Arto's Enchantress

by Morgan Henry

  She was liking Kerban more and more. The year ahead of her seemed less like something to be endured and more to be enjoyed.

  Leaning on the low wall around the edge of the walkway, she crossed her arms and let the breeze take her cares away.

  She didn’t hear any footsteps behind her but felt the hand on her back push her over the edge.

  Cella screamed as she fell, scrabbling for a hold on anything against the wall.

  In that first second as she cleared the wall her heart leapt into her throat as though it were trying to get back up the wall, dragging her body with it.

  Her scream was aborted as her torso thumped against something hard and she scrambled for a hold.

  Her frantic, desperate hands clawed the stones, numb to pain but hypersensitive to anything that might save her.

  Her fall ceased. Gasping for breath, she realized she was hanging on to a short brick ledge. These protrusions were spaced evenly around the wall. Cella had assumed they were decorative.

  Right now, they were lifesaving.

  She was flopped overtop one, arms and feet dangling as the brick dug into her belly. She supposed this was not a bad way to be. At least her arms wouldn’t get tired and give way.

  It was a long way to the rocks in the river below.

  All the Healers in the world couldn’t put her skull back together if it was smashed to bits.

  Cella pondered her next move. She was scared almost beyond reason, but was able to weave together enough strands of sanity to realize she wasn’t going to be dead in the next few seconds.

  Her heart was pounding and she was having a hard time breathing properly.

  Fear and the pressure from the brick protuberance on her belly were making moving air in and out of her lungs difficult. She deliberately focused on calming down and taking as normal a breath as possible.

  Carefully, she looked up.

  She was at least six feet down from the top of the wall. There was no way she could stand on the brick and climb back up. She couldn’t see any windows nearby that she could climb into.

  It was a lot more than six feet to the bottom of the wall.

  Escape was not looking favourable.

  “Help!” she cried, knowing it was futile. The only person on the rampart was the one that had pushed her.

  Despair slid into her body from the cold, hard bricks. It made her limbs heavy. They threatened to drag her off her new favourite architectural detail.

  There just wasn’t a way out of this and she had so much left in her life that she wanted to do.

  She wanted to tell Arto she loved him, even though their time together was too short for her, even if all she was to him was a duty.

  She wanted to figure out that damn shield charm. She wanted to make more enchantments that could make life easier for people. She wanted to see more of Kerban. So many things.

  “Lady Cella!” came a shout from above.

  Cella started and almost lost her balance. Heart pounding again, she carefully looked up. Dochir!

  “Help me, please!” she cried, almost sobbing.

  “Can you hang on for a moment more?” he asked, the desperation in his voice almost palpable.

  “Yes, but hurry,” Cella begged.

  He disappeared for what seemed like hours. Cella knew it was nowhere near that long, but time certainly played tricks when she was hanging in the air.

  A rope appeared in front of her, tied into a loop.

  “Put the loop under your arms and tighten it,” commanded Dochir.

  She did as she was told.

  “Now, hang onto the rope and help me by using your feet to walk up the wall,” he instructed.

  She did as she was told, and in short order was back on solid footing. Both of them were panting with the exertion.

  Cella had tried, but she knew that Dochir had been the one to do most of the work getting her back.

  She sat up, shaking.

  “How on earth did you find me?” she asked.

  Cella knew he hadn’t been the one to push her. His hand was far too big to have fit between her shoulder blades as the one that had sent her over the wall had been.

  He looked away. “I came up to look around and I heard you.”

  Cella sensed that wasn’t the whole truth, but she didn’t question it for now. She still felt a little too shaken, her feet under her a little too precarious, and she had to get down the stairs.

  “We should get you back to your quarters,” Dochir said. He stood and held out his huge hand to her.

  “I’ll go first,” he told her, and Cella was grateful. “That way if you fall, you’ll land on me.”

  Dochir grinned at her. “Not that I’m terribly soft to land on.”

  Cella gave a low chuckle at the attempt at humour. They slowly went down, Cella’s legs like cooked noodles. Dochir escorted her to her suite, where Arto was already waiting.

  Cella could see Arto’s nostrils flare just the tiniest bit and his eyes harden as she and Dochir entered the living room. His eyes looked her over and narrowed further.

  “Good afternoon, Emissary,” he said cordially, if not warmly. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “I will gratefully accept, thank you, Your Grace.” Dochir gave a half bow in respectful greeting as he seated Cella in a chair. “I would suspect Lady Cella needs one as well.”

  “And why would that be?” Arto asked, a hard and brittle edge in his voice. He handed Dochir a brandy, his knuckles white on the glass. He silently picked up the wine decanter and cocked his head at Cella.

  She shook her head “no.” “I think I’ll have a very small glass of brandy, please,” she said, surprised her voice didn’t shake.

  “I found Lady Cella hanging over the, I don’t know what you call them.” Dochir frowned. “The brick things that stick out of the walls at regular intervals, about six feet from the top.”

  “What?” The glass of brandy hit the floor and shattered.

  Cella leaped to her feet and rushed to Arto. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

  She tried to soothe him, stroking her hands over his chest.

  Arto clutched her, his hands almost leaving bruises on her upper arms as he held her still and looked her over critically. A muscle in his jaw was twitching and the fire in his eyes made Cella want to hide all the small, breakable objects in the room.

  Cella was now aware of the smudges on her belly, the rip in her dress over her right hip, the minor rope burn on her hands, and the torn and ragged nails on her hands.

  “I was able to pull her up with some rope that was hanging just inside the staircase,” Dochir said.

  It was a few moments more before Arto could speak.

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or drag you to the truthsayer to find out if you pushed her yourself,” he finally ground out.

  Cella gasped. “Arto, you apologize this instant! I know his hand was not the one that pushed me over. There was no way, his hand is too large to have been the one!”

  She pulled herself out of his grasp.

  Now the breakables in the room needed to be hidden from her.

  “I’m waiting,” she spat.

  Arto’s nostrils were flaring far more obviously now. “How was it that you were there?” he asked.

  “By chance,” Dochir answered, though he didn’t sound convincing, even to Cella’s ears.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t explain right now. I’m truly sorry, but I didn’t harm Lady Cella. I swear to you.” Dochir did sound genuinely sincere.

  “Arto, he did save me. I know he did not push me. Can you not at least be grateful he was there?” Cella pulled Arto’s attention back to her for a second.

  Arto looked down at her, his face softening for a second. Then he looked at Dochir again, his face hard. “I do thank you for that. But I want to know what the hell is going on with you following her all the time.”

  Dochir shook his head. “I made a promise to your Ki
ng. I must go.”

  He bowed to both of them and quietly left.

  “What is going on with you? Why were you so rude to him?” Cella was angry now. The adrenaline that had left her when she had arrived back at their suite came rushing though her again, filling her shaking limbs with false strength. “He had done nothing but be kind and helpful since I met him. Why are you so suspicious of his motives?”

  Arto tried to move her away from the broken glass. She shook off his arm and stepped away on her own.

  “He is following you and I want to know why. It was just a little too convenient that he was there today. How can you not see that there is something awry here?”

  He stalked over to the pull and rang the bell for Tors.

  “I see where you would be suspicious, but he has done nothing wrong. Nothing!” she repeated.

  Infuriating man! Why could he not believe her?

  Tors came in and started cleaning up the broken glass.

  Arto addressed his man. “Let Kyna know. We are leaving for Bridgend in the morning.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Tors left, taking the broken glass with him.

  “What?” Now it was Cella’s turn to shout.

  “You are not safe here until we find out who is out to harm you. I will take you where I can better protect you. We leave tomorrow.” Arto’s voice was icily matter-of-fact.

  “I have responsibilities and friends here. I’m not leaving tomorrow! You can’t just order me around like that.”

  Cella walked up to Arto and glared at him. He was taking this “duty” too far. She had duties, too, damn it.

  “We will dine in our rooms tonight. Write some letters, make your apologies, but we are leaving. If I have to tie you up and lash you to my saddle, you’re leaving in the morning. I will not allow you to be harmed again.” The eerie calm in his voice was actually more frightening than him shouting.

  “What makes you think I’ll be safer in Bridgend? Isn’t that closer to Torquin?” Cella changed tactics, hoping to get him to see reason.

  “I control who stays at my home. There will be less people going in and out. Dochir will not be invited, nor will the Torquin Emissary. My men will protect you as they would me. You are going, Cella, so you had better start writing your notes.”

  Cella opened her mouth again, but he cut her off.

  “And if you think I won’t tie you to my saddle, think again. I’ve had it. I will stop at nothing to keep you safe. If you want to be stubborn, go ahead, but think how you will look tied up hanging over the pommel.”

  “I’ll return for dinner with you. I suggest you get to work, as I’ll be putting you to bed early so we can get away just after first light.”

  He walked calmly out the door, shutting it quietly.

  Chapter 18

  Cella followed Arto out of their rooms.

  She slammed the door.

  “I will not be treated like one of your horses, told where to go and when!” she shouted. “How dare you presume to dictate to me?”

  She was quite beautiful when she was incensed. It gave her cheeks a lovely pink colour and her blue eyes sparked like the sun on the water in the bay. It was also a far cry from the meek little woman who was afraid to ride just over a month ago.

  Unfortunately, she was also dirty and her dress was torn thanks to whomever the gerto was that threw her off the ramparts. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a bruise on her forearm. Her hands…well, they were a wreck.

  “Go back to the room and write your letters, Cella. This is not the place for an argument.”

  Arto was past angry. He was in that icy place where he would simply do what it took. Everything inside him was brittle. The ice outside was the only thing that prevented him from shattering.

  He continued on his way to the King’s rooms. He made a gesture to the guards so they allowed Cella to follow him.

  He had to give her credit, she was persistent.

  He knocked on the door and was greeted by Doan.

  “I need to speak to his Majesty immediately. Apparently Lady Cella wishes to accompany me.” The tiniest glimmer of amusement bled into his voice.

  Doan, the wonderfully impassive personal servant of the King, bowed and allowed them in the outer room, not the inner room where Arto and the King played tuengo. “I will see if his Majesty is available.”

  He disappeared.

  Cella said nothing but gave a small sniff of impatience. Arto didn’t look at her. He would not allow the glimmer of amusement to grow into a spark. He was too angry still.

  King Graydon entered the room dressed for dining in the great hall.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Cella, Duke Arto. Please be seated.” The King took a seat in a chair by the fire and looked at them expectantly.

  Cella sat on the couch. Arto did not.

  “Lady Cella was pushed off the ramparts an hour ago. Dochir saved her. I will be taking her to Bridgend in the morning. I can protect her there while we ferret out the bastard that did this.” Arto was still enraged, but he had made his decision and by the God and Goddess, no one was going to undo it.

  “What?” snapped Graydon, somewhat less explosively than Arto or Cella had recently. He sat straighter in his chair.

  “Lady Cella has agreed to no such thing, Sire,” Cella interjected hotly. “I have responsibilities here that I cannot abandon with no notice.”

  “Stop it,” spat Graydon, uncharacteristically rude. “Tell me what happened.”

  Somewhat taken aback, Cella summarized her fall and rescue. Arto noted she was quick to emphasize her conviction of Dochir’s innocence.

  She ended with, “There is no need for us to leave so quickly. Surely I will be safe for another day or two while I prepare for my absence and say good-bye to our friends.”

  “Absolutely not,” replied Graydon.

  Cella gaped at him and Arto took some satisfaction that his leader backed Arto in this fully.

  “Our foremost priority is your safety, period. I will not have you harmed further while in my country, Lady Cella. Arto will take you to Bridgend. He is right, it is easier to protect you there where less people come and go. Take whatever Knights and guards you trust, Arto. I will direct the investigation into this myself.” Graydon’s voice mirrored Arto’s in its coldness.

  Cella tried again. “But—”

  “I suggest you go pack, Lady Cella,” Graydon interrupted her. “Think about it. If this situation occurred in Jorval, what would the Vizier do?” That defeated Cella. She knew about politics and priorities.

  He continued, “Though there are many worthy ladies on Arto’s lands, I understand that you have made friends here you do not wish to leave. I will give my support for Lady Valina to accompany you, if she wishes. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured. She shot Arto a look that could have blistered paint off a canvas.

  She started to leave, but Graydon stayed her a moment.

  “Doan,” he called, “have two guards escort Lady Cella back to her suite. Lady Valina may visit Lady Cella, but no one else enters without authorization from myself or Duke Arto.”

  Doan bowed and acknowledged his liege’s instructions. He escorted Cella from the room.

  Arto caught her by the arm as she passed him. “Don’t you dare act like a child and use this as an excuse not to be in my bed tonight,” he whispered in her ear, low enough that only Cella heard. “You’re not that petty. We’ll discuss this like the adults and lovers we are.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She left with her head high.

  After the door closed, Arto turned to his King.

  “This is no prank. If I wasn’t taking her away, I would stay here and hunt down whoever this bastard is and cut off his balls. Then I would roast them over a fire while he bled on the ground. When they were crisp, I would stuff them down his traitorous throat before gutting him.”

  “I gather you’re upset.”

  “You�
�re taking this a bit too calmly, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

  “I am not calm, Duke Arto. I will forgive your conduct because you are a good man, a valuable noble in this kingdom, and because you’re in love with the woman.”

  Graydon stood, gripped Arto’s shoulder, and looked into Arto’s eyes. Arto was finally able to see the fury boiling in their dark depths. “Make no mistake, I am angry. Lady Cella has been a delight to host in the few weeks she has been here and I will not have any harm come to her. She is the love of my good friend and for that reason alone I will help him protect her. Furthermore, I will not have our relations with Jorval suffer because of what happens to her in our care. Do you hear me, Duke Arto?”

  Graydon was not a weak king.

  In fact, he was the strongest King Kerban had at its head in quite some time. Arto felt the power in his ruler’s words and the commitment behind them. Graydon would stop at nothing to find the traitor and bring him to justice.

  Before Cella was hurt further.

  Arto felt a small measure of relief.

  His mind was springing back and forth between planning for the journey and finding the culprit. It was making it hard to concentrate. Not to mention that Graydon pointed out Arto was in love with Cella. But it wasn’t love, not truly.

  Damn it, man, get your mind on what is needed here.

  “I need to get organized for the journey. I hate that I won’t be here to hunt for this bastard.” Arto’s long legs would only give him four strides across the room and back.

  “Write a list of the Knights and guards you want. I’ll have Doan or Sir Douk notify them and make sure they’re packed and ready to go at dawn. The kitchens can provide enough travel food for a few days on short notice.” Graydon went back to the inner chamber and came out again quickly. He handed Arto a small sack that jingled. “As Cella’s host, I insist that her accommodations along the way be paid for. Use that for whatever is needed. No”—he cut off Arto before a sound escaped—“just use it.”

  “Thank you, Sire. I’ll go to the stables next and get them started on preparations. I’ll write as I can along the way and when we’re at Bridgend.” Arto bowed and moved to leave.