A Little Fate (12 page)

H
E
drifted in and out. There were times when he thought himself back in battle, shouting commands to his men while his horse wheeled under him and his sword hacked through those who would dare invade his lands.

Then he was back in that strange and icy forest, so cold he feared his bones would shatter. Then the cold turned to fire, and the part of him that was still sane prayed to die.

Something cool and sweet would slide down his throat, and somehow he would sleep again.

He dreamed he was home, drifting toward morning with a willing woman in his bed. Soft and warm and smelling of summer roses.

He thought he heard music, harpsong, with a voice, low and smooth, matching pretty words to those plucked notes.

Sometimes he saw a face. Moss-green eyes, a lovely, wide mouth. Hair the color of dark, rich honey that tumbled around a face both unbearably beautiful and unbearably sad. Each time the pain or the heat or the cold would become intolerable, that face, those eyes, would be there.

Once, he dreamed she had called him by name, in a voice that rang with command. And those eyes had been dark and
full of pain and power. Her hair had spilled over his chest like silk, and he'd slept once more—deeply, peacefully—with the scent of her surrounding him.

He woke again to that scent, drifted into it as a man might drift into a cool stream on a hot day. There was a velvet canopy of deep purple over his head. He stared at it as he tried to clear his mind. One thought came through.

This was not home.

Then another.

He was alive.

Morning, he decided. The light through the windows was thin and very dull. Not long past dawn. He tried to sit up, and the movement made his side throb. Even as he hissed out a breath, she was there.

“Carefully.” Deirdre slid a hand behind his head to lift it gently as she brought a cup to his lips. “Drink now.”

She gave him no choice but to swallow before he managed to bring his hand to hers and nudge the cup aside. “What . . .” His voice felt rusty, as if it would scrape his throat. “What is this place?”

“Drink your broth, Prince Kylar. You're very weak.”

He would have argued, but to his frustration he was as weak as she said. And she was not. Her hands were strong, hard from labor. He studied her as she urged more broth on him.

That honey hair fell straight as rain to the waist of a simple gray dress. She wore no jewels, no ribbons, and still managed to look beautiful and wonderfully female.

A servant, he assumed, with some skill in healing. He would find a way to repay her, and her master.

“Your name, sweetheart?”

Odd creatures indeed, she thought as she arched a brow. A man would flirt the moment he regained what passed for his senses. “I am Deirdre.”

“I'm grateful, Deirdre. Would you help me up?”

“No, my lord. Tomorrow, perhaps.” She set the cup aside. “But you could sit up for a time while I tend your wound.”

“I dreamed of you.” Weak, yes, he thought. But he was feeling considerably better. Well enough to put some effort
into flirting with a beautiful housemaid. “Did you sing to me?”

“I sang to pass the time. You've been here three days.”

“Three—” He gritted his teeth as she helped him to sit up. “I've no memory of it.”

“That's natural. Be still now.”

He frowned at her bent head as she removed the bandage. Though a generous man by nature, he wasn't accustomed to taking orders. Certainly not from housemaids. “I would like to thank your master for his hospitality.”

“There is no master here. It heals clean,” she murmured, and probed gently with her fingers. “And is cool. You'll have a fine scar to add to your collection.” With quick competence, she smeared on a balm. “There's pain yet, I know. But if you can tolerate it for now, I'd prefer not to give you another sleeping draught.”

“Apparently I've slept enough.”

She began to bandage him again, her body moving into his as she wrapped the wound. Fetching little thing, he mused, relieved that he was well enough to feel a tug of interest. He skimmed a hand through her hair as she worked, twined a lock around his finger. “I've never had a prettier physician.”

“Save your strength, my lord.” Her voice was cool, dismissive, and made him frown again. “I won't see my work undone because you've a yen for a snuggle.”

She stepped back, eyeing him calmly. “But if you've that much energy, you may be able to take some more broth, and a bit of bread.”

“I'd rather meat.”

“I'm sure. But you won't get it. Do you read, Kylar of Mrydon?”

“Yes, of course I . . . You call me by name,” he said cautiously. “How do you know it?”

She thought of that dip she'd taken into his mind. What she'd seen. What she'd felt. Neither of them, she was sure, was prepared to discuss it. “You told me a great many things during the fever,” she said. And that was true enough. “I'll see you have books. Bed rest is tedious. Reading will help.”

She picked up the empty cup of broth and started across the chamber to the door.

“Wait. What is this place?”

She turned back. “This is Rose Castle, on the Isle of Winter in the Sea of Ice.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, but he kept his gaze direct on hers. “That's a fairy tale. A myth.”

“It's as real as life, and as death. You, my lord Kylar, are the first to pass this way in more than twenty years. When you're rested and well, we'll discuss how you came here.”

“Wait.” He lifted a hand as she opened the thick carved door. “You're not a servant.” He wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for one. The simple dress, the lack of jewels, the undressed hair did nothing to detract from her bearing. Her breeding.

“I serve,” she countered. “And have all my life. I am Deirdre, queen of the Sea of Ice.”

When she closed the door behind her, he continued to stare. He'd heard of Rose Castle, the legend of it, in boyhood. The palace that stood on an island in what had once been a calm and pretty lake, edged by lush forests and rich fields. Betrayal, jealousy, vengeance, and witchcraft had doomed it all to an eternity of winter.

There was something about a rose trapped in a pillar of ice. He couldn't quite remember how it all went.

Such things were nonsense, of course. Entertaining stories to be told to a child at bedtime.

And yet . . . yet he'd traveled through that world of white and bitter cold. He'd fought and won a battle, in high summer, then somehow had become lost in winter.

Because he, in his delirium, had traveled far north. Perhaps into the Lost Mountains or even beyond them, where the wild tribes hunted giant white bear and dragons still guarded caves.

He'd talked with men who claimed to have been there, who spoke of dark blue water crowded with islands of ice, and of warriors tall as trees.

But none had ever spoken of a castle.

How much had he imagined, or dreamed? Determined to
see for himself, he tossed back the bedcovers. Sweat slicked his skin, and his muscles trembled, appalling him—scoring his pride—as the simple task of shifting to sit on the side of the bed sapped his strength. He sat for several moments more, gathering it back.

When he managed to stand, his vision wavered, as if he was looking through water. He felt his knees buckle but managed to grip the bedpost and stay on his feet.

While he waited to steady, he studied the room. It was simply appointed, he noted. Tasteful, certainly, even elegant in its way unless you looked closely enough to see that the fabrics were fraying with age. Still, the chests and the chairs gleamed with polish. While the rug was faded with time, its workmanship was lovely. The candlesticks were gleaming silver, and the fire burned quietly in a hearth carved from lapis.

As creakily, as carefully, as an aged grandfather, he walked across the room to the window.

Through it, as far as he could see, the world was white. The sun was a dim haze behind the white curtain that draped the sky, but it managed to sparkle a bit on the ice that surrounded the castle. In the distance, he saw the shadows of the forest, hints of black and gray smothered in snow. In the north, far north, mountains speared up. White against white.

Closer in, at the feet of the castle, the snow spread in sheets and blankets. He saw no movement, no tracks. No life.

Were they alone here? he wondered. He and the woman who called herself a queen?

Then he saw her, a regal flash of red against the white. She walked with a long, quick stride—as a woman might, he thought, bustle off to the market. As if she sensed him there, she stopped, turned. Looked up at his window.

He couldn't see her expression clearly, but the way her chin angled told him she was displeased with him. Then she turned away again, her fiery cloak swirling, as she continued over that sea toward the forest.

He wanted to go after her, to demand answers, explanations. But he could barely make it back to the bed before he
collapsed. Trembling from the effort, he buried himself under the blankets again and slept the day away.

 

“M
Y
lady, he's demanding to see you again.”

Deirdre continued to work in the precious dirt under the wide dome. Her back ached, but she didn't mind it. In this, what she called her garden, she grew herbs and vegetables and a few precious flowers in the false spring generated by the sun through the glass.

“I have no time for him, Orna.” She hoed a trench. It was a constant cycle, replenishing, tending, harvesting. The garden was life to her world. And one of her few true pleasures. “Between you and Cordelia he's tended well enough.”

Orna pursed her lips. She had nursed Deirdre as a babe, had tutored her, tended her, and since the death of Queen Fiona, had stood when she could as mother. She was one of the few in Rose Castle who dared to question the young queen.

“It's been three days since he woke. The man is restless.”

Deirdre straightened, rested her weight on the hoe. “Is he in pain?”

Orna's weathered face creased with what might have been impatience. “He says not, but he's a man, after all. He has pain. Despite it, and his weakness, he won't be kept to his chamber much longer. The man is a prince, my lady, and used to being obeyed.”

“I rule here.” Deirdre scanned her garden. The earlier plantings were satisfactory. She couldn't have the lush, but she could have the necessary. Even, she thought as she looked at her spindly, sun-starved daisies, the occasional indulgence.

“One of the kitchen boys should gather cabbages for dinner,” she began. “Have the cook choose two of the hens. Our guest needs meat.”

“Why do you refuse to see him?”

“I don't refuse.” Annoyed, Deirdre went back to her work. She was avoiding the next meeting, and she knew it. Something had come into her during the healing,
something she was unable to identify. It left her uneasy and unsettled.

“I stayed with him three days, three nights,” she reminded Orna. “It's put me behind in my duties.”

“He's very handsome.”

“So is his horse,” Deirdre said lightly. “And the horse is of more interest to me.”

“And strong,” Orna continued, stepping closer. “A prince from outside our world. He could be the one.”

“There is no one.” Deirdre tossed her head. Hope put no fuel in the fire nor food in the pot. It was a luxury she, above all, could ill afford. “I want no man, Orna. I will depend on no one but myself. It's woman's foolishness, woman's need, and man's deceit that have cursed us.”

“Woman's pride as much as foolishness.” Orna laid a hand on the staff of the hoe. “Will you let yours stop you from taking a chance for freedom?”

“I will provide for my people. When the time comes I will lie with a man until I conceive. I will make the next ruler, train the child as I was trained.”

“Love the child,” Orna murmured.

“My heart is so cold.” Tired, Deirdre closed her eyes. “I fear there is no love in me. How can I give what isn't mine?”

“You're wrong.” Gently Orna touched her cheek. “Your heart isn't cold. It's only trapped, as the rose is trapped in ice.”

“Should I free it, Orna, so it could be broken as my mother's was?” She shook her head. “That solves nothing. Food must be put on the table, fuel must be gathered. Go now, tell our guest that I'll visit him in his chambers when time permits.”

“This seems like a fine time.” So saying, Kylar strode into the dome.

H
E'D
never seen anything like the garden before. But then, Kylar had seen a great deal of the unexpected in Rose Castle in a short time. Such as a queen dressed in men's clothing—trousers and a ragged tunic. The result was odd, and strangely alluring. Her hair was tied back, but not with anything so female as a ribbon. She'd knotted it with a thin leather strap, such as he did himself when doing some quick spot of manual labor.

Her face was flushed from her work and as lovely as the flower he'd first taken her for. She did not look pleased to see him. Even as he watched, her eyes chilled.

Behold the ice queen, he thought. A man would risk freezing off important parts of his body should he try to thaw her.

“I see you're feeling better, my lord.”

“If you'd spared me five minutes of your time, you'd have seen so before.”

“Will you pardon us, Orna.” She knelt and began to plant the long eyes of potatoes harvested earlier in the year. It was a distraction, one she needed. Seeing him again stirred her, in dangerous ways. “You'll excuse me, my lord, if I continue with my task.”

“Are there no servants to do such things?”

“There are fifty-two of us in Rose Castle. We all have our places and our duties.”

He squatted beside her, though it caused his side to weep. Taking her hand, he turned it over and examined the ridge of callus. “Then I would say, my lady, you have too many duties.”

“It's not for you to question me.”

“You don't give answers, so I must continue to question. You healed me. Why do you resent me?”

“I don't know. But I do know that I require both hands for this task.” When he released her, she continued to plant. “I'm unused to strangers,” she began. Surely that was it. She had never seen, much less healed, a stranger before. Wouldn't that explain why, after looking into his mind, into his heart, she felt so drawn to him?

And afraid of him.

“Perhaps my manners are unpolished, so I will beg your pardon for any slight.”

“They're polished diamond-bright,” he corrected. “And stab at a man.”

She smiled a little. “Some men, I imagine, are used to softer females. I thought Cordelia would suit your needs.”

“She's biddable enough, and pretty enough, which is why you have the dragon guarding her.”

Her smile warmed fractionally. “Of course.”

“I wonder why I prefer you to either of them.”

“I couldn't say.” She moved down the row, and when he started to move with her, he gasped. She cursed. “Stubborn.” She rose, reached down, and to his surprise, wrapped her arms around him. “Hold on to me. I'll help you inside.”

He simply buried his face in her hair. “Your scent,” he told her. “It haunts me.”

“Stop it.”

“I can't get your face out of my head, even when I sleep.”

Her stomach fluttered, alarming her. “Sir, I will not be trifled with.”

“I'm too damn weak to trifle with you.” Hating the unsteadiness, he leaned heavily against her. “But you're
beautiful, and I'm not dead.” When he caught his breath, he eased away. “I should be. I've had time to think that through.” He stared hard into her eyes. “I've seen enough battle to know when a wound is mortal. Mine was. How did I cheat death, Deirdre? Are you a witch?”

“Some would say.” Because his color concerned her, she unbent enough to put an arm around his waist. “You need to sit before you fall. Come back inside.”

“Not to bed. I'll go mad.”

She'd tended enough of the sick and injured to know the truth of that. “To a chair. We'll have tea.”

“God spare me. Brandy?”

She supposed he was entitled. She led him through a doorway, down a dim corridor away from the kitchen. She skirted the main hallway and moved down yet another corridor. The room where she took him was small, chilly, and lined floor to ceiling with books.

She eased him into a chair in front of the cold fireplace, then went over to open the shutters and let in the light.

“The days are still long,” she said conversationally as she walked to the fireplace. This one was framed in smooth green marble. “Planting needs to be finished while the sun can warm the seeds.”

She crouched in front of the fire, set the logs to light. “Is there grass in your world? Fields of it?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “And trees that go green in spring?”

He felt a wrench in his gut. For home—and for her. “Yes.”

“It must be like a miracle.” Then she stood, and her voice was brisk again. “I must wash, and see to your brandy. You'll be warm by the fire. I won't be long.”

“My lady, have you never seen a field of grass?”

“In books. In dreams.” She opened her mouth again, nearly asked him to tell her what it smelled like. But she wasn't sure she could bear to know. “I won't keep you waiting long, my lord.”

She was true to her word. In ten minutes she was back, her hair loose again over the shoulders of a dark green dress. She carried the brandy herself.

“Our wine cellars were well stocked once. My grandfather, I'm told, was shrewd in that area. And in this one,” she added, gesturing toward the books. “He enjoyed a glass of good wine and a good book.”

“And you?”

“The books often, the wine rarely.”

When she glanced toward the door, he saw her smile, fully, warmly, for the first time. He could only stare at her as his throat went dry and his heart shuddered.

“Thank you, Magda. I would have come for it.”

“You've enough to do, my lady, without carting trays.” The woman seemed ancient to Kylar. Her face as withered as a winter apple, her body bowed as if she carried bricks on her back. But she set the tea tray on the sideboard and curtseyed with some grace. “Should I pour for you, my lady?”

“I'll see to it. How are your hands?”

“They don't trouble me overmuch.”

Deirdre took them in her own. They were knotted and swollen at the joints. “You're using the ointment I gave you?”

“Yes, my lady, twice daily. It helps considerable.”

Keeping her eyes on Magda's, Deirdre rubbed her thumbs rhythmically over the gnarled knuckles. “I have a tea that will help. I'll show you how to make it, and you'll drink a cup three times a day.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Magda curtseyed again before she left the room.

Kylar saw Deirdre rub her own hands as if to ease a pain before she reached for the teapot. “I'll answer your questions, Prince Kylar, and hope that you'll answer some of mine in turn.” She brought him a small tray of cheese and biscuits, then settled into a chair with her tea.

“How do you survive?”

To the point, she thought. “We have the garden. Some chickens and goats for eggs and milk, and meat when meat is needed. There's the forest for fuel and, if we're lucky, for
game. The young are trained in necessary skills. We live simply,” she said, sipping her tea. “And well enough.”

“Why do you stay?”

“Because this is my home. You risked your life in battle to protect yours.”

“How do you know I didn't risk it to take what belonged to someone else?”

She watched him over the rim of her cup. Yes, he was handsome. His looks were only more striking now that he'd regained some of his strength. One of the servants had shaved him, and without the stubble of beard he looked younger. But little less dangerous. “Did you?”

“You know I didn't.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “You know. How is that, Deirdre of the Ice?” He reached out, clamped a hand on her arm. “What did you do to me during the fever?”

“Healed you.”

“With witchcraft?”

“I have a gift for healing,” she said evenly. “Should I have used it, or let you die? There was no dark in it, and you are not bound to me for payment.”

“Then why do I feel bound to you?”

Her pulse jumped. His hand wasn't gripping her arm now. It caressed. “I did nothing to tie you. I have neither desire nor the skill for it.” Cautiously, she moved out of reach. “You have my word. When you're well enough to travel, you're free to go.”

“How?” It was bitter. “Where?”

Pity stirred in her, swam into her eyes. She remembered the face of the woman in his mind, the love she'd felt flow between them. His mother, she thought. Even now watching for his return home.

“It won't be simple, nor without risk. But you have a horse, and we'll give you provisions. One of my men will travel with you as far as possible. I can do no more than that.”

He put it aside for now. When the time came, he would find his way home. “Tell me how this came to be. This
place. I've heard stories—betrayal and witchcraft and cold spells over a land that was once fruitful and at peace.”

“So I am told.” She rose again to stir the fire. “When my grandfather was king, there were farms and fields. The land was green and rich, the lake blue and thick with fish. Have you ever seen blue water?”

“I have, yes.”

“How can it be blue?” she asked as she turned. There was puzzlement on her face, and more, he thought. An eagerness he hadn't seen before. It made her look very young.

“I haven't thought about it,” he admitted. “It seems to be blue, or green, or gray. It changes, as the sky changes.”

“My sky never changes.” The eagerness vanished as she walked to the window. “Well,” she said, and straightened her shoulders. “Well. My grandfather had two daughters, twin-born. His wife died giving them life, and it's said he grieved for her the rest of his days. The babes were named Ernia, who was my aunt, and Fiona, who was my mother, and on them he doted. Most parents dote on their children, don't they, my lord?”

“Most,” he agreed.

“So he did. Like their mother, they were beautiful, and like their mother, they were gifted. Ernia could call the sun, the rain, the wind. Fiona could speak to the beasts and the birds. They were, I'm told, competitive, each vying for their father's favor though he loved them both. Do you have siblings, my lord?”

“A brother and a sister, both younger.”

She glanced back. He had his mother's eyes, she thought. But her hair had been light. Perhaps his father had that ink-black hair that looked so silky.

“Do you love them, your brother and your sister?”

“Very much.”

“That is as it should be. But Ernia and Fiona could not love each other. Perhaps it was because they shared the same face, and each wanted her own. Who can say? They grew from girl to woman, and my grandfather grew old and ill. He wanted them married and settled before his death.
Ernia he betrothed to a king in a land beyond the Elf Hills, and my mother he promised to a king whose lands marched with ours to the east. Rose Castle was to be my mother's, and the Palace of Sighs, on the border of the Elf Hills, my aunt's. In this way he divided his wealth and lands equally between them, for he was, I'm told, a wise and fair ruler and a loving father.”

She came back to sit and sip at tea gone cold. “In the weeks before the weddings, a traveler came and was welcome here as all were in those days. He was handsome and clever, quick of tongue and smooth with charm. A minstrel by trade, it's said he sang like an angel. But fair looks are no mirror of the heart, are they?”

“A pleasant face is only a face.” Kylar lifted a shoulder. “Deeds make a man.”

“Or woman,” she added. “So I have always believed, and so, in this case, it was. In secret, this handsome man courted and seduced both twins, and both fell blindly in love with him. He came to my mother's bed, and to her sister's, bearing a single red rose and promises never meant to be kept. Why do men lie when women love?”

The question took him aback. “My lady . . . not all men are deceivers.”

“Perhaps not.” Though she was far from convinced. “But he was. One evening the sisters, of the same mind, wandered to the rose garden. Each wanted to pluck a red rose for her lover. It was there the lies were discovered. Instead of comforting each other, instead of raging against the man who had deceived them both, they fought over him. She-wolves over an unworthy badger. Ernia's temper called the wind and the hail, and Fiona's had the beasts stalking out of the forest to snarl and howl.”

“Jealousy is both a flawed and a lethal weapon.”

She angled her head. Nodded. “Well said. My grandfather heard the clamor and roused himself from his sickbed. Neither marriage could take place now, as both his daughters were disgraced. The minstrel, who had not slipped away quickly enough, was locked in the dungeon until his punishment could be decided. There was weeping and wailing
from the sisters, as that punishment would surely be banishment, if not death. But he was spared when it came to be known that my mother was with child. His child, for she had lain with no other.”

“You were the child.”

“Yes. So, by becoming, I saved my father's life. The grief of this, the shame of this, ended my grandfather's. Before he died, he ordered Ernia to the Palace of Sighs. Because of the child, he decreed that my mother would marry the minstrel. It was this that drove Ernia mad, and on the day the marriage took place, the day her own father died in despair, she cast her spell.

“Winter, endless years of it. A sea of ice to lock Rose Castle away from the world. The rosebush where flowers had been plucked from lies would not bear bud. The child her sister carried would never feel the warmth of summer sun on her face, or walk in a meadow or see a tree bear fruit. One faithless man, three selfish hearts, destroyed a world. And so became the Isle of Winter in the Sea of Ice.”

“My lady.” He laid a hand on hers. Her life, he thought, the whole of it had been spent without the simple comfort of sunlight. “A spell cast can be broken. You have power.”