The Quest for Gillian’s Heart

by The Quest for Gillian’s Heart (lit)

  The king's pronouncements, for all their clipped, impatient tone, had not sounded half so commanding as this softly spoken phrase. The hackles rose on the back of Moreya's neck.

  The king abruptly turned.

  The royal guards no longer had blades at their backs, but Moreya sensed this could change with the blink of an eye. The throne room stilled as the sense of impending danger mounted.

  "My blade now pierces her gown," the cowled knight said, gesturing toward the chair. "Would you have me prove how easily it could likewise pierce her heart?"

  The king snarled something in answer, but whatever he said was lost on Moreya. Her knees trembled, the chamber grew dim. Its walls seemed to recede, leaving her more exposed than ever. She couldn't just stand there! The faceless madman just might slay her, simply to prove he could!

  With a peculiarly detached sense of urgency, Moreya gave one last ferocious yank at her skirts.

  They jerked free and she tumbled backwards in a heap on the floor.

  Chapter 2

  Preece had been summoned to the royal bathing chamber. He folded his arms across his chest and addressed his monarch. "She's a Yune," he stated pointedly.

  "Indeed," Cronel chuckled. "Why else would I order you to serve as escort? You'll deal with the Raviner threat and are perhaps the only man in the realm who'd not be tempted by her exotic appeal. I've offered Yune flesh before."

  Cronel soaked in a massive tub especially designed to accommodate his great girth . . . and space for several bathing attendants. One such female idly scrubbed at the king's back; while another braced a royal foot against her bare breasts as she trimmed her sovereign's toenails.

  These were but two of Cronel's personal slaves. In a castle the size of this one, there were any number of servants and attendants bustling about at all hours, day or night. These were not serfs of that kind.

  Cronel had taken dozens of female prisoners during his various battles—women from every conceivable race and known realm—and though technically enslaved for the personal enjoyment of the Glacian king, the women were routinely shared with knights and nobles at court.

  Preece declined to sample such women. Like other Waniand warriors, he had neither a taste for slavery nor the need to indulge in random bedsport. Cronel mocked Preece with his casual words. Preece took a step closer to the edge of the great tub.

  "Sire, I—Damn, are you blind, woman?" Preece railed at the old servant who'd splashed him. "With my face covered, I see better than you do!"

  He'd been about to protest that he couldn't be ready to embark the following morning for a Dredonian crossing. The king's schedule allowed no time to recruit additional mercenaries. Preece had ridden to the royal castle with only a handful of warriors, two of whom had already departed on another foray of their own.

  Which left only perpetually-besotted Dugan; Preece's trusted friend, Lockram; and Sieffre, one of the youngest knights in Preece's band.

  The bumbling maidservant had spilled a pitcher of cold rinse water down Preece's leggings, angering him into forgetting his other concerns. The woman must be wall-eyed if she'd been aiming for the king's broad pink shoulders.

  "Oh, by the stars and six moons, look at what I've gone and done! A thousand pardons, sir. If you'll follow me, I'll have you stripped of those wet things and some dry clothes p—"

  Preece jerked away the towel she offered to wield for him. He swiped at his knees, which seemed to only grow damper. He glanced up to find the chambermaid lewdly winking at him. Preece suppressed a groan. He knew that wink, and how a towel could make fabric wetter.

  "All right. Which chamber houses my belongings?" He started for the door. The bumbling maid scurried ahead of him. Once in the passageway she made a quick left, a right, then led him to one of the castle's many guest chambers. As soon as they were inside and the door securely closed behind them, Preece threw the towel against the wall in open disgust.

  "Bourke. Were you hoping to drown the fat throne-sitter?"

  The stooped shoulders flared slightly. Sagging pendulous breasts shriveled and flattened, to be obscured by a flowing alabaster beard. The servant's apron elongated into a tattered ankle-length robe darkened with soot. The soot from a mage's hearth.

  "You've been away some time, boy. I knew you'd ride in, when I heard Dugan had been taken again."

  Preece scowled, pointing at his soggy boots and damp leggings . "You needn't have soaked me to announce your presence. I know your wink."

  Bourke shrugged shoulders so frail and thin as to be almost invisible beneath his robe. "You needed a good soaking after that display in the throne room. I've never known you to ill use a gentlewoman. Or your weapon."

  "Both my sword and the Yune maid are well enough."

  "Mayhap, but I suffered a bit." The old wizard thrust out a spindly forearm. A scabbed-over gash ran its length. "I was the chair!"

  Preece sighed and lowered his dark cowl. "Were you not so fond of following me about and using every possible guise to eavesdrop on matters which do not concern you, you'd not suffer these indignities. Remember the time the wild boar tried to mate with you on that hunt? Why don't you return to your cave and let me—"

  "I raised you from a dribbling youth, and unto this very moment, what endangers you concerns me!"

  Preece continued stripping off his clothing and mumbled a curse beneath his breath. There was little point in reminding the old sage that Preece was no longer a lad, but a man full grown . . . a man who hired out his blade to protect and fight for others. He was scarce in need of guarding himself.

  "Yunes are always unpredictable," Bourke warned in his rasping voice. "I took the precaution of casting spells upon these neck amulets. They render males immune to the girl's physical appeal." The wizard floated toward the ceiling and tried to sling a necklace around Preece's throat. Preece ducked with a hiss.

  "It's enough I wear these accursed ebon tunics with cowls. I won't wear the stinking hind part of a bat! I've no need of any lustbane. As Cronel pointed out, and you plainly overheard, I've encountered Yunes afore. This particular one is no different. She detests me. If she could have hefted my glaive, she'd have run me through with it."

  The wizard scrutinized Preece. "You did not find her attractive, pleasing to gaze upon? You felt naught at all when you lifted her from the floor?"

  Preece grunted negatively as he stretched out full length upon the bed, gloriously bare from head to toe. He was bone weary and impatient with the foolishness of other men. Yune females were accounted remarkably sensual, but Preece cared little for ogling women. Right now he felt grateful for the peace and quiet of this chamber and a soft bed.

  "You gathered her in your arms and handed her off to those royal pages," Bourke persisted. Was the mage never going to let this tiresome discussion end?

  "The maid had fallen to the floor. What should I have done, sent for a kitchen barrow? Maybe she can ride in one to Greensward. Fie, of all the fool errands, being ordered to see the daughter of some baron delivered to her future husband in Greensward. And of all the realms, why that one? I hate all the ceaseless plowing and talk of grain."

  "She's not a baron's get, but the only child of Anthaal Fa."

  Preece ran a hand over his bare chest and considered this new fact. Lord Fa had been among Cronel's privy council members, an eminent ambassador. The girl with the flashing violet eyes was his daughter . . . interesting. Preece seemed to recall talk that Anthaal Fa married a Yune noblewoman of great beauty. The daughter should have inherited some of her mother's exotic allure.

  Yet Preece had not seen much to remark upon. At least not the factors men usually noted. Though he'd stubbornly denied any outstanding impression to Bourke, she'd appeared to almost glimmer. Ripple before his eyes. Surely because he was so overtired and vexed at having to rescue Dugan.

  Not because of the woman herself.

  "With that sharp tongue of hers, her father likely sought to transplant her as distant as possible from his own househol
d." Preece recalled her taunt about his wits.

  Bourke shook his head. "She's not betrothed to some petty noble, but the prince regent. See you now how grave is your duty? Taking a Yune across Dredonia, the most inhospitable of realms, to marry royalty at Greensward Palace? No small task. You are certain . . . you do not find her in the least. . . beguiling?"

  Preece yawned. "Vexing, truth to tell. She likely has an even lower opinion of me. Her dislike was clear enough. And that was after encountering me with my cowl in place." He waved a hand, indicating his bare upper body. "Can you imagine what she would do, seeing what I truly am?" Were he not so dead tired, he might have let his lips quirk into a grin. He could picture the Yune ripping her skirts free and knocking aside every guardsman stationed between her and the castle gates in her haste to flee.

  The wizard hovered over Preece's bed. "Be ever vigilant, Warmonger. There are dangers greater than you suspect awaiting you."

  Preece drew the bed furs over his lower body and rolled onto his side, turning away from the wizard. Why didn't Bourke make himself part of the wall and let Preece get some much-needed rest?

  "Whatever they may be, I'll face them squarely. When has Cronel ever given me an easy challenge? He'll pay dearly, you may rely on that. He trusts no other knight with his delicate Yune goods, and few would attempt crossing the wastelands with her for any sum. But this sojourn will get me coin with which to outfit a vessel all the sooner. Go home to your cave, old one, and take your bat's rump with you. I'll be fine."

  "You'll be forever changed," came a rattling whisper. Preece rose up on his elbow and glanced around, ready to challenge that assertion. Bourke was gone.

  "He's been sniffing dead bats and evil concoctions too long," Preece assured himself under his breath. "Forever changed. As if I could get that lucky." He knew better. He'd be hiding under black cowls the rest of his days. Whatever aging a man might do wouldn't be enough to change him.

  He could not escape what he was, what he'd been born to. Trueblooded pure Waniand, and hated for it.

  Chapter 3

  Moreya paced her bedchamber, frowning in consternation at her maid. Glaryd had been Moreya’s companion for many years, ever since her mother’s death. The older woman truly seemed more blood relation than servant, and had been known to disagree with Lord Fa in matters concerning the raising of his only child. Glaryd was plain spoken and occasionally rash of action.

  But never had she dared such as she'd done this night. Nor had there been a hint of penitence when she’d reported her deed to her mistress. As if Glaryd hadn't grossly overstepped her station by seeking out the enigmatic stranger beneath the cowl.

  "I cannot fathom that you dared approach him, let alone proceed to tell him how to carry out his assigned duty."

  Glaryd puffed out her already full bosom. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. Moreya recognized the signs. Glaryd would not apologize.

  "You've not been here since you were a child. You do not know this castle as I do. 'Tis a wicked place, Moreya, corrupt and debauched." Her voice lowered to a hiss. "From the throne itself downward through the ranks, even to the lowliest male serf. There is evil here. The hooded fellow was ordered to guard your chastity, and he shall begin this very eve, right outside yon chamber door. He and I agreed. Now pass me your brush, and I’ll see to your hair. No more tongue wagging."

  "No more tongue wagging?" Moreya repeated, both amused and astonished by the maid's gall. Glaryd hadn't used that particular admonition in some time. The last instance Moreya could recall was when she'd reported to her father that one of his retainers had searched for a missing serving ladle beneath a kitchen maid's skirts.

  "I'm not the one carrying tales, Glaryd. Just what did you tell our great protector when you bid him sleep in the passageway? That you feared besiegers would choose tonight to attack the battlements?"

  Moreya plopped down atop one of their traveling chests and yelped when Glaryd nearly tore a chunk of hair loose with a fierce tug of the brush. "You do not understand the peril," Glaryd insisted. "'He did, only too well. Any man who'd spent a night or two within these walls knows. It's not the fortress at risk of being breached, but your maidenhead, and that shall not happen! My girl goes to her husband pure and unblemished."

  Moreya tried pointing out that she was perfectly safe, that King Cronel's edict was a trustier seal than the lock on any chastity belt. But her protests went unheeded. Glaryd merely lengthened her nightly prayer ritual, flopped onto her pallet, and began to snore.

  A vexed Moreya blew out the rushlights and stared morosely at the ceiling. Glaryd hadn’t been the same since Anthaal Fa’s death. Of a certainty, neither was Moreya. But she worried that Glaryd had begun to suffer the addled wits of advancing age. To think some courtier would dare enter this chamber uninvited, intent upon . . . Lord of all Lords, it didn’t bear contemplation. 'Twas preposterous.

  Moreya was not the beauty her mother had been. Moreya didn't favor the gossamer, brilliant-hued gowns most Yune women wore. She chose instead simple garments in muted colors. She kept her gleaming gentian tresses—tresses considered rare by most standards—covered in the presence of strangers, and tried to blend unobtrusively into her surroundings. So far, she'd escaped the notice of nobles and fighting men.

  Except for the barbarian who'd deliberately speared her kirtle with his sword. And now Glaryd had . . . The woman must be mad, inviting him of all the available soldiers, to linger outside their portal!

  Having the Warmonger blocking her exit would hardly calm any maid's nerves. At supper in the great hall Moreya had overheard the gossip. Hushed whispers that Preece was no ordinary man at all, but a fearsome, twisted creature from the depths of hell itself.

  Moreya had recognized two knights amongst the many seated at the long trestle tables. She recalled the pair from the confrontation in the throne room. They were Preece's men, yet he'd not been seated with them. Nor had she spotted him elsewhere in the hall during the meal. From the snatches of conversation around her, it became clear why he was conspicuously absent.

  The things other men said of him were truly appalling. They swore he wore the dark cowls to hide a grotesque deformity. One belched and vowed that in more than ten years, Preece had never dined with other guests at court. He took refreshments alone in his chambers. His food was delivered on a tray by some unlucky servant: whichever unfortunate serf had drawn the short twig from the kitchen broom.

  This night Glaryd had spared both broomstick and kitchen serf. She’d personally delivered the tray and requested her boon. Moreya hadn’t asked what foodstuffs had been on the Warmonger’s supper tray. She’d been afraid to find out.

  She’d nearly fallen off her own bench when an elder knight boasted he'd glimpsed Preece sans his usual cowl at a joust. The fellow averred that the Warmonger's mouth was located not over his chin, but in the middle of his brow. Every man at the table shuddered with revulsion. Several ladies threatened to faint.

  Moreya had held herself stiffly erect, feigning interest in her food, refusing to let anyone know she shamelessly listened to the gossip. But her appetite had deserted her.

  When a swaggering fellow remarked he knew for certain that the Warmonger fornicated like a beast, rutting in accordance with the cycles of the sixth moon, Moreya had bolted from her place, gone the way of her missing appetite.

  Now, though, Moreya doubted the stories. She would not be as gullible as Glaryd, suspecting every man beneath the castle roof was some evil monster. Besides, she’d clearly heard the Warmonger’s speech. It was clear and coherent, not slurred. And Preece's vision must be superior to that of most men, for despite his shadowy cowls, he rated amongst the best swordsmen in the realm. King Cronel himself had given Preece the moniker of Royal Blade.

  She had to stop this unpleasant musing. Images of a dark, misshapen ogre would hardly induce restful sleep. It was hard enough to settle herself in a strange bed and chamber. Particularly hard since she was faced with the dual losses of her fa
ther and the only home she'd ever known.

  She sat up and swung her feet to the floor.

  She would send Preece away, back to his own chambers—which were hopefully located in an entirely separate, remote wing of the castle. Or mayhap he'd go off to sleep in the garrison, where he might arise early and see to preparations for their departure. Aye, that made more sense than him spending the night sitting up in the stone passageway.

  Moreya stepped over her sleeping maid. Fortunately, Glaryd was a sound sleeper. She’d rant and rail if she learned that Moreya had unbarred the door to dismiss their protector.

  It was best, and not as though Moreya set out to banish the fellow . . . exactly. Nay, she offered them both a chance to make a fresh start. They’d not met under the best of circumstances. This was her opportunity to remedy the situation. She would greet him courteously and attempt to establish a modicum of rapport, as her father would have encouraged. Lord Fa had taught her the most successful alliances oft began with simple acts of friendship.

  Friendship

  .

  Could Moreya offer that?

  She wasn't certain. She wasn't certain she could gird herself for what might be revealed beneath that cowl of his. Beyond that was the matter of her own history. Glaryd and Drix had been Moreya’s only friends—a maidservant and the captain of the house guard. Two friends in an entire lifetime. A painfully limited accounting; certainly no recommendation that Moreya was someone in whom a stranger should eagerly place his trust.

  But, in fairness, Moreya was being asked to trust him. Utterly and without question. He owed her at the very least a brief personal audience.

  The second she swung the door open, Preece shot to his feet and took up a warrior stance, sword upraised. Thankfully, the black cowl still obscured his head and face.

  Moreya cleared her throat. "I cannot rest with you out here, sir. My maid should not have summoned you. We are safe enough. You must be tired and—"