by Nora Roberts
Her father’s snoring grew louder as Erinn approached the great velvet-curtained bed.
“Father,” she whispered. “Father, wake up.”
King Vort’s eyes fluttered open. As if dreaming, he stared at her vaguely, and then a smile dawned across his lined and haggard face beneath the tousle of bristly white hair. “Why, Erinn, my girl, you’re back. Even if ’tis only a dream, stay with me, child. How I have longed to see your face.”
“It’s not a dream, Father. I’m here. I must speak to you. Wake up.”
The last fog of sleep lifted from his eyes and the king sat up, his Adam’s apple trembling above the scarlet collar of his long linen nightshirt. He stared at his daughter with pure joy for one breathless instant, then his eyes fell upon the second figure in his bedchamber, a very tall, very broad-shouldered figure who stood just behind her.
Up and up went the king’s gaze as he stared in shock at the giant clad in dark cloak and breeches and boots, the giant who held aloft a torch that revealed the face that Vort of Marlbury had glimpsed often enough in battle. Dimly he heard Erinn’s voice, saying something to him, but he was damned if he knew what it was—he could only stare at that damned devil of a face. He’d seen that face from a distance, it was true, but it was not a face he would ever forget.
It was the face of his enemy.
“Bordmoorrrrrrrrr!” the king bellowed, and sprang from the bed with the alacrity of a much younger man.
“No, Father, listen,” Erinn cried in horror as the shout echoed through the castle and she instantly heard the sounds of running feet and deep-throated yells.
“Behind me, girl!” her father roared and reached to grab his sword from its scabbard.
Tynon stopped him, jerking the scabbard out of reach. “King Vort, we beg you to listen to us. Your daughter has something she wants to—”
But before he could finish the words, the door burst open and a dozen men surged into the chamber.
Braden and Cadur were the first, of course, Erinn noted in dismay, and as they set eyes on Tynon, every man as one drew his sword.
“Lower your weapons, all of you!” Erinn had whirled to face them, and she stepped purposefully in front of Tynon, who had exercised every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from drawing his own sword instinctively. He smothered the torch, but did not drop it, holding it loosely in one hand as his gaze shrewdly assessed the fighting men confronting him.
There was shock and fury in their faces as they looked upon Erinn and him.
“Erinn! You’re alive, thanks be to heaven,” Cadur croaked out.
“What has he done to you?” Braden leaped forward and reached toward her as if to yank her behind him, but Tynon moved faster, seizing the prince’s arm, spinning him around and shoving him back into his brother.
“Don’t touch her,” Tynon said grimly. “Just listen to her.”
“Braden, Cadur, please—” Erinn held her hands out beseechingly, but the sight of Tynon of Bordmoor standing feet apart beside their sister in their father’s bedchamber within the very heart of the castle stirred her brothers and the soldiers to rage beyond reason.
“Kill him!” Braden ordered, and the men surged forward. Her own father yanked her out of their path as, with swords raised, they rushed at Tynon.
Instinct took over, and he drew his sword in a flash. Then the room became a blur of swords and shouts and grunts, and Tynon was at the center of it, trying to fight them all off with sword and torch as terror ripped through Erinn’s soul.
She closed her eyes tight and whispered, “Begone, begone, rough weapons begone. Tarry not in angry hands, by all that’s just, heed my commands.”
The next instant the swords flew out of the hands of all the men, Tynon included, and streaked up toward the ceiling. A burst of wind blew the shutters wide, and the swords all veered straight toward the open window.
In a blink they were gone, flying out into the darkness.
Everyone froze, staring at her. “What are you doing, girl?” her father gasped. “We’re trying to protect you from this…this savage—”
“No, you’re not, Father. You’re trying to kill the man I love.”
Erinn faced him, stunned that the spell had actually worked, but knowing she’d best make use of the pause in the fighting while she could.
Her words seemed to turn every man in the chamber into a statue, including her brothers.
“Braden and Cadur, you may stay, but everyone else—except of course, you, Father—must leave. Tynon and I wish to speak to you.”
“Erinn, what has he done to you?” Braden asked again. He came toward her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders, fear glinting in his eyes. “By all that is holy, this is my fault. I let him steal you—”
“I’m glad he didn’t hurt you, Braden, but for once in your life,” Erinn said impatiently, “will you listen to me? I’m not a child who needs protecting. And I don’t want you or anyone else finding me a husband. I have found him on my own—the only one I shall ever want. Tynon and I are going to be married. We will join our lives for all time, and we’ll bring an end to the enmity between our lands.”
“Never. Not so long as I have breath.” Braden spun on Tynon, his face a mask of fury. “I’ll see you in hell before I let you touch my sister.”
“I’ll see you in hell before I let you stop us.” Tynon’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the deadly conviction in his words, or the determination glittering in those keen warrior eyes. For a moment, looking at him, even Erinn felt a jolt of fear, but as his glance shifted to her, his eyes softened and she saw in them the depths of desperation and love that matched her own.
“Erinn, you can’t mean this,” Cadur exploded. “You know who this man is—what he’s done!”
“He has done nothing worse than what you’ve done, Cadur, or Braden or Father. He’s fought wars. Now he’s ready to make peace. The question is—are you?”
King Vort stared at her blankly. “Peace?”
“Do you know what started the wars between Bordmoor and Marlbury, Father?”
The king shook his head dazedly. He was staring at his daughter as if he’d never seen her before.
“Do you, Braden? Cadur?”
Grimacing, they shook their heads, and with a sudden glimmer of hope, Erinn saw the curiosity spark within their eyes.
“Then dismiss the knights and let us gather around.” Her voice gentled, and in it all the men in the chamber could hear the echoes of hope, hope that had been wilting for years within their own war-weary souls. As King Vort waved the soldiers away and they departed in wonder, they glanced back over their shoulders at the princess whose words stirred something near forgotten in their hearts.
Princess Erinn went to her father and touched his arm.
“Tynon and I have a story to tell you. All I ask is that you listen. And listen well.”
“I…will listen.” Once more King Vort looked upon the beloved face of his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. Dazed, he tore his gaze from hers, glanced at Tynon of Bordmoor and shuddered. But he addressed his sons in tones of command.
“You shall listen, too. Both of you. It won’t hurt, I suppose…to listen.”
As her brothers glowered, Erinn led her father to a chair and eased him into it. “It all began with your grandfather, Father. And his bride-to-be. She had dark hair and came from Gwent. Her name was Olivia.”
When she finished speaking, there was a long silence in the chamber. It was Tynon who broke it as he moved to Erinn’s side and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“King Vort, Erinn and I have made our choice. We will marry and will be husband and wife for all of our days. Nothing under the sun or moon will stop us. But now the choice is yours to make, yours and your sons’,” he added with a level look at both Braden and Cadur. “If something as small as a kiss can bring either peace or war, then I say let it bring peace.”
Tynon dropped a kiss upon the top of Eri
nn’s head as King Vort looked on, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I say the same, Father,” Erinn said softly, and as she gazed at her father, her heart was in her eyes. “What do you say?”
Before he could reply, there was a rush of wind and a great clatter, and all the swords Erinn had sent flying out the window came soaring back into the chamber. Tynon dragged Erinn against the wall and shielded her, while the others dived for cover as the swords streaked around the chamber and then crashed down in a heap upon the king’s own bed.
“I was afraid that would happen,” Erinn muttered disgustedly as Tynon eased away from the wall.
“I never doubted it would.” He wrapped his arms around her.
King Vort scowled at the shining swords piled upon his bed. His sons did the same, and then glanced from the swords to Erinn and her llachland duke, snug in each other’s arms.
“By all the saints, what is the world coming to?” the king muttered, scratching his head. “Flying swords and my daughter in love with a llachland savage. What to do, boys, what to do?” he grumbled.
Braden and Cadur gave no answer at first. They were too busy glowering at the possessive way Tynon had his arms around their sister, but they couldn’t help noticing that Erinn did look happy—happier than they’d ever seen her. In fact, she was radiant.
“Peace or war,” Braden muttered. In his mind’s eye he saw a bloody battlefield. If he never saw another one it would be too soon.
“It seems for the first time in one hundred years we have a choice.” Cadur pursed his lips, thinking of the fetching noble’s daughter he’d encountered in the village only a week ago. If he didn’t have to spend all of his time fighting and riding from one battleground to the next, always trying to find ways to gather more men, more horses, more wealth to wage the wars, he might have time to think about finding himself a wife.
King Vort thought back to his grandfather, a man he dimly remembered as having a black temper. He’d never much liked the man. Then he looked at Erinn, who smiled at him with such hopeful pleading in her eyes.
“Peace…or war.” He cleared his throat. “If Tynon of Bordmoor will negotiate a fair treaty with me, then…we shall try…I suppose…for peace,” he announced doubtfully, nearly choking on the words.
Erinn flew to him and kissed his cheek. Then she embraced both of her brothers, melting even their scowls as she smiled at them with glowing pleasure.
But it was to Tynon that she went with outstretched arms, and pulled his head down to hers. It was a decorous kiss, at least compared to the way she really wished to kiss him, but even then she heard the muffled groans of her brothers and her father’s sigh.
“Never should I have doubted you,” Tynon told her, smoothing her hair. “You worked your magic on them, just as you did on me and on my keep.”
“It wasn’t magic. Only love. They love me, and no matter how much they despise you, they want me to be happy,” she said with a grin. “And I can’t take credit for the keep,” she objected, touching his face with tenderness. “We lifted that spell with our kiss. Don’t ask me how, but—”
“The only thing I’m going to ask you is when. When will you marry me?”
“On the first of May.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “Under one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“Promise you’ll never let Rhys lock me in the dungeon,” she told him, laughter bubbling in her throat.
“Done.” He grinned and pulled her closer, staring deep into her eyes. “Don’t fret, my love. You’ll see. It won’t be long before Rhys loves you as much as I do…. Well, almost as much,” he finished softly, and this time when he kissed her it wasn’t decorous at all.
10
IT WAS A spectacular wedding. Attended by nobles and common folk from two kingdoms, it took place upon a shimmering spring morn when the very trees seemed to shine with silver light and the wind was softer than a baby’s breath. Though the ceremony was solemn, and silence reigned throughout the candlelit ceremony at Marlbury Castle as Princess Erinn and Duke Tynon duly repeated their vows before nearly a thousand onlookers, the wedding feast and festivities that followed and that went on for days were anything but sober. There were minstrels and jugglers, acrobats performing handsprings, singers accompanied by viol and flute, and fragrant spices set burning for seven days and nights throughout all the castle and the village square. Masses of flowers, torches, tapestries and garlands adorned Marlbury Castle—but no adornment was more lovely, the duke of Bordmoor told his bride after their first breathless matrimonial kiss, than she.
Indeed, the bride was resplendent in a gown of palest blue, the color of a sunrise sky, and embroidered with tiny amber flowers. She wore a mantle of golden lace and a circlet of gold upon her head. Gazing into her eyes after the ceremony, for that one fragile moment before they were swept up in the pageantry and gaiety, Tynon felt the last weight of darkness and loneliness slipping from his massive shoulders.
This lovely girl with her smile and hapless magic, and her heart of pure gold, had saved him—offered him a reprieve from war and darkness—and granted him a future brighter than anything he had ever imagined.
For the folk of Marlbury and Bordmoor there was dancing and laughter, and spiced wine by the barrel, as well as food beyond compare—boar’s head and capons and ducklings by the hundreds, mutton and beef, all manner of fruit and spices, cheese and eggs and frosted cakes and savory puddings.
So rambunctious and joyous were the festivities as peace for the first time in one hundred years was celebrated in conjunction with the marriage, that no one noticed when shortly before midnight the bride and groom disappeared. But disappear they did—slipping away from the strains of flute and harp, from the toasts and laughter, making their way to the bridal chamber that had been prepared for them.
Tynon, not trusting the hearty celebrants to leave them in peace, barricaded the door with a vast chest and turned to grin at his bride as she stood near the elaborate velvet-swagged bed. Candlelight glowed upon her creamy skin and illuminated her eyes with a glowing, eager fire.
“You don’t really think they’ll try to intrude on us, do you?” Erinn asked as he strode toward her.
“Not if they know what’s good for them.”
She laughed. And threw her arms around her bridegroom. “I have been waiting for this moment since I opened my eyes this morning. You and I—married…and alone.”
“I have been waiting for it too—even more for what comes next.”
And he began to kiss her, long, possessive kisses that burned with hunger and with happiness and with a desire that melted right into their souls. Their lips never parted as he swept her up in his arms and carried her to their marriage bed.
And the night was filled with love and heat and passion, and the days to come were filled with happiness—and children—and, for the first time in one hundred years, with peace.
“That’s quite enough.” Cyrus lifted a hand, and one by one the lit candles he’d planted in a circle in the earth extinguished themselves. As their light vanished, so did the vision of the newlyweds in their marriage bower that had flickered momentarily within the magic circle.
Ophelia blew a wayward lock of red hair from her eyes and sighed dreamily. “That was the most impressive magic I’ve ever seen.” She glanced at her instructor, incredulity mixed with admiration. “With one spell and one spell alone, you brought the wars to an end.”
“But how did you know that Tynon of Bordmoor would believe that Erinn of Marlbury had cast the spell on his keep?” Barnaby asked in an awed tone.
“And how did you know that he would go after her and…and that they would actually kiss, enabling the spell to be broken?” Elwas’s pointed ears quivered as he leaned forward eagerly toward his mentor. “It was the kiss that broke the spell, wasn’t it? I thought that’s what you intended—”
“Of course it was.” Cyrus’s robes whipped around him as he surveyed each of his pupils b
y the glow of the moon. “Your lack of knowledge becomes more apparent by the moment. Obviously none of you have thoroughly studied the basic textbook of this and every class—The Wizard’s Handbook. Now have you?”
Ophelia flushed, even her freckles growing redder. “I skimmed the last few chapters,” she admitted. “I was busy practicing Visions, so I suppose I could have missed something—”
“I only had time to read every other chapter because I was trying to master the transformation tables,” Barnaby sighed.
Elwas chewed his lip. “I lost my book. It wasn’t my fault—there was a gnome hanging about and I think he—”
“No more!” Cyrus turned on his heel and paced across the cliff and back, struggling to keep his temper under control. He tried to remind himself that one day, with training, these three would be mature, talented wizards making great magic of their own. But they had a long way to go before that, he reflected darkly.
“You are all going to repeat Level Three of your training. And you will not advance until I know with certainty that you are ready. We’ll begin tomorrow morning—at ten minutes before dawn.”
He ignored their groans and downcast eyes. “But first you will repeat for me the cardinal rule explained on the last page of The Wizard’s Handbook—the page none of you apparently bothered to study. It is the creed of every great wizard, and none of you will ever achieve more than ordinary power, fame, or notice until you know it to be true.”
He looked at them expectantly, but they gazed back at him with nervous unease. “Excuse me, sir, but how…how are we to repeat the creed to you if we don’t know what it is?” Barnaby ventured at last.
“You do know what it is. I just showed you what it is. Princess Erinn…Duke Tynon…the keep…the wars…By Merlin’s light, did you learn nothing from my demonstration?”
Suddenly Ophelia blinked and sat up straighter. Elwas clasped his hands together, and his ears twitched forward. Barnaby’s expression changed from glum confusion to a sudden dazzling smile.