes when she knew it was all a lie. It hurt, it hurt too terribly to bear. Perhaps because she wanted so badly for it to be true.

  And this was the perfect time to act. Yes, he'd told her she would be allowed to roam the isle, but he was a liar and always had been. He'd likely follow her if she went out alone. Watch her from some secret vantage point. This was the perfect time to escape him. Tristan knew her well, and so knew, too, of her fondness for hour-long soaks in the bathtub. She'd asked him to allow her some privacy. He'd honor that, she thought. So this gave her an hour in which to make her getaway unnoticed.

  Tate's absence made this even more perfect. Only one pair of sharp eyes to elude, instead of two.

  She didn't undress but instead went to the door and pressed her ear against it to listen. And she heard nothing. Then she went back to the heavy leaded glass window, and found that it did indeed open. The heavy panes were set within wooden frames that hinged on the sides and swung outward from the center like shutters. She flicked the tiny ho
ok and eye free and pushed them wide, then climbed through them. Her hands clutched at the lush green grasses as she pulled herself out of this sunken, earth-hugged bathing room and onto the ground. She rested there for just a moment, kneeling, catching her breath, and glancing around her nervously. Nothing. No one about. Only the lonely stone temple and the sloping grassy lawn. She could hear the waves crashing far below, and could see the spiral path vanishing downward in the distance and disappearing into the dense mists. The lake was loud, so clear and strong thundering in her ears. But invisible beyond those mists.

  It was a strange sensation that coursed through her then, as the wind began picking up force, teasing her hair and her dress when she got to her feet. She turned only once, long enough to push the windows closed. And then she hurried away, never once glancing back. She had to return to Rush. She had to expose Vincent as the murderous liar he was, and at least attempt to take back her throne. She had to try her best to see to it her people were well, and ruled fairly and with love, rather than suffering beneath the iron-fisted hand of Vincent.

  Her hair whipped out behind her, and the skirts of the black dress billowed like sails. She ran across the lawn and onto the trail: narrow, treacherous, rocky. She hadn't realized how dangerous it was on the way up, since Tristan had been carrying her. Several times her thin slippers scraped over the loose stones, and she nearly fell. Beyond the right side of the trail was nothing. Air. Mists. Rocks and the lake far below. On her left side the sheer rocky wall rose higher and higher the farther she descended. Nothing to grab hold of should she stumble. Nothing to cling to, to keep her precarious balance. Nothing. Yet she ran her hands along that cold stone face all the same. As if simply by touching it, she could retain her connection to the earth. The path grew narrower still. Then broadened out once more only to narrow again. The stones beneath her feet would hold, then crumble and spill over the side, nearly taking her with them. The wind picked up, seemingly having decided to blow her body from the cliffs. And she descended more deeply into the blankets of fog, until she could no longer even see the trail before her. And the act of running her hands along the cliff's uneven face became a way of navigation.