"Where?" she demanded. "Tempest Keep?"
"Nay," Duncan murmured as he dared to look around. He relaxed when he saw his queen wrapping herself in a sturdy quilt robe. "Vent du Nord."
"The demons you say!" Aidan Cree snorted. "They wouldn’t have dared!"
"Nor did they," Duncan agreed. "They found the boy on one of Hesar’s frigates. He is well, although he was near death when they took him in."
A whirlwind could not have moved as fast as Christina as she rushed to Duncan. She grabbed the warrior’s arm in a grip that made him wince and shook him hard.
"What do you mean? Tell me, man! Do not stand there with your thumb up your coosit and let me have to wonder at your meaning!"
"Christy," Aidan cautioned.
Duncan knew that his Overload wished his Oceanian lady would behave with more decorum and cease using vulgar epitaphs. He pulled his arm away from his queen’s fierce grip. Although Duncan loved the emerald-eyed beauty as much as did his Overlord—though he would have never admitted such feelings even under penalty of torture—he was not so enamored of her he did not feel her barbed insults to his very core.
"The brat came down with Labyrinthian Fever somehow," he snapped.
"The Labyrinth!" Christina growled, sounding like a mother panther protecting her young from poachers. "That may well have been where they were hiding him." She turned venomous eyes to her husband. "I want Hesar’s head on a pike, Aidan Andrew!"
"I’ll see what I can do, Sweeting." Aidan turned to Duncan. "You are sure Riain is well?"
"The captain of the ship who brought the news swears he is." He withdrew a sealed note from his tunic and held it out to his Overlord.
Christina snatched the note, looked at the childish scrawl across the face, touched the writing, then tore open the envelop, much to the obvious chagrin of her husband and the annoyance of the Master-at-Arms. She hastily perused the note, then thrust it at her husband. "It is from my son. He says he is being cared for ‘most strenuously.’"
Both king and knight took in the savage look on her face, then glanced at one another. The lady had made spiritual contact with her son through his writing and whatever was in the note had angered her.
"You don’t believe what he says?" Aidan asked.
The queen jabbed a hard finger into her husband’s chest. "It is not what he says! It is what he doesn’t say!"
Aidan read the note, then handed it to Duncan, who did the same. The queen paced, the hem of her robe swishing like the tail of an enraged reptile.
"What is it he doesn’t say, Christy?" Duncan inquired.
"Fool!" she threw at him. "It is who he doesn’t say is caring for him ‘most strenuously’!"
* * *
Aidan shook his head to rid if of his wife’s assessment of the situation. Would he never understand women like Christina? Women who it was rumored "knew" things others could not. His own mother had been such a woman—though in her time they had called her a witch—and he had never understood her, either. This thing his wife had gleaned from their son’s writing, absorbed from his personal touch of the paper, had somehow triggered feelings in Christina that neither he nor Duncan could experience.
"Who do you think is caring for him, then?" Duncan asked.
"A woman who has designs on him, obviously," Christina snarled. "Can you not hear it in my baby’s words? The Northwinds princess thinks to join him to one of her beldames, and him, only two years out of knee pants! I’ll not have it, Aidan Cree!"
Aidan’s brows drew together. "De Viennes’ wife died in childbirth and he has not remarried. There was only the one issue and she must be close to thirty."
"And surely married," Duncan said.
Christina stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face her husband. Her face was chalk-white. "A spinster," she whispered in a voice that shook. "It is she who wants my son’s hand in Joining."
"What difference does it make?" Duncan demanded. "Surely de Viennes knows there can never be an alliance between Chale and any Zonelander. They are not of our belief." His upper lip lifted with contempt. "They believe in false gods."
"A union between our houses is absurd," Aidan proclaimed. "I’d never permit it."
"Aidan?" Christina questioned, fear making her emerald eyes wide and stark. "We cannot let this happen!"
Cree had never seen terror in his stalwart wife before. If anyone had ever asked, he would have sworn it was impossible for any Wynth woman to feel fear of any kind. Yet here was proof positive that Christina Elizabeth Wynth Cree shivered with fear.
"Why are you so worried?" he asked, gathering his wife’s trembling body into his arms. "Do you think I would let some heathen hag lay claim to our son?" He pulled her tighter into his embrace. "Have you no more faith in me than that?"
"Or me?" Duncan growled.
But Christina did not seem to hear. "How long has our son been with that woman?" she asked in a tiny, hoarse whisper.
Duncan shrugged when Aidan looked to him for an answer. "It took two weeks for the ship to reach us from Vent du Nord."
Aidan blinked. "The ship came from the Northwinds? How can that be? I did not heard shots fired this morning in the harbor."
Duncan chuckled. "The brat set the emergency standard upon the mast. He remembered what I had told him and reckoned on what we’d do when we saw that shamrock—"
"How long?" Christina shouted.
"Three weeks, perhaps," Duncan answered. "A month, at the most."
The queen brought her hands up to her face; they trembled. She stared at them as though they belonged to someone else. Tears filled her eyes. "Get him home, Aidan. Go. Now. Today. Before she has time."
"Time for what?" Aidan questioned.
But Duncan seemed to understand. "She would not. He’s just a boy!"
"Aye, she would," the queen whispered. "And will, if you do not hurry."
"Do what?" Aidan queried, suspicion nagging at his heels.
"Go!" Christina Cree ordered. "It may already be too late!"
* * *
Even as the Cree’s personal flagship, The Banshee, sailed from Meiraman with Aidan Cree and Duncan Brell on board, Christina Cree was well on her way to that mystical place where her kind journeyed when trouble brewed in their lives.
In the vast arid wasteland called the Shadowlands, the emerald obelisk of the Great Lady rose out of the amber bedrock and pierced the rose and violet sky.
Although the Chalean queen made this journey only in her mind, she could smell the dust of the Vanishing Plain. She felt the grit beneath her feet as she walked to the silver-finished fourth side of the obelisk, the Crossing Path, and began a plea to be allowed entrance to the inner sanctum of the Daughters of the Multitude.
If Aidan did not arrive at Vent du Nord in time, Christina meant to see the woman there dead and in her grave before her precious son could be made to spend the rest of his life with the bitch.
"You’ll not have him," Christina swore as the door to the Crossing Path opened. "Not now or ever."
Chapter 4
* * *
Suzanna held the cup out to Riain and bid him drink.
"What is it? It has an odd smell," he said.
"It is the only cure for the Fever, Milord. Healer Henri prepared it for you. Now drink."
Riain looked into the pale pink concoction and felt the gorge rise in his throat. The cherry smell was overpowering, and the liquid actually bubbled in the cup. "What is it called?"
Suzanna hissed like a cornered rattlesnake. "How am I to know? Am I a Healer?" She put her free hand on his shoulder and shook him. "Do as you are told, Milord. Drink the brew!"
He glanced at the woman’s ugly face. She was glowering; her expression brooked no resistance. He hated to be touched by her, but he hated her caustic, venomous temper even more, and had learned she could be vindictive when riled.
"Drink it, boy!" She thrust the cup to his lips.
And he hated her calling him "boy" even more than he
hated her despicable temper and warthog-ugly face. He’d do anything to get her out of his room, so opened his mouth and let the potion flood over his tongue.
The cherry-flavored galenical burned his tongue. The taste wasn’t all that bad, but the chalky aftertaste when he swallowed seemed to grow mold on his teeth; it was all he could do to drain the cup and keep the godawful mess down his gullet. He swiped at his lips to rid them of the tingling.
"Good boy." She set the cup aside and folded her arms.
"For the thousanth time, I am not a boy."
"Well," she stated, her crooked smile almost predatory, "you shall not be one for long, at any rate."
Riain frowned. "What is that supposed to mean, Lady?"
"You will see," she said mysteriously and stared at him.
At first, it was only a mild, uneasy feeling in the pit of his belly—like a nest of butterflies fluttering about—and he dismissed it. Some of the other medicinals Healer Henri had insisted he take to curb the fierceness and prolonged duration of the Fever had made Riain queasy; a little jumpy feeling in his gut could be tolerated well enough. But when the strange tightness and pulsing began elsewhere in his body, Riain grew uneasy.
"How do you feel, Milord?" Suzanna asked, her face filled with an odd, unholy light that looked evil in the faint candlelight from his bedside table.
Riain put a hand to the side of his head. A faint throbbing had begun and he feared his fierce headache was about to return.
"What was that stuff you gave me?" he again questioned.
"Just a minor brew, Sweeting." She met his inquisitive look with one of her own, a look that chilled him to the marrow of his bones. "A little something called a philter."
"Philter?" he repeated, knowing he’d heard the word before.
"Aye."
"Lady," Riain began, feeling acutely uncomfortable, "go now."
"I think not."
It was almost as though it were a torment unto itself to remain still. He felt as though his heart was beating far too fast. He wanted to get up, pace the room—run around—yet he knew he was too weak to do any of that.
"Lie down," she told him.
Riain slid beneath the covers, but almost immediately pushed himself up again. He could no more lay there than he could sit there and, he suspected, wouldn’t feel any better if he got out of the bed and tried to walk off this agitated feeling.
"What did you give me?" he demanded, alarmed at the rapid tattoo of his heart. "I feel as though I am about to explode!"
Suzanna’s grin stretched as wide as it could on her homely face. Her almost-nonexistent lips parted to reveal crooked yellow teeth that had a wide gap between the central incisors. There was a mean, determined look in her stare, now, and she unfolded her arms to lift up her hands to the prim bun at the back of her head.
"Please leave," he begged, scooting beneath the sheets.
Her thin mousy brown hair fell from the confines of the bun to swing limply at her thick waist. She shook her head, but the fine wisps of hair lay straight and oily along her cotton robe.
"Lady, please, I am asking you to go."
The Northwinds princess loosened the tie of her robe, then shucked it from her shoulders, letting the faded covering fall to the floor. "You do not want me to go at all, Sweeting," she said in a throaty voice.
She stood at his bedside as naked as the day she had come from her mother’s womb. So unexpected was her behavior, so fully incomprehensible to Riain, he merely gaped, unable to believe what he was seeing. In amazement, his gaze shifted down her nude body.
"Lady, you must go!" He swallowed, trying to force his eyes away from the sight of her thick waist, sagging breasts, and potbelly.
"You’ve not been with a woman before, have you, Milord?" She ran her hands over her flabby breasts.
All Riain could do was shake his head in denial. He felt the bile leaping up his throat and he wasn’t sure if it was from the godsawful brew bubbling in his gut or the sight of this hag putting her hand between her legs and rubbing herself in an obscene fashion.
"I have never lain with a man, either," she said and reached for the sheet covering him. "You shall be my first. My one and only."
Riain only meant to knock her hand away, to deny her what she so obviously intended, but the moment his flesh touched hers, something totally unexpected happened. He felt a surge of arousal so intense, so powerful, his entire body convulsed with the sensation. Instead of pushing away her hand, he grabbed her wrist in a punishing, brutal grip that belied both his years and his strength, and yanked her into his bed.
* * *
Suzanna had not taken into calculation the effect her potent brew of tenerse and milk would have on a boy just past puberty. The outlawed potion was a strong aphrodisiac when mixed with the secretions of the mammary glands of animals. When combined with those of a human female just delivered of child—as was this brew Suzanna had obtained from a magik-sayer from the foothills—it was an extremely potent intoxicant that could cause grown men to become rutting, savage beasts. Mixed with the budding hormones of an untried, eager, and ready pubescent male, it was nearly lethal.
* * *
When morning came and the last of the drug had drained from his body, Riain found Suzanna’s head on his shoulder, the tumbled sheets around them bearing the unmistakable odor of spent passion.
"Oh, god!" he whispered, his eyes going wide with stunned disbelief. "What have I done?"
Suzanna stirred, lifted her head, and looked at him with deep adoration. "You have made me your woman, Milord."
"No!" He shoved her away and leapt from the bed, ignoring his lightheadedness.
"Aye," she said with smug satisfaction. "You have made me well and truly a woman." Her predatory smile returned. "As I have made you well and truly a man!"
Riain stared in horror at the telltale signs that could not be denied. A wave of shock passed over him. He grabbed the bedpost to keep from collapsing.
"Of course we will be married," she said.
He raised his head to gape at her. "What?"
"At the Harvest Feast, I think." She stretched out, her ungainly body yellow against the rumbled white sheets. "I have always wanted a Harvest Feast Joining." She patted the place beside her. "Come and love me again, Sweeting. I like well the feel of your young body close to my own."
Riain turned, sickened by the thought.
"I will take care of you, husband. I swear, I will always take care of you."
"I am honor-bound to another," he said, hoping his half-lie would make her see reason. "She waits for me in Chale. I—"
"You are mine, Riain Cree," she told him fiercely. "And mine you will always be!" She reached for him.
"Get you hands off me!" He stumbled backward, slammed into the wall, and slid along it, feeling like a trapped animal.
"You will marry me," she said, her mouth tight and her face aglow with triumph. "You deflowered me. My father will demand you put it to rights."
"You are insane!" He did not see his clothing anywhere and suspected she had taken it away.
"He will announce the Banns this evening at the night meal."
"I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last female on this world. Never would I do such a thing!"
"You will not be given a choice, my fine young sir! You are on Northzoner soil and have seduced a Zonelander maiden who—"
"Seduced!" he bellowed. "I did no such thing!"
"Did you not grab my hand and yank me into your bed?"
"I—" Riain knew he had. He also knew he had been drugged with some evil concoction that had made him do something out of character. He was not to blame. Such perfidy could be laid at her doorstep, not his.
He only hoped her father would listen to his side of it before he was forced to Join with the gloating hell-hag.
"You tricked me into doing what I did," he said from between clenched teeth. "Think you your father will condone such treachery?"
"Think you he will care how
I got a Cree heir to deflower me? He will never allow you to do what you have done and not pay the price!"
"No man in his right mind would believe I took you to me willingly! All they have to do is look at you to know I would never consider it!" He shook his head wildly and his eyes narrowed with brutal intent. "I would rather die than live with you!"
"You just might, Milord. You just might."
* * *
"I cannot," Gunter said, shaking his head.
"You dare not," du Mer corrected.
Suzanna lifted her chin and stared at the men. "Would you reveal to the world I am no longer pure, Father?"
De Viennes winced. He should have guessed at Suzanna’s plans and put a stop to them before the damage was done. Now, it was too late.
"Is it because you do not think me worthy of a Chalean princeling?" Suzanna challenged, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Of course, not," Gunter replied on a long, tired breath. "It has nothing to do with whether or not the two of you suit." He slumped down in his throne. "What am I going to do?"
"I do not see a problem," Suzanna grumbled. "He deflowered me—he must marry me."
"The problem," du Mer put in, glaring at Suzanna, "is how the Cree clan is going to view the situation. How they will feel about a twenty-nine-year-old woman having relations with a sixteen-year-old boy. A boy nearly half her age and a virgin, himself, no doubt being saved for some powerful alliance among his clan’s allies."
"Why, Suzanna?" Gunter asked, bewilderment and hurt—as well as a goodly dose of fear—filling him. "Had you no conception of what a foolish thing this was? How dangerous?"
"When does she ever think about the consequences of her actions?" du Mer said and snorted derisively.
"Love is never foolish, Father," Suzanna answered through clenched teeth. "Haven’t you always said as much?"
"The boy is devastated," Sir Gerard commented. He, too, was glaring at Suzanna. "He was given a full measure of tenerse in mother’s milk."
"By the gods," de Viennes groaned, horrified. He stared wide-eyed at his child. "Is that true?"
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