A Little Fate (13 page)

“My gift is of healing. I cannot heal the land.” Because she wanted to turn her hand over in his, link fingers, feel that connection, she drew away. “My father left my mother before I was born. Escaped. Later, as she watched her people starve, my mother sent messengers to the Palace of Sighs to ask for a truce. To beg for one. But they never came back. Perhaps they died, or lost their way. Or simply rode on into the warmth and the sun. No one who has left here has ever come back. Why would they?”

“Ernia the Witch-Queen is dead.”

“Dead?” Deirdre stared into the fire. “You're sure of this?”

“She was feared, and loathed. There was great celebration when she died. It was on the Winter Solstice, and I remember it well. She's been dead for nearly ten years.”

Deirdre closed her eyes. “As her sister has. So they died together. How odd, and how apt.” She rose again to walk to
the window. “Ten years dead, and her spell holds like a clenched fist. How bitter her heart must have been.”

And the faint and secret hope she'd kept flickering inside that upon her aunt's death the spell would break, winked out. She drew herself up. “What we can't change, we learn to be content with.” She stared out at the endless world of white. “There is beauty here.”

“Yes.” It was Deirdre that Kylar watched. “Yes. There is beauty here.”

H
E
wanted to help her. More, Kylar thought, he wanted to save her. If there had been something tangible to fight—a man, a beast, an army—he would have drawn his sword and plunged into battle for her.

She moved him, attracted him, fascinated him. Her steady composure in the face of her fate stirred in him both admiration and frustration. This was not a woman to weep on a man's shoulder. It annoyed him to find himself wishing that she would, as long as the shoulder was his.

She was an extraordinary creature. He wanted to fight for her. But how did a man wage war on magic?

He'd never had any real experience with it. He was a soldier, and though he believed in luck, even in fate, he believed more in wile and skill and muscle.

He was a prince, would one day be a king. He believed in justice, in ruling with a firm touch on one hand and a merciful one on the other.

There was no justice here, where a woman who had done no wrong should be imprisoned for the crimes and follies and wickedness of those who had come before.

She was too beautiful to be shut away from the rest of the
world. Too small, he mused, too fragile to work her hands raw. She should be draped in silks and ermine rather than homespun.

Already after less than a week on the Isle of Winter, he felt a restlessness, a need for color and heat. How had she stayed sane never knowing a single summer?

He wanted to bring her the sun.

She should laugh. It troubled him that he had not once heard her laugh. A smile, surprisingly warm when it was real enough to reach her eyes. That he had seen. He would find a way to see it again.

He waded through the snow across what he supposed had once been a courtyard. Though his wound had troubled him on waking, he was feeling stronger now. He needed to be doing, to find some work or activity to keep his blood moving and his mind sharp. Surely there was some task, some bit of work he could undertake for her here. It would repay her in some small way, and serve to keep his mind and hands busy while his body healed.

He recalled the stag he'd seen in the forest. He would hunt, then, and bring her meat. The wind that had thrashed ceaselessly for days had finally quieted. Though the utter stillness that followed it played havoc with the nerves, it would make tracking through the forest possible.

He moved through a wide archway on the other side of the courtyard. And stopped to stare.

This, he realized with wonder, had been the rose garden. Gnarled and blackened stalks tangled out of the snow. Once, he imagined, it would have been magnificent, full of color and scent and humming bees.

Now it was a great field of snow cased in ice.

Bisecting that field were graceful paths of silver stone, and someone kept them clear. There were hundreds of bushes, all brittle with death, the stalks spearing out of their cold graves like blackened bones.

Benches, these, too, cleared of snow and ice, stood in graceful curves of deep jewel colors. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, they gleamed in the midst of the stark and merciless white. There was a small pond in the shape of an open rose,
and its flower held a rippled sheet of ice. Dead branches with vicious thorns strangled iron arbors. More spindly corpses climbed up the silver stone of the walls as if they'd sought to escape before winter murdered them.

In the center, where all paths led, was a towering column of ice. Under the glassy sheen, he could see the arch of blackened branches studded with thorns, and hundreds of withered flowers trapped forever in their moment of death.

The rosebush, he thought, where the flowers of lies had been plucked. No, he corrected as he moved toward it. More a tree, for it was taller than he was and spread wider than the span of both his arms. He ran his fingertips over the ice, found it smooth. Experimentally, he took the dagger from his belt, dragged its tip over the ice. It left no mark.

“It cannot be reached with force.”

Kylar turned and saw Orna standing in the archway. “What of the rest? Why haven't the dead branches been cleared and used for fire?” he asked her.

“To do so would be to give up hope.” She had hope still, and more when she looked into Kylar's eyes.

She saw what she needed there. Truth, strength, and courage.

“She walks here.”

“Why would she punish herself in such a way?” he demanded.

“It reminds her, I think, of what was. And what is.” But not, Orna feared, of what might be. “Once, when my lady was but eight, and the last of the dogs died, breaking her heart, she took her grandfather's sword. In her grief and temper, she tried to hack through that ice into the bush. For nearly an hour she stabbed and sliced and beat at it, and could not so much as scratch the surface. In the end, she went to her knees there where you stand now and wept as if she'd die from it. Something in her did die that day, along with the last of the dogs. I have not heard her weep since. I wish she would.”

“Why do you wish for your lady's tears?”

“For then she would know her heart is not dead but, like the rose, only waiting.”

He sheathed his dagger. “If force can't reach it, what can?”

She smiled, for she knew he spoke of the heart as much as the rose. “You will make a good king in your time, Kylar of Mrydon, for you listen to what isn't said. What can't be vanquished with sword or might can be won with truth, with love, with selflessness. She is in the stables, what is left of them. She wouldn't ask for your company, but would enjoy it.”

 

T
HE
stables lined three sides of another courtyard, but this one was crisscrossed with crooked paths dug through or trampled into the snow. Kylar saw the reason for it in the small troop of children waging a lively snow battle at the far end. Even in such a world, he thought, children found a way to be children.

As he drew closer to the stables, he heard the low cackle of hens. There were men on the roof, working on a chimney. They tipped their caps to him as he passed under the eaves and into the stables.

It was warmer, thanks to carefully banked fires, and clean as a parlor. The queen, he thought, tended her goats and chickens well. Iron kettles heated over the fires. Water for the stock, he concluded, made from melted snow. He noted barrows of manure. For use in her garden, he decided. A wise and practical woman, Queen Deirdre.

Then he saw the wise and practical woman, with her red hood tossed back, her gold hair raining down as she cooed up at his warhorse.

When the horse shook its great head and blew, she laughed. The rich female sound warmed his blood more thoroughly than the fires.

“His name is Cathmor.”

Startled, embarrassed, Deirdre dropped the hands she'd lifted to stroke the horse's muzzle. She knew she shouldn't have lingered, that he would come check on his horse as it had been reported he did twice daily. But she'd so wanted to see the creature herself.

“You have a light step.”

“You were distracted.” He walked up beside her, and to her surprise and delight, the horse bumped his shoulder in greeting.

“Does that mean he's glad to see you?”

“It means he's hoping I have an apple.”

Deirdre fingered the small carrot from her garden she'd tucked in her pocket. “Perhaps this will do.” She pulled it out, started to offer it to Kylar.

“He would enjoy being fed by a lady. No, not like that.” He took her hand and, opening it, laid the carrot on her palm. “Have you never fed a horse?”

“I've never seen one.” She caught her breath as Cathmor dipped his head and nibbled the carrot out of her palm. “He's bigger than I imagined, and more handsome. And softer.” Unable to resist, she stroked her hand down the horse's nose. “Some of the children have been keeping him company. They'd make a pet of him if they could.”

“Would you like to ride him?”

“Ride?”

“He needs the exercise, and so do I. I thought I would hunt this morning. Come with me.”

To ride a horse? Just the idea of it was thrilling. “I have duties.”

“I might get lost alone.” He brought her hand back up, ran it under his along Cathmor's silky neck. “I don't know your forest. And I'm still a bit weak.”

Her lips twitched. “Your wits are strong enough. I could send a man with you.”

“I prefer your company.”

To ride a horse, she thought again. How could she resist? Why should she? She was no fluttery girl who would fall into stutters and blushes by being alone with a man. Even this man.

“All right. What do I do first?”

“You wait until I saddle him.”

She shook her head. “No, show me how to do it.”

When it was done, she sent one of the boys scurrying off to tell Orna she was riding out with the prince. She needn't
have bothered, for as they walked the horse out of the stables, her people began to gather at the windows, in the courtyard.

When he vaulted into the saddle, they cheered him like a hero.

“It's been a long time since they've seen anyone ride,” she explained as Cathmor pranced in place. “Some of them, like me, never have.” She let out a breath. “It's a long way up.”

“Give me your hand.” He reached down to her. “Trust me.”

She would have to if she wanted this amazing treat. She offered her hand, then yelped in shock when he simply hauled her up in the saddle in front of him.

“You might have warned me you intended to drag me up like a sack of turnips. If you've opened your wound again—”

“Quiet,” he whispered, entirely too close to her ear for comfort, and with her people cheering, he kicked Cathmor into a trot.

“Oh.” Her eyes popped wide as her bottom bounced. “It's not what I expected.” And hardly dignified.

With shouts and whoops, children raced after them as they trotted out of the castle.

“Match the rhythm of your body to the gait of the horse,” he told her.

“Yes, I'm trying. Must you be so close?”

He grinned. “Yes. And I'm enjoying it. You shouldn't be uneasy with a man, Deirdre, when you've seen him naked.”

“Seeing you naked hardly gives me cause to relax around you,” she shot back.

With a rolling laugh, he urged the horse to a gallop.

Her breath caught, but with delight rather than fear. Wind rushed by her cheeks, and snow flew up into the air like tattered lace. She closed her eyes for an instant to absorb the sensation, and the wild thrill made her dizzy.

So fast, she thought. So strong. When they charged up a hill she wanted to throw her arms in the air and shout for the sheer joy of it.

Her heart raced along with the horse, continued to pound even when they slowed at the verge of the forest that had been known as the Forgotten for the whole of her lifetime.

“It's like flying,” she mused. “Oh, thank you.” She leaned down to press her cheek to the horse's neck. “I'll never forget it. He's a grand horse, isn't he?”

Flushed with pleasure, she turned. His face was too close, so close she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Close enough that she saw a kind of heat kindling in his eyes.

“No.” He caught her chin with his hand before she could turn away again. “Don't. I kissed you before, when I thought I was dying.” His lips hovered a breath from hers. “I lived.”

He had to taste her again; it seemed his sanity depended on it. But because he saw her fear, he took her mouth gently, skimming his lips over ones that trembled. Soothing as well as seducing. He watched her eyes go soft before her lashes fluttered down.

“Kiss me back, Deirdre.” His hand slid down until his arm could band her waist and draw her closer. “This time kiss me back.”

“I don't know how.” But she already was.

Her limbs went weak, wonderfully weak, even as her pulse danced madly. Warmth enveloped her, reaching places inside that had never known its comfort.

The light that had sparked inside her when their hearts had brushed in healing spread.

On the Isle of Winter in the snowy rose garden, beneath a shield of ice, a tiny bud—tender green—formed on a blackened branch.

He nibbled at her lips until she parted them. And when he deepened the kiss she felt, for the first time in her life, a true lance of heat in her belly.

Yearning for more, she eased back, then indulged herself by letting her head rest briefly on his shoulder. “So it's this,” she whispered. “It's this that makes the women sing in the kitchen in the morning.”

He stroked her hair, rubbed his cheek against it. “It's a bit more than that.” Sweet, he thought. Strong. She was
everything a man could want. Everything, he realized, that he wanted.

“Yes, of course.” She sighed once. “More than that, but it starts like this. It can't for me.”

“It has.” He held her close when she would have drawn away. “It did, the minute I saw you.”

“If I could love, it would be you. Though I'm not sure why, it would be you. If I were free, I would choose you.” She turned away again. “We came to hunt. My people need meat.”

He fought the urge to yank her around, to plunder that lovely mouth until she yielded. Force wasn't the answer. So he'd been told. There were better ways to win a woman.