The head beneath his hand nodded. He lowered his hand, ready to snap it back in place if she shrieked, relieved when she didn't.
"May I turn around?" she asked him.
"All right."
She did, and held her candle high to examine his face, while tucking a handful of some sort of vegetation into her pocket with her other hand. Then, to Tristan's utter surprise, she smiled. "Tristan," she whispered. "Thank the gods."
He only frowned at her, wondering why this stranger seemed familiar to him.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked. "I'm the woman you found on the battlefield one day long ago. The woman for whose life you risked your own to save."
"I remember," he said. And he looked her up and down. "You healed. I'm glad."
"Yes, thanks to you. But there's no time to reminisce. Come, this way. Hurry." She left the greenery in the folds of her cloak and clutched his hand in hers, pulling him forward.
"Come where?" he blurted. "Where are you dragging me to in such a—"
"Hush. I'm taking you to Bridin, of course. Gods, but I'm not sure I can help her." She glanced over her shoulder at him, narrowed her eyes. "But you can."
Tristan shook his head. "I'm no healer. But I'd give my soul if it would help her."
"I know that. Otherwise I wouldn't be taking you to her side now, Tristan."
She paused at the end of the passage, held the candle aloft. "I've no idea whether she's still alone in the chamber or not. Could be Vincent awaits my return in there, and if he does, he'll kill me." She set the flickering candle on a ledge. "If you hear him when I go up, then back yourself into the shadows. Let him do with me as he will. Just bide your time and remain hidden, and try to help Bridin when you can."
She lifted her arms above her head to push against the stone. But Tristan settled his hands on her shoulders, stopping her, searching her face with narrowed eyes. "Who are you that you would offer your life for hers?"
He saw the unshed tears in her eyes, glittering in the candlelight. "I'm her mother," she whispered.
"Maire?" He shook his head. "But... but how—"
"It's a long tale, Tristan, and we've no time now. But it's true, I vow to you. Now come, let's go and see to our girl."
He nodded, thunderstruck, and lifted his hands to help her move the stone. No sound came from the room above. Though of course, that meant little. Tristan wanted to argue that she should let him go first, and that she should be the one to flee if Vincent was indeed waiting. But before he'd done more than part his lips to speak, Maire was hoisting herself up through the floor. She stood, and there was a long moment of silence. Then she bent over the opening. "It's all right. No one's here. Come up, quickly."
Tristan braced his hands on either side of the opening and hauled himself up and into the chamber that had been his once, and apparently now belonged to his brother. And in his brother's bed...
"Bridin!" Tristan ran to her, leaned over her, and stroked her pale face, whispering to her as his heart tied itself into knots. Her tunic and tights were torn and dirty. Her hair mussed and pulling free of the braid. Her beautiful face bruised purple. Her arm in a splint. A poultice of something—ice, he realized when he touched it—pressed to a lump on her head.
"Bridin. Live, my angel. Live. You can't end our battle this way. You have to fight with me, Princess, right to the end." He stroked her hair, then bent and pressed his lips to her eyelids. First one, and then the other. But there was no response.
"You can save her, Tristan."
He lifted his head and turned it slowly. Maire had replaced the stone in the floor, and now stood at the foot of the bed. And as he stared at her, she nodded her head, dropping her gaze to a point high on his chest. Numbly he lifted his hand to the spot, and felt them there. The pendants. And they were warm, unnaturally warm. He lowered his chin to look down at them, and his eyes widened as he noted the faint glow that suffused them.
"The pendants," he whispered.
"Yes, Tristan. They'll heal her. No one can die while wearing them. I still had all of my powers—the most powerful magic in all the world, that of a fairy queen—when I fashioned those pendants for my daughters. And I made sure they would protect them, always."
"No one can die while wearing them," he repeated numbly.
"No. Not even you."
He nodded his head, and then knelt beside the bed. He bent forward and pressed his lips to Bridin's. And when he straightened again, he lifted his hands to the chains around his neck.
The door opened. There was a harsh shout, a curse, and then his brother's sword pressed to Tristan's spine. "Don't move or I'll slice you in half, you sniveling pest! Guards!"
Tristan closed his eyes. No one can die while wearing the pendants. He closed his hand around the pendants and ripped them free, tossing them to Maire and whirling on his brother at the same time. He knocked the sword away, reaching for his own and lurching for the door simultaneously.
Vincent lunged after him, but Tristan made it to the door, knowing he need only get Vincent away from the bedroom. Give Maire time enough to drag Bridin into that passageway, put the necklaces around her slender, satin throat.
That was all. Nothing else mattered except that Bridin be all right.
He surged through the doorway only to be met by a wall of resistance. But he clasped the guard's armored shoulders and flung him aside. Then he ducked to one side of the door, drawing his brother through it.
Their swords met with a thunderous crash of steel, again and again and again. But Tristan's eyes were on that open doorway. And he only looked away when he saw Maire peer through it. She met his eyes, nodded once.
He knew at that moment that Bridin was going to live, and so would he, dammit. She was his, and he wasn't going to die and leave her to marry some other fool. Not unless dying was the only way to save her life.
He knew now how little everything else mattered. The kingdom, the throne. The freedom of these ungrateful people. Nothing mattered so much to him as Bridin. Her life, and her heart, and her love.
She'd freed him just as surely as she now fought to free her people. Freed him from the chains his own father had wrapped around his heart. From the belief that he'd been born only to rule this land. What hogwash. He'd been born to love her. Nothing more.
He focused himself fully on the fight, to give Bridin and her mother time enough to escape and make their way to safety. And he held his own, too, might even have won, except that several guards appeared at his back within the next few moments. The tips of their swords drew blood as they poked into him. Tristan stopped fighting, because he'd have died at that moment had he not done so. He lifted his hands in surrender, and let his sword clatter to the floor. Time. All he could do now was bide his time, and wait for another chance to save himself.
He could only pray he'd bought Bridin enough time to escape. Her mother enough time to heal her. If he had, then he'd succeeded. Even if he couldn't manage to get out of this alive, it would be worth it.
Chapter Twenty
BridIn slowly came awake. Very slowly. She didn't know where she was, or what was happening to her, for a few moments. And then she became aware of pain. A pain that screamed with the shrillness of a madman, and echoed all through her body. Her head. Her torso. Her back and arms and legs. She was on fire. Being burned alive.
But the burn seemed to flare brightest in a single spot at the place just below her throat. And as her body was pulled and pushed and dragged and jostled, the screams of pain seemed to recede, like waves slowly rolling back out to sea. They all grew smaller and smaller as the heat in the middle of her chest grew larger and larger. As if it were absorbing all the rest, drawing all that horrible pain into its fiery embrace and then holding it there, or burning it away.
And even as she registered the odd sensations, they altered yet again. The pain in her body blinked out like a candle pinched between her fingers. And the spot on her chest burned like a firebrand dropped there to smolder.
She lifted a hand to her chest to pull the searing ember away from her flesh, and then paused when her hand closed around the red hot shape of the thing that was burning her so.
And she knew that shape.
A winged fairy, made of pewter twined around a quartz crystal point. And tangled with it was a second, her questing fingers soon discovered. Its mate. Its twin.
"The pendants," she whispered. And that thought brought another. "Tristan!"
Her eyes flew open wide even as the pendants in her clenched fist began to cool. And she searched the pitch blackness around her, eager to see him, to touch him, to tell him...
But the person who leaned over her, touching her face and whispering so gently, wasn't Tristan.
"No, darling, it's me. It's Mother. Are you better now, my sweetheart?"
Bridin blinked. "Mother?" And slowly her memory returned. Her mission. To turn herself over to Vincent in order to save her people. Her discovery—that her mother was alive, and then their reunion and Maire's explanation. The hugs. The tears. Then her surrender to Vincent, and her reunion with Tristan. The way she'd made love to him despite the chains that held her—the way she'd thought it might be for the last time.
Because she knew Vincent was coming for her. And he had. His men, guiding her up those stairs...
Those stairs...
She gasped and pressed a knuckle to her teeth to prevent herself from crying out.
"It's all right," Maire whispered. "You're all right now, darling."
"I... I f-fell."
"I know. But you're all right, and we've escaped Vincent. Together. Both of us."
Bridin blinked away her tears and nodded. Yes, they'd escaped. And she was well. She could feel her body healing at a pace too rapid to be believed. But she knew, of course, that it was all due to the pendants. Their powers and...
She touched them again, turning to her mother in the darkness. "Tristan?" she asked, her heart in her throat.
And she heard her mother's sigh. "Vincent has him," she whispered.
Bridin closed her eyes. "No. Gods, no, he hasn't risked his life to save mine! Not again!"
She saw her mother's eyes fall closed. She said nothing, but Bridin knew. She knew.
"Come now, on your feet. You ought to be able to walk by now." Her mother helped her to stand, and Bridin blinked in the darkness, finally attempting to take in her surroundings. The familiar dampness and chill made goose bumps raise on her arms, and she rubbed them away.
"We're—"
"In the passages, Bridin. I didn't dare try to carry you through the village the way you were. Now, though—"
"No. Mother, I have to go back! I can't just leave him—"
"There's nothing you can do for him by going back, child," her mother said, and she gripped Bridin's shoulders as if to drive her words home. "You'd only be imprisoned or killed. If you want to help him, Bridin, you have to do it from beyond these walls."
Slowly Bridin shook her head. "There won't be time. Vincent won't imprison him this time, Mother. He'll kill him."
"If killing him outright is Vincent's plan, daughter, then I'm afraid it could already be too late. We've been cowering in these walls for over an hour now."
"No..."
"But if Tristan is still alive, then our best chance lies out there, with our people."
Gently she steered Bridin forward, then crouching, pushed away the false stone that blocked the opening. She drew her daughter with her into the pale pink light of dawn. "Come," she whispered. "We'll have to hurry, before the villagers begin to stir. We mustn't be seen."
Bridin lifted her chin, met her mother's stare. "Maybe being seen is the only thing left we can do." The fresh morning air bathed her face, filled her lungs. The air of Rush. Her kingdom. Her people. She didn't need to go find any man to help her, no matter what her mother's crystal ball had told her. There was only one man she wanted, and he was inside that castle right now, perhaps breathing his last. Bridin had never backed down from a fight, and she'd never given up on something she wanted. She wasn't about to start now.
Let the mobs stone her for her imagined crimes, if that's what they felt they had to do. It wouldn't matter. If she lost Tristan, nothing would matter anymore.
She turned to stare back at the castle walls towering above her. Gods, what might they be doing to Tristan right now? Was he even alive? And was the horror she felt at this moment the same as what he'd been feeling not long ago, when he'd looked up at those same towers knowing she was trapped somewhere inside?
It was: she knew that now. He loved her, had told her so again and again. And yet she'd never told him how much she loved him, had she?
She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and stiffened her spine. "I'll be back, Tristan," she whispered. "I swear it, I'll come back for you." Then, clutching her mother's hand more tightly, she turned toward the thin cover of the apple trees and darted away. When she judged they were a safe distance from the castle, deep in the orchards, she put her fingers to her lips and whistled. Then stood still, waiting.
Seconds ticked past before she heard the fast trot of her horse's hooves pattering over the soft ground. Bridin reached up and caught Crystal's bridle before she even ground to a halt. She stroked the mare's nose and led her up in front of Maire.
"Get on, Mother."
Maire's brows drew together and she cocked her head. "Bridin—"
"Get on and ride like the wind. Find Tristan's men in their forest hideaway and bring them. Hurry!"
Biting her lip, her mother faced her, eyes fear-filled, reluctance in her very stance. "Bridin, I can't just leave you here—"
"I love him!"
Their eyes met and held as the wind picked up, bringing the morning along with it. Bridin's hair whipped her face, and she pulled the braid around in front and untied the knot that held it. With her fingers working automatically to loose her hair, she held her mother's gaze. "I love him," she whispered again. "I don't care if I lose the entire kingdom in the end. It doesn't matter. But if he dies, Mother..."
Her mother held up a single hand to silence her, and nodded once. "You're a woman now. You'll do... what you have to do." She ran one hand over Bridin's hair as the wind helped her free it from its braid. Then she turned and swung into the saddle. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised. And then she dug her heels into the mare's sides, and they shot off through the orchard toward the nearest gate.
Bridin turned and ran, fast as she could go, taking a path that would lead to the shops that lined the innermost streets of the city. The merchants' square. That was where the people would be congregating at this early hour. That was where she would find what she needed. She didn't pull up her hood, but left her hair flying free for all to see.
The wind whistled past her ears as she ran. Her body heated and her pulse soared. She dug deep for the strength to face whatever she would encounter, and then emerged, her momentum carrying her to the crossroads at the very center of the merchants' square, where the old fountain still bubbled and splashed, though its water was no longer crystalline, but brackish and coated in green slime.
One or two passersby turned their heads as she drew herself to an unsteady stop near the fountain. Not enough, though. And yet she was still unarmed, except for the dagger in her boot. She turned her head to the right and spotted the armorer's shop where Gaston was just sweeping off his stoop. And she strode to it, pushing past him without apology.
"Well, now, if that wasn't the—" His words stopped with a choking sound as she whirled to face him. She stood in his shop now, he in the doorway staring. "P-Princess Bridin?"
"I need arms. Quickly! A sword, a shield."
He only gaped at her, shaking his head, working his mouth, though no words emerged.
"I'll find them myself," she snapped, turning on her heel and tearing through the place until she located a plain broadsword and a small mace. She slipped the sword into her scabbard, clutched the mace in one hand, and snatched up a battered shield
that was probably here for repairs. Then she marched right past the still-gaping proprietor and into the street, shouting as she walked across it toward the fountain.
"People of Rush, hear this! Bridin of the Fay has returned!"
Several shocked faces turned in her direction. Several other people ran off, only to return seconds later, tugging someone else by the shirtsleeves. Bridin knew she wouldn't have much time. Given what they believed of her, they'd likely form a lynch mob within a minute or two.
She'd best say what she had to say and get it done before she lost her chance.
She leapt up onto the cement edge of the fountain, keeping her shield raised in case she ended up fighting her way back to the castle. Already some twenty people were gathered around her, creeping nearer, with more appearing from the small buildings and side streets every moment. Yet no one moved to attack her, and she found it odd, fully expecting it at any moment. Bridin faced them all, hearing their whispers growing to a louder murmur, seeing them point her way while leaning and speaking to another. What were they saying? There she is, the guilty one. The one who betrayed us. The one who...
She shut off her thoughts like snuffing a candle's flame, thinking only of Tristan, and cleared her throat, and spoke again, her voice emerging, to her surprise, strong and clear.
"I don't care what you believe I have done," she told them. "I have no time to explain or try to defend. If you would see me stoned or beheaded for my crimes, then I'll willingly submit. You have my vow on that."
There were several gasps, and more muttering, but it died as soon as she spoke again. "Before my sentence is carried out, know this. Tristan of Shara is not dead, as his brother told you he was."
"Tristan? Alive?" someone shouted.
She had to hurry. Soon someone would report her presence here to the castle guards...
"Vincent lied! He plotted to steal the throne from his own brother, plotted to murder Tristan in cold blood in order to take the kingdom. But only part of his vile plan worked. He got the crown, all right, by means more foul than any pigsty's stench. But he didn't murder Tristan, though he tried. His brother—your prince—Tristan of Shara, was tossed to the dungeons to die of the wounds he received at his own brother's sword, but he escaped."
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