by J. L. Doty
Mortiss bit his ear.
“Ahhh! Blast you.” He struggled to a sitting position. “What did you do that for?”
She neighed angrily.
He struggled to his hands and knees, and stopped there for a moment to think the situation through. As long as he remained on the ground, she wouldn’t let him sleep, and he longed for sleep. But she’d let him doze if he managed to get into the saddle.
He got one foot beneath him, then another, but he still had both hands on the ground, didn’t feel steady enough to stand up straight, knew if he did so he’d probably just fall down again. Mortiss stood only a step away, so he straightened up and staggered toward her, caught hold of her saddle horn and held on to that to keep upright as waves of pain washed through him. He stood there for a few heartbeats catching his breath. The arrow shaft protruding from his chest was now a splintered stub. He carefully reached around to the shaft in his back, learned that he’d snapped that end off too, probably when he’d first fallen out of the saddle.
As the pain receded he realized that climbing all the way up onto Mortiss’ back might be beyond his strength. He leaned his head against her saddle as he felt consciousness slipping away . . .
“Lord Mortal.”
“Wah,” Morgin said and opened his eyes. Miraculously, he’d remained standing beside Mortiss.
“Lord Mortal.”
He turned toward the voice and saw Rafaellen standing beside him. “You’re injured.”
“Very . . . observant of you! Fell out of . . . the saddle, can’t get back up into it.”
Rafaellen! Without the princess! “What are you doing here? Where’s Rhiannead?”
“We were close enough to the castle that I knew she could get their easily. I sent her on with my two men. I came back for you. I don’t leave a man behind.”
“The jackals will be along soon.”
“I know. Let’s get you in the saddle.”
Morgin could raise his foot and put it in the stirrup, but he didn’t have the strength to climb into the saddle. So Rafaellen got behind him, put a shoulder beneath his butt and hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes.
Rafaellen pushed them hard, or at least as hard as they could go with Morgin slumped in the saddle, Rafaellen riding beside him and trying to keep him from again falling out of it. But each bump in the trail, each turn, each twist, sent a jolt of pain through Morgin’s back and chest, which, oddly enough, was of some benefit. The constant pain kept him from slipping away into the blissful mindlessness of unconsciousness, allowing Rafaellen to push them even harder.
“It’s still not enough,” Rafaellen said, looking back over his shoulder. “They’re not far behind us, and they’re slowly catching us. It’s a three-way race.”
“Three-way?” Morgin asked, trying to sit up straighter so Mortiss could ride faster.
Rafaellen reached out and touched Morgin’s back, not on the wound but somewhere below it. He held his hand up for Morgin to see; it was drenched in blood. “Yes. Will we make it to Sabian? Or will those dogs catch us before we get there? Or will you bleed to death before that?”
“Pull off the trail,” Morgin said. “Let’s not make it easy for them.”
“The undergrowth here is too dense.”
Morgin reined Mortiss to a stop, and Rafaellen pulled up a dozen paces ahead. “What are you doing?”
With the hooves of the jackal’s mounts pounding out a thunderous roar not far behind them, Morgin looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead. “Dammit, forest, open another trail for us.” Nothing happened, so he added, “Please.”
The brush at side of the trail squirmed and moved, some of it shifting to the side, some simply ungrowing, receding into the ground as if it had never been.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Rafaellen said. He spurred his horse up the new trail.
Morgin looked up at the canopy again and said, “And close it behind us. Please.”
Morgin followed Rafaellen, looked back and saw the forest dutifully obeying him. But about a hundred paces on they encountered the shadowwraith Soann’Daeth’Daeye standing in the trail, and they pulled up.
Sabian is sending armsmen to deal with the intruders, mortals who can fight them. It raised an arm, pointing north and said, This way.
Morgin turned to Rafaellen. “You said Sabian. It said Sabian. Who is Sabian?”
“The castle of the Unnamed King. It’s the seat of his power, and the heart of the Living Forest.”
With the jackals off their trail they rode cautiously, side-by-side, so that every time Morgin drifted toward unconsciousness Rafaellen could reach out and give him a gentle shake. At one point they heard the ring of steel in the distance, and shouts and cries of men and jackals and horses, clearly a pitched battle.
“Sounds like help has arrived,” Rafaellen said.
Morgin struggled to even say, “Huh?”
“That would be the Unnamed King’s armsmen, met up with the jackals, I would guess.”
Rafaellen stood up in his stirrups for a moment and scanned the forest. “We’re close, very close.”
Morgin drifted off again into a sea of pain. But then Rafaellen shook him hard, pointed up the trail and said, “Look. We’re there. Sabian!”
Morgin opened his eyes, squinted and concentrated carefully on the forest in front of him. But no matter how hard he tried, he saw no grand castle, no walls, no stone, no mortar. He should be the one hallucinating, not Rafaellen. He was about to give up and turn away when he recognized a vague shape that hinted at the lines of a battlement. But it was no more than the way in which the branches of two trees intertwined. He looked closer, and saw that among the branches there were vines and leaves and flowers woven together so intricately they formed recognizable shapes. And even though the density of their weave was such as to create a solid wall of vegetation, the trees were not choked by the vines, but lived among them healthy and hale.
It dawned upon him that he was looking at a wall, and now that he saw it, he recognized windows and arches, turrets and battlements. But this wall was not made of stone and mortar, it was formed of the inter-grown life of the forest, hundreds of trees tied together by millions of vines and leaves and flowers: a castle both grand and enormous. Morgin could barely whisper as he said, “I see it now.”
Rafaellen dismounted, stepped lightly off the trail and stood expectantly before the wall of vegetation, though since there was no gate or door his actions perplexed Morgin. But then the vines and branches squirmed with life again, separating, parting, exposing layer after layer of forest growth. Finally there appeared a small hole in the midst of the activity. It widened and grew and took on shape, and where only moments earlier the wall had been impenetrable, they now stood before an entry capped by a high arch.
Rhianne—or was it Rhiannead—rushed out from the castle followed by retainers and servants. She stopped beside Morgin, looked up at him and said, “You’re hurt!”
Morgin looked into her eyes—bright green eyes—and that was his last conscious thought.
••••
Rhianne knew she couldn’t support Morgin as he slumped out of the saddle, but she wouldn’t allow him to simply tumble to the ground. Still, it surprised her how quickly she crumbled beneath his weight.
“No,” she said, unable to pull herself out from beneath him. “I am not Rhianne. I am Rhiannead.” But drifting through her mind was the constant thought that, I am also Rhianne.
A fat and ponderous man dressed in some sort of official palace livery marched out of the castle. He shouted orders and issued commands, contributing to a general sense of pandemonium. Two servants pulled Lord Mortal off her, and under the watchful eyes of the fat fellow, they placed him on a stretcher. Only then did she see the broken stub of an arrow shaft protruding from his chest.
“Get him into the castle immediately,” the man ordered.
Rafaellen helped her to her feet, and they caught up with the servants just as they crossed the thresh
old into the castle. To Rhiannead’s surprise they stopped there, and placed the stretcher on the dirt of the castle yard, then stood there and looked on as if waiting for something.
She turned to Rafaellen. “What are they waiting for? Shouldn’t they summon a physician?”
Rafaellen looked ill as he said, “My lady, that wound is mortal. There is nothing a physician can do. He will die.”
At Rafaellen’s words the fat fellow turned about and gave them both a scornful look. “He will not die within these walls. He cannot die within these walls, for Sabian will not allow it.”
Rafaellen demanded, “And you are?”
The fat fellow lifted his many chins and sniffed. “I am Kinardin, Lord Chamberlain of Sabian.”
Rhiannead looked down at Lord Mortal, then stepped around Kinardin. She knelt down beside this man she had met in the forest, and her eyes settled on the stub of an arrow shaft protruding from his chest. But as she looked at it the shaft quivered and jerked, and for several heartbeats she feared he struggled in the final throes of death. She reached out to him, but Kinardin leaned down and gripped her wrist.
“No, my lady,” he said. “Allow Sabian to do its work.”
The stub of arrow shaft now appeared to be completely still, and it took her long moments to realize it moved, but so slowly her eye could not discern any motion. Little by little it withdrew from his chest until it stood up like a small branch that had sprouted from his ribs. Then it withdrew the last, final bit and flopped over on his chest. The servants about her sighed in unison.
Kinardin ordered the servants, “Get him to his suites, bathe him. After this ordeal he’ll sleep deeply tonight.”
To Rhiannead he said, “And you, young lady. We have a suite of rooms arranged for you.”
As the servants lifted Lord Mortal’s stretcher Rhiannead straightened. “Will he live?”
Kinardin frowned, didn’t bother to answer her, turned and left her standing there.
15
In the Court of the Unnamed King
From her balcony Rhianne watched the shadows in the city lengthen as the sun settled toward the horizon. She had napped again that morning, napped to return to the Kingdom of Dreams, only to be awakened by Geanna to dine with the King at lunch. She had tried to nap again that afternoon, but Valso demanded her presence at a reception for some of his nobles. At least the day was nearing its end.
Movement down below in the castle yard caught her attention, and again it was Haleen et Decouix. This time she had not covered her head with a hood, but as before she paused and looked at Rhianne for a moment before continuing on.
Behind her she heard Geanna approaching, so she turned to face the girl.
Geanna curtsied and said, “His Majesty is here to see you.”
Valso having himself properly announced; what a surprise! “Then show him in.”
Rhianne stepped off the balcony to await Valso in her sitting room, and when he entered, even she had to admit he could be quite handsome. She curtsied, saying, “Your Majesty.”
“Rise, Rhianne,” he said, casually waving a hand.
She stood. “What may I do for you?”
He wandered over to the hearth in which a small fire burned, for even this time of year the northern climes could hold a chill. He toyed with a vase there, and looking at his back she realized his shoulders were somewhat broad. He was a man of average stature, but he didn’t lack for muscle, and he kept himself trim and fit.
He turned around to face her. “I have a question for you?”
She crossed the room and stopped a few paces from him. “And what might that be, Your Majesty?” She saw why her handmaidens spoke of their handsome king with such admiration. But they didn’t truly understand him, didn’t know enough to despise him as she did.
“Why do you spend so much time in these rooms?” he asked. “You sleep in the morning, then sometimes again in the afternoon. You should get out more. It seems unhealthy.”
“I am surprised you are concerned with my welfare.”
“But I am.” He frowned. “Listen, when this is done, and I rule all the clans, it will be time to put our differences aside. You are a powerful witch, and will be an influential member of whatever clan you end up in. Of course, we’ll have to find you another husband—I might even have a certain Vodah in mind—but it will be time for us all to move forward, not look to the past. So yes, I am concerned with your welfare.”
That certainly sounded reasonable, though it was all based on the premise that Rhianne was no longer wed, that Morgin had died. She couldn’t really blame Valso for his ignorance, though oddly enough she felt a bit disappointed when he’d mentioned some Vodah as a possible husband. It vexed her that he showed no interest himself. She’d certainly take pleasure in turning him down. At least she thought she would, though again it struck her that he was quite handsome, and perhaps she wouldn’t take as much pleasure in that as she thought. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, turned away from him and tried to put that thought out of her mind.
She heard him take a step toward her. “You seem troubled, my dear.”
He stood close enough to her that she felt the heat of his body, and she thought again of those strong shoulders and his trim waist. She turned to face him, found that he’d stopped at a distance close enough to be intimate, and to her own surprise that didn’t bother her.
She said, “I . . . ah . . .” But looking into his eyes she was at a loss for words, thought only of his unnatural beauty. And though the distance separating them was little more than a hand’s breadth, she stepped forward and stopped just short of pressing her breasts against his chest. She reached up and traced a finger down the line of his jaw, wanted to kiss him with almost desperate desire.
He looked down at her breasts, at the cleavage exposed by her low-cut gown, and she saw the desire in his eyes.
“Yes,” she said, but a part of her, buried deep within her soul, screamed, Nooooo!
He said, “Turn around, my lovely Rhianne.”
She turned about, turned her back to him, and she felt him fumbling at the laces and buttons on her gown.
Nooooo!
His fingers moved deftly, and the top of her gown loosened to the point where she had to hold the front up with her hands.
Nooooo!
She turned back to face him and saw the hunger in his eyes. She wanted him so badly he didn’t have to prompt her to lower her hands, and the top of her gown fell just a bit more, now showing an indecent amount of cleavage and all but exposing her breasts completely.
Nooooo!
He reached up, hooked a finger into the top of the gown and lowered it even more. Now, basically naked from the waist up, she wanted him, needed him.
Nooooo!
He smiled, reminding her of a predatory animal at the moment just before it struck down its prey. She knew what he was doing only because he allowed her to; it heightened his pleasure to see his prey stricken with terror, but powerless to do anything about it. He leaned forward, squeezed her left breast with his hand and kissed the nipple of her right breast.
Her gut tightened as nausea flooded through her abdomen, then her dinner boiled up and she vomited on the back of his head. He straightened, screaming, “What! What!”
Another wave of nausea hit her, but this time she spewed bile straight into his face. He staggered backward, stomach fluids and bits and pieces of half-digested food dripping from his face and arms and tunic.
Another spasm hit her and she vomited on the floor, then collapsed there, gagging as wave after wave of nausea hit her. She closed her eyes, gulping and swallowing as her stomach slowly calmed, heard Valso shouting at her handmaidens.
The spell had taken hours of preparation. She couldn’t use a charm-based spell, for her spying handmaidens would find it and report it to him, as they had probably done before. So it had to be wholly concocted of her power. It had to be simple, and it couldn’t be defensive, not something that would har
m him, nothing like the spells young women were taught to protect themselves. He would watch for that, and easily disable anything she prepared. So she had decided on a very revolting defense, a spell that would merely drive him away. But it had to have a well-defined and carefully chosen trigger point, otherwise it might activate at the wrong moment; it wouldn’t do to spew her lunch all over her handmaidens simply because one of them uttered the wrong phrase. She had settled on her breasts, for his eyes always strayed there. She’d set the spell to trigger when he overtly touched them, and only when she was sexually aroused, for she would never find him desirable unless under the influence of one of his compulsion spells.
She heard him marching across the floor toward her, so she opened her eyes. He’d wiped his face, but the former contents of her stomach still decorated the front of his tunic. He leaned down over her. “It was a spell, wasn’t it?”
She thought of Olivia’s predatory grin when she’d gained a point in some argument, and she tried to imitate her as she smiled up at him.
His face turned a bright, scarlet red. “You’re insane,” he screamed. He drew his foot back and kicked her in the stomach.
It hurt, and she curled up clutching her abdomen. She closed her eyes but kept the smile on her face.
The next time he’d be watching for a similar spell, so she’d have to think of something new, something different, something he wouldn’t anticipate.
••••
Chrisainne wandered out through the open castle gates, walking slowly and trying to appear casual about it. She strolled through the market nestled against the outside of the castle wall, a long row of booths and stalls where one could buy just about anything of a practical nature. She wanted anyone who took note of her to believe she was just a young woman out for a breath of fresh air on a warm summer afternoon.
She glanced about to make sure she was not observed, then lifted her hand to her mouth and faked a yawn, Valso’s magical coin hidden in the palm of her hand. She kissed it, then lowered her hand and continued walking, preparing herself for the king’s displeasure. When Valso spoke she was careful not to react, but to continue strolling casually, glancing about at this and that.