* * * *
Her words haunted Caelin as he made his way along the passage. It wasn’t fear of death that kept them in his mind, however.
Nothing had transpired as he had expected, planned, anticipated. King Gerald had been waiting for him alright, as Artimus had told him, but not to yield his charge to him as he had been instructed. He had arrived to find himself barred from the castle by the protection spell, had been refused admittance by the guard, and told to go about his business when he had sent word to the king that he had been sent to take the serving girl, Gwyneth, to the Temple of Mannet Rae at Sherbrooke.
He had been forced to retreat a short distance and consider how he was going to fulfill the task he had been given when he’d been presented with what appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle. In truth, he had not planned the attack upon the king so much as he had seized the opportunity. It had certainly occurred to him that it was the surest way to be taken inside—if they did not kill him outright. He had wanted to kill the bastard when he had been barred from the castle—actually, he had long thought the world would be a better place without the bastard but until he had had direct dealings with him he had not wanted to do it himself so badly. He would not have gotten the opportunity even to try, however, if the king had not brought a troop from the castle to hunt him down and kill him.
Being hauled to the dungeon in chains had certainly not been something he had anticipated when he had set out. He had known that it would be no easy task to free himself or to search the castle afterward for the girl, but it had seemed the only possibility for success.
And then the girl had simply presented herself to him, had come to the dungeon to free him almost as if she had been sent. He had wondered if she had been. Mayhap Artimus had manipulated her in some way, but he could not see that it was anything that she was aware of—try though he might to detect it.
She was nothing like he had expected her to be, not the creature he had envisioned when the wizard Artimus had sent him forth to find her and fetch her to the temple for the rites. She should have been as foul as the vile creature that had spawned her! She should have been twisted and pitted and belly churningly ugly!
She should not have pleased his eyes! She should not have made his cock stir with desire. Even if she had not been the spawn of that creature, she should not! She was not elfin. He was not certain what she was, but more mortal than aught else.
There was an aura of magic about her, faint but unmistakable—a legacy of her sire, no doubt. That was how he had known her, suspected even before she had given him her name. It was not her magic, though. He was almost certain of that, but some enchantment, mayhap, that the wizard had placed upon her.
A poor one, by the gods, if it had been intended to preserve that part of her that was precious to the wizard! That which he needed to free himself from his prison, for it had not!
Anger churned in his belly again when he thought of that. Despoiled! Before his very eyes, almost within his grasp, and him helpless to prevent it!
All was lost! Nothing he could do now would give him the chance to free the soul of his beloved mother from that bastard who held her chained in the between realm! Nothing! Because Gerald the Impaler had not guarded the girl as he had been charged! Gerald had balked him at every turn!
Damn him! Damn him to eternal torment! And her, too, the sniveling, useless lump of mortal flesh, he thought with abrupt viciousness. She was useless! Useless! He could not wrap his mind around it, could not think what to do beyond the driving need for vengeance—upon someone.
He would slit the bastard’s throat, pull his black heart from his chest while he lay drowning in his own blood!
He had managed to find the stairway the wench spoke of and ascend no more than two flights, however, when he heard the alarm raised, a clamor within the walls of the castle that could only mean one thing. His escape had been discovered.
He stopped abruptly, listening, at war with the urge to continue and exact his revenge and the certainty that he had lost any chance of catching the bastard unaware and unprotected. Frustration built in him until he wanted to howl his rage. Abruptly his focus shifted to the girl, though.
The useless pawn.
Was she useless? Was there no way he might fool the wizard long enough to draw him forth and, mayhap, slay him? Artimus needed the girl to free him from his prison, but could he use her when she was despoiled, no longer the virgin he had expected?
He didn’t know. Black magic was a force he didn’t fully understand, but he realized abruptly that he couldn’t simply give up. He had to try, somehow, to free his mother from Artimus’ clutches.
He had to have the girl even to attempt anything at all, he realized in sudden panic as he listened to the noises escalate on the other side of the wall of the secret passage. They would find her in their search for him, perhaps slay her outright for her treachery. They would have to know that she had been his accomplice—little though he’d needed her damned interference! The little fool!
He knew he should have killed the guard! His body would have been evidence enough of the escape, but it was his tongue that was a danger to the girl!
Gods damn it!
He launched himself down the stairs at a dead run and raced down the corridor, unmindful of the noise he made. There was enough clamor beyond the passage to mask it and, in any case, he feared if he didn’t make haste he would find his efforts wasted. To his surprise and vast relief, he found her huddled in the caverns. Tears stained her cheeks. It made his belly tighten when he saw them, but he dismissed the flicker of guilt. He had no doubt that she had shed them for herself.
“We have been discovered,” he said grimly. “On your feet! Hurry now, wench, or we will die tonight!”
Gwyneth scrambled to her feet, so relieved to see him alive when she had been certain he had gone to his death that it took her a moment to realize what he had said. “He is dead?”
“Nay,” he growled. “I had not even reached the top of the stairs when I heard the alarm go up. The guard was found, no doubt! I should have slit his throat. They will know I had help.”
Gwyneth thought for several moments that she would faint with fright or throw up. She fought both urges, whirling to lead him as quickly as she could through the labyrinth of tunnels that honeycombed the mountain. She chose the one that led the furthest from the outer curtain wall in the hope that they could reach it before the searchers had spread that far.
She stopped to catch her breath when they reached the opening. The elf, Caelin, pushed past her. She thought for several fearful moments that he meant to abandon her. Even as she pushed herself away from the wall, however, he returned, snatched the torch from her hand and tossed it the ground, stamping the flames out. “They are not convinced, yet, that we have managed to find our way outside the walls. We do not want to remove that doubt.”
He took her hand. “The ground is rocky. Take care where you step.”
Warmth flowed through Gwyneth when she felt his hand close around hers, felt his strength in his firm grip. Nodding, although he hadn’t waited for her acknowledgement, she followed him as carefully as she could, afraid that, if she sent rocks tumbling, the sound might carry far enough to give them away. There was enough light outside, though, for her to see better than she had thought she would be able to. Relief warred with uneasiness at that discovery. Was it nearing dawn already? Would the sun lift the darkness she had hoped would cloak them until they were a safe distance from the castle?
Or was in not dawn approaching at all? Was it merely the lessening of the deep gloom of the caverns that made it seem so light?
Surely, that must be it, she decided. She had only waited until the hall had quieted to leave. It could not be much past midnight if it was even that late.
She stumbled several times in spite of her efforts to be as careful as possible. Caelin was far taller than she. His legs covered the rocky slope as if it was broad daylight, free of treacherous rocks, and as
level as the floor of the loft where she slept. Beyond that, she was weary. She had been laboring in the kitchens since well before dawn. She hurt all over from the roughness of the guard when he had rutted her and Thom not many hours before that. And she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. The fear, she thought, was almost more taxing of her strength than any of the rest.
The third time she stumbled, Caelin stopped abruptly and turned his anger upon her. “Is it your intention to give us away?” he demanded in a low growl.
Gwyneth studied him in dismay. “My legs are not as long as yours,” she whispered.
He seemed to wrestle with himself, but instead of cuffing her for her impudence on top of her clumsiness, he merely turned away and pulled her to a walk again. He moved slower than he had before. It was almost a reproach in and of itself, an unspoken criticism of her failings, for he moved more slowly than even than she needed. She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat with an effort.
At least he hadn’t beat her.
But then, she reflected, that would not have been accomplished without making a great deal more noise than she had made stumbling over the rock and no doubt she was slowing him down enough as it was. He didn’t want to spare the time.
When they finally reached more level ground and she thought it safe to do so, she looked behind them, searching for the castle to see how far they’d come.
Not nearly as far as she’d hoped, she discovered with dismay. She could see the torches moving along the ramparts without difficulty.
Caelin paused and lifted his head, uttering a strangely musical warbling sound. He paused, as if he was listening, and then uttered it again. Gwyneth thought at first that the rhythmic pounding in her ears was nothing more than the sound of her heart, for it took on a more rapid cadence when she glanced back at the castle again and thought she saw the gate begin to open. She was certain of it when she caught the first glimpse of a torch in the gaping mouth.
A soft whicker snatched her attention away from that distant threat. She whipped her head around fearfully and saw a dark shadow racing toward them across the field. “They are sending out a search party!” she gasped, gripping Caelin’s arm a little frantically.
“I know. It was a certainty that they would sooner or later. We are fortunate that it was later … and that they did not manage to capture Darkness.”
Gwyneth swallowed convulsively, but she saw that the frightening shadow was no horrible apparition or even a horseman bearing down upon them. It was merely a black stallion. It began to slow even as she recognized it for what it was but was still racing directly toward them at a frightening speed. It skidded to a halt before Caelin, nodding its head so vigorously that it tossed its mane wildly about its head.
“Good boy!” Caelin murmured, his deep voice a soft croon of affection that sent a flicker of envy and resentment through her. If she had had a mane and tail she might have earned more appreciation for her own efforts, she thought bitterly.
She did not have more than a moment to dwell on it. Caelin turned, caught her about the waist, and tossed her onto the back of the prancing beast. It began to sidle and dance harder almost the instant her tailbone settled painfully against its spine. Gwyneth sucked in a sharp breath as she felt her balance shift, felt herself falling.
She hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs, too stunned for many moments to get her bearings or attempt to rise.
Caelin grasped the horse’s head, whispering near his ear and the nasty beast settled. Stroking the horse soothingly, he moved around to where she lay. “Did she frighten you, big fellow?” he murmured before he knelt to help her to her feet. “Ignore the stench. She is nothing more than a mortal maid—well, female.”
Hurt and anger welled in her breast at that. Even as she gained her feet, however, Caelin grasped her and tossed her onto the hateful beast’s back again. “Hold on this time until I mount,” he advised her sardonically.
She twisted her hands in the stallion’s mane, more than a little tempted to see if she could wrench it out. Caelin caught the mane above her grip and flung himself across the horse’s back behind her. Settling one arm around her, he pulled her tightly into the cradle of his thighs and nudged the horse. With no more urging than that, Darkness turned and launched himself into a ground eating lope, racing across the broad, open fields that surrounded the castle.
Gwyneth was glad for the hold, despite the fact that it was becoming increasingly clear that she was not welcome, that Caelin considered her a burden he would be better off without. It seemed unfair that he felt no gratitude at all for the risk she had taken to help him, for the mauling she had endured for his sake, but she had not done it to earn his gratitude, she acknowledged, and it was doubtful he entertained any illusions about her motives. She had helped him in the hope that he would help her and he could be in no doubt of that when she had tried to barter with him. Mayhap he considered them even, given the circumstances, and felt no reason for any sense of obligation.
She supposed he was right.
It still stung that he took every opportunity to throw it in her face that she was less than appealing by referring to her stench, but she was obliged to admit that he had reason to be offended. She had not smelt half as bad from the sweat of her labors as she did from the maulings she’d endured from Thom and then that disgusting drunkard, Bard. If it was not bad enough to be ground into the filth on the floors by their rutting, neither man had smelled as if they had been near enough to water or soap to wet more than their fingers since spring—at the least. She could hardly bear the stench herself. She would gladly have scrubbed the smell of them from her skin and clothes if there had been any way to do so!
Under the circumstances, she began to feel more shamed than abused, wished that she could put enough distance between them that she need not worry that he could smell her filth. There was not much hope of it with the king’s men on their heels, but she had not heard a hue and cry. She held out the hope that they would be combing the hills surrounding the castle for some time before they tumbled to the fact that their quarry was long gone.
She had actually begun to relax somewhat as Darkness ate up the miles with his steady lope when the horse began to slow, began to toss his head and whicker a warning that he had scented danger in the shadows that lay before them.
Chapter Three
Drake felt a ripple along his skin that took no more than a fraction of a second to identify. Forcing the sudden tension from his shoulders by rolling them ever so slightly, he narrowed his eyes against the smoke that lay in a low cloud in the tavern and slowly searched the throng of humanity in the establishment for the magic user. A wielder, he wondered, in such a place?
Mayhap. It was a popular place, he thought wryly, being the only one of its kind for many miles. Travelers had little choice but to patronize it, regardless of the rough crowd that he could see gathered under its roof. They were easy enough to pick out—the bullies that strutted around like they owned the place, shoving people out of their way, demanding service without regard to anyone else waiting.
He dismissed them. The magic was powerful. No one with that kind of power worried about throwing his weight around to ward off a confrontation. They had nothing to prove. The travelers perched on the edges of their seats while they waited to be served, looking torn between hopefulness that they might actually get a bite to eat before they were forced to leave and the urge to bolt immediately, he also dismissed.
His gaze settled finally on a man in the shadows at the far end of the room. His keen eyes pierced the gloom wreathing the man. He looked to be somewhere between thirty and five and thirty in human years and yet there was as much white in the hair that hung well past his shoulders as there was black—an odd sort of coloration. It wasn’t mixed. It wasn’t black hair threaded with white. There were wide shocks of white on either side of the front that framed his face. The back was all black.
He scanned the remainder
of the tall figure folded into the booth—long legs stretched out beneath the table, broad shoulders.
Not a wizard, he decided. Not human.
He considered for a moment and finally pushed his way through the throng. They gaped at him as he passed, but they were mere humans. They were no threat and therefore of no interest.
He stood over the table looking down at the stranger, the magic user, and finally settled across from him.
The stranger met his gaze. Something flickered in his eyes, recognition of a fellow magic.
Drake sprawled negligently in the seat he’d appropriated and dragged in a deep breath now that he was close enough to ignore the other scents around them. Surprise flickered through him. He glanced at the odd shaped scar on the man’s forehead. “What would a unicorn be doing in a place like this, I wonder?” he murmured in an amused, rumbling voice, although he was far from amused. He was, in fact, deeply suspicious that he knew exactly what the unicorn was doing there. Most of his irritation, however, was due to the fact that he hadn’t instantly recognized the man for what he was. Inwardly, he shrugged. It was the hair and the poor lighting that had thrown him. He could see now that the paler hair was not merely white, but rather white gold.
Faine studied the giant of a man across from him. “If you are going to walk about as such a great, hulking brute, you waste your time trying to blend with the humans, dragon. Few of them attain such massive proportions,” he said dryly.
Drake stared at him indignantly. Instead of pointing out that it was hard enough to reduce his bulk to such a piddling stature, he took exception to the insult about his appearance. “I am a handsome creature … which ever form I take,” he growled. “You need not take your own lack of confidence out upon me, unicorn. It was a civil question.”
A Lamentation of Swans Page 3