A Little Fate (6 page)

She could turn this aside, Aurora thought returning the globe to its box. She could go back to the hills and live as she always had. Free, as the Travelers were free. Content, with only her dreams to plague or stir her.

For life was precious. She rubbed the chill from her arms as she watched the last star wink out over Sorcerer's Mountain. Thane was right, life was precious. But she couldn't, wouldn't, turn away. For more precious than life was hope. And more precious than both was honor.

She woke Cyra and Rhiann to help her garb herself in the robes of a lady. She would wear the mask another day.

 

“
W
HY
don't you tell her?” Kern sat on a barrel eating a windfall apple while Thane fed the horses.

“There's nothing to tell.”

“Don't you think the lady would be interested in what you are, what you're doing. Or more what you don't?”

“She looks for heroes and warriors, as females do. She won't find one in me.”

“She . . .” With a secret little smile, Kern munched his apple. “Does not seem an ordinary female. Don't you wonder?”

Thane dumped oats in a trough. “I can't afford to wonder. I put enough at risk last night because my blood was up. If she chatters about the tunnels, or what passed between us—”

“Does the lady strike you as a chatterbox?”

“No.” Thane rested his brow on a mare's neck. “She is glorious. More than my dreams of her. Full of fire and beauty—and more, of truth. She won't speak of it, as she said she wouldn't. I wish I'd never seen her, touched her. Now that I have, every hour of the rest of my life is pain. If Owen chooses her . . .”

He set his teeth against a flood of black rage. “How can I stay and watch them together? How can I go when I'm shackled here?”

“The time will come to break the shackles.”

“So you always say.” Thane straightened, moved to the next stall. “But the years pass, one the same as the other.”

“The True One comes, Thane.”

“The True One.” With a mirthless laugh, he hauled up buckets of water. “A myth, a shadow, to coat the blisters of Lorcan's rule with false hope. The only truth is the sword, and one day my hand will be free to use it.”

“A sword will break your shackles, Thane, but it isn't steel that will free the world. It is the midnight star.” Kern hopped off the barrel and laid a hand on Thane's arm. “Take some joy before that day, or you'll never really be free.”

“I'll have joy enough when Lorcan's blood is on my sword.”

Kern shook his head. “There's a storm coming, and you will ride it. But it will be your choice if you ride it alone.”

Kern flicked his wrist, and a glossy red apple appeared
in his hand. With a merry grin, he tossed it to Thane, then vanished.

Thane bit into the apple, and the taste that flooded his mouth made him think of Aurora. He offered the rest to a greedy gelding.

Alone, he reminded himself, was best.

W
RAPPED
in a purple cloak pinned with a jeweled brooch, Lorcan stood and watched his son practice his swordsmanship. What Owen lacked in style and form he made up for in sheer brutality, and that had his father's approval.

The soldier chosen for the practice had a good arm and a steady eye, and so made the match lively. Still, there were none in the city, or in the whole of Twylia, Lorcan knew, who could best the prince at steel against steel.

None would dare.

He had been given only one son, and that was a bitter disappointment. The wife he had taken in his youth had birthed two stillborn babes before Owen, and had died as she'd lived—without a murmur of complaint or wit—days after his birthing.

He had taken another, a young girl whose robust looks had belied a barren womb. It had been a simple matter to rid himself of her by damning her as a witch. After a month in the dungeons at the hands of his tribunal, she'd been willing enough to confess and face the purifying fires.

So he had taken Brynn. Far cousin of the one who had been queen. He'd wanted the blue of royal blood to run
through the veins of his future sons—and had he got them, would have cast his firstborn aside without a qualm.

But Brynn had given him nothing but two daughters. Leia, at least, had possessed beauty, and would have been a rich bargaining chip in a marriage trade. But she'd been willful as well, and had tried to run away when he'd betrothed her.

The wild beasts of the forest had left little more than her torn and bloody cloak.

So he had no child but Dira, a pale, silent girl whose only use would be in the betrothing of her to a lord still loyal enough, still rich enough, to warrant the favor in two or three years' time.

He had planted his seed in Brynn again and again, but she lost the child each time before her term was up, and now was too sickly to breed. Even the maids and servants he took to his bed failed to give him a son.

So it was Owen who would carry his name, and his ambitions turned to the grandsons he would get. A king could not be a god without the continuity of blood.

His son must choose well.

He smiled as he watched Owen draw blood from his opponent, as he beat back his man with vicious strikes until the soldier lost his footing and fell. And Lorcan nodded with approval as Owen stabbed the sword's point into the man's shoulder.

He'd taught his son well. A fallen enemy was, after all, still an enemy.

“Enough.” Lorcan's rings flashed in the sunlight as he clapped his hands. “Bear him away, bind him up.” He waved off the wounded soldier and threw his arm around Owen's shoulders. “You please me.”

“He was hardly worth the effort.” Owen studied the stain on his blade before ramming it home. “It's tedious not to have more of a challenge.”

“Come, the envoys have brought the taxes from the four points, and I would speak with you before I deal with them. There are rumbles of rebellion in the north.”

“The north is a place of ignorant peasants and hill
dwellers who wait for Draco to fly from his mountain.” With a glance toward the high peak, Owen snorted in disgust. “A battalion of troops sent up to burn a few huts, put a few of their witches on the pyre should be enough to quiet them.”

“The talk that comes down is not of Draco but of the True One.”

Owen's mouth twisted as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “Tongues won't flap of what is forbidden once they are cut out. Those who speak of treason must be routed out and reminded there is only one king of Twylia.”

“And so they shall be. The envoys brought six rebels, as well as the taxes. They will be tried, and executed, as an example, as part of your betrothal ceremonies. Until then, the tribunal will . . . interrogate them. If these are more than rumbles, we will silence them.”

They strode through the gates of the castle and across the great hall. “Meanwhile, preparations for the rest of the ceremonies proceed. You must make your choice within the week.”

Inside the throne room, Owen plucked a plum from a bowl and threw himself into a chair. “So many plums.” He bit in, smiled. “All so ripe and tasty.”

“There's more to your choice than a pleasing face. You may take any who stirs your blood into your bed. You are the prince, and will be king. Your bedmates may slake your lust, but your queen must do that and more. You must have sons.”

Lorcan poured wine, and sat by the fire that burned even so early in the day for his comfort. “Strong sons, Owen. So you must choose a woman who will be more than a pretty vessel. Have any here found your favor?”

“One or two.” Owen shrugged. “The latest arrival interests me. She has a bold look in her eye.”

“Her dowry would be rich,” Lorcan considered. “And her father's lands are valuable. She has beauty enough, and youth. It might do.”

“The match would tie the west to us, and as Ute's land runs north along the hills, such positioning would be strategic.”

“Yes, yes.” Lorcan rested his chin on his fist and considered. “The Realm of Magicks still thrives in pockets of the west, and too many men run tame there who preach of Draco's spell and the True One. It's time to look to the far west and north, and smother any small embers of treason before they flare.”

“The Lady Aurora's father, it seems, is unwell.” Owen took another bite of his plum. “If we were wed, he might sicken and die—with a bit of help. And so his lands, his fortifications, his wealth would come to me.”

“It might do,” Lorcan repeated. “I'll take a closer look at this one. If I approve, your betrothal will be announced at week's end at the masque. And you will be pledged the following morning.”

Owen raised a brow. “So quickly?”

“With the wedding ceremony to take place at the end of a fortnight—by which time every man in the world must render a token to mark the events—the masque and the wedding. The shepherd must render his finest rams, the farmer one quarter of his crop, the miller a quarter of his grain, and so on, so as to provide their prince and his bride with the stores for their household.”

Lorcan stretched his booted feet toward the fire. “If the man has no ram, no crop, no grain, he must render his oldest son or if he has no son, his oldest daughter, to serve the royal couple. Craftsmen and artisans will bequeath a year of their time so that your home can be built on the western border and furnished as befits your rank.”

“Some will not give willingly,” Owen pointed out.

“No. And the business of persuading them to do their duty to their king will bury all mutterings of the True One, scatter rebellious forces, and forge our hold on the west. Yes.” He lifted his goblet in toast. “I think it may do.”

 

U
NDER
the guise of serving his mistress, Rohan walked with his head humbly bowed. His heart was full of rage edged in fear. He kept his eyes lowered as he moved past guards and into the sitting room where Aurora gathered
with the women to take rose tea and chatter about gowns and the upcoming masque.

“Your pardon, my lady.”

Knowing her part, Aurora spared him a single disinterested glance. “I am occupied.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but the lace you requested has arrived.”

“A full day late.” She set her cup aside and shook her head at the women who sat closest to her as she rose. “It will probably be inferior, but we'll see what can be done with it. Have it sent to my chambers. I'll come now.”

She walked out behind him, careful not to speak to him or to Rhiann, who followed in her wake, until they were behind doors again.

“Lace.” She sighed heavily, and poured ale to rid her mouth of the oversweet taste of the rose tea. “How I am lowered.”

“Lorcan's envoys returned today with taxes levied against the four points.”

Aurora's mouth thinned. “He will not keep them for long.”

“They brought also six prisoners.”

“Prisoners? What prisoners are these?”

“They say they are rebels, but four are only farmers, and one of them is aged and near crippled, while another is no more than a boy. The other two must have been set upon and taken while scouting. One of them is Eton.”

Aurora lowered herself slowly to a chair as Rhiann bit back a cry. “Out Eton? Cyra's betrothed?”

“Eton was wounded, and all are being kept in the dungeons.” He curled his hands helplessly into fists. “They're to be questioned by the tribunal.”

“Tortured,” Aurora whispered.

“It's said they'll be executed for treason within the week. Flogged and branded, then hanged.”

“Compose yourself, Rhiann,” Aurora ordered when the woman began to weep. “It will not happen. Why were they taken, Rohan? How are they charged with treason?”

“I can't say. There's word among the servants that rebellion is brewing, that the True One is coming.”

“So Lorcan strikes before he is struck.” She pushed to her feet to pace as she brought the positioning of the dungeons into her mind. “We must get them out, and we will. We have a week.”

“You can't leave them there for a week.” Rhiann struggled against fresh tears. “To be tortured and starved.”

“I have no choice but to leave them until we are ready to attack. If we try to free them now, we could fail, and even if we succeed, such a move would put Lorcan on alert.”

“Eton may be dead in a week,” Rhiann snapped. “Or worse than dead. Is this how you honor your family?”

“This is how I rule, and it is bitter to me. Eton is like my own brother. Would you have me risk all to spare him?”

“No.” Rohan answered before Rhiann could speak. “It would not honor him if you spared him pain, or even his life, and Lorcan continued to rule.”

“Get word to him if you can. Tell him he must hold on until we can find a way. Send a dispatch to Gwayne. It's time. They are to travel in secret. They must not be seen. How long will it take them? Three days?”

“Three—or four.”

“It will take three,” Aurora said firmly. “I will meet him in the forest, near the tunnel, at midnight when he arrives. I'll know what must be done.”

“Cyra.” Rhiann grieved for her daughter. “How will we keep this from her?”

“We won't. She has a right to know. I'll tell her. She should hear it from me.”

She went out in search of her friend, hoping she would have the right words, and met Owen as she stepped into the courtyard.

“Lady Aurora.” He took her hand, bowed over it. “I was about to send word for you.”

“I am at your pleasure, my lord prince.”

“Then you'll honor me by riding out with me. I've been
busy with matters of state all morning, and wish for a brisk gallop and your lovely company.”

“I would enjoy nothing more. May I meet you in an hour, my lord, so I might find my maid and change into proper attire?”

“I'll wait. Impatiently.”

She curtsied, tipping her face up with a saucy smile before rising and hurrying away. She found Cyra in the kitchens, her eyes bright and round with gossip.

“I require you,” Aurora said coolly, then turned away so that Cyra had to rush after her.

“I've learned all about—”

“Not now,” Aurora said under her breath. “I'm riding out with the prince,” she said in a clear voice. “I'll want my red riding habit, and be quick about it.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Only Aurora heard Cyra's muffled giggle as the girl rushed ahead to the bedchamber. And only Aurora hoped she would hear Cyra's laughter again.

“And be quick about it,” Cyra mimicked with another giggle as soon as Aurora closed the door behind her. “I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Oh, Aurora, I've learned all manner of things. The kitchens are fertile ground.”

“Cyra, sit down. I must speak with you.”

The tone had Cyra stopping to look at Aurora as she lifted up the red habit. “Do you not ride out with Owen, then?”

“No. Yes, that is—yes.” Aurora pushed at her hair. “Yes, within the hour.”

“It'll take nearly that long to get this done. A lady of your station would have her hair dressed differently for riding. It has to suit the hat, you know. We'll get started and exchange our news. Oh, Aurora, mine is
so
romantic.”

“Cyra.” Aurora took the habit and tossed it aside so she could grasp Cyra's hand. “I have word of Eton.”

“Eton? What of Eton? He's in the north, scouting for Gwayne.” The rosy flush was dying on her cheeks as she
spoke, and her fingers trembled in Aurora's. “Is he dead? Is he dead?”

“No. But he's hurt.”

“I'll go to him. I have to go to him.”

“You can't. Cyra.” She pushed her friend into a chair, then crouched at her feet. “Eton and five others were taken by Lorcan's soldiers. He was wounded. I don't know how badly. He was brought here, to the dungeons.”

“He's here, in the castle? Now? And he lives?”

“Yes. They will question him. Do you know what that means?”

“They will torture him. Oh.” Cyra squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, my love.”

“I can do nothing for him yet. If I try . . . all could be lost, so I can do nothing yet. I'm sorry.”

“I need to see him.”

“It isn't safe.”

“I need to see him. They send food down to the jailers, to the tribunal, and slop to the prisoners. One of the kitchen maids will let me take her place. If he sees me, he'll know there's hope. It will make him stronger. He would never betray you, Aurora, and neither will I. He's proud to serve you, and so am I.”

Tears swam into Aurora's eyes, then she pressed her face into Cyra's lap. “It hurts to think of him there.”

“Then you must not think of it.” She stroked Aurora's hair and knew that she herself would think of little else. “I will pray for him. You'll be a good queen because you can cry for one man when so much depends on you.”