Crystal Moon (23 page)

turned away from his harsh accusation.

Before he could retract his words and soothe the ache he

knew had settled in Sianna’s tender heart, bloodied fingers

gripped his arm.

Je’al struggled to sit up. “I will speak.”

Disregarding Kyne’s presence at her back, Sianna slipped

an arm behind Je’al’s shoulders and settled him against the

wall. “Drink this.” She held a cup of heated alt root broth to his

mouth. His lips curled in distaste, but he didn’t hesitate to drink

the foul-smelling brew.

“Prince Timon sends greetings to Rul Cathor,” Je’al rasped.

Rul Cathor. Elation rushed through Kyne. With two words,

Prince Timon acknowledged Kyne’s position and declared his

own. Though yet a lad, Prince Timon would some day rule

Dramon. If he lived and if he did not support DiSanti, there was

hope.

Sianna bathed Je’al face as he spoke. He caught her wrist

in a punishing grip. She flinched. Before Kyne could protest,

the lad eased his hold.

A look of bemusement settled over his old-young face as

he stared up at Sianna. His lips twisted in a odd smile.

“My thanks, Lady Sianna. And my apologies.” His words

held a meaning Kyne could not decipher.

She nodded and smiled.

“Send the woman away. The prince’s message is not for

her ears.”

“Leave us.” Kyne felt her distress at Je’al’s harsh tone.

Hurt flashed in her eyes, and her brief accord with Je’al

shattered like brittle crystal.

She pulled her arm from Je’al’s hold, straightened her

shoulders and threw back her head. Damp, tangled hair slapped

and stung Kyne’s arm. The blaze burning in her blue eyes

promised she hadn’t finished with him.

Puzzled, Kyne watched her stomp out of the chamber. What

had happened to the gentle, frightened woman Katya had stolen

from DiSanti’s palace? The woman who worked tirelessly

healing the sick and injured and setting the castle to rights? The

virgin temptress who answered his passion kiss for kiss? Who

was this angry impostor?

“Rul Cathor?”

Je’al drew Kyne’s attention. The mystery of Sianna must

wait. There were other more important questions to be

answered.

“Prince Timon will support our move to unseat DiSanti.

For just a lad he has done what he can to undermine DiSanti’s

growing power.”

Kyne hid his smile. Je’al was only a few annum older than

the prince. “You forget he has been raised to some day rule.

Politics and intrigue were spoon-fed to him along with pabulum

in his cradle.”

Je’al coughed and weakly wiped the blood-flecked foam

from his swollen lips. Kyne’s inner amusement died before it

could flower. Pain, treachery and loss quickly killed childhood.

“Were you followed?”

“No. There are still those loyal to the Royal family. They

helped the prince secret me out of the dungeon. DiSanti was

told I died of my injuries. Before I left, Prince Timon learned

that DiSanti will come to the place you named to bargain for

the return of his daughter. He believes what you had me tell

him—that she was abducted by outlaws for ransom. Despite

his torture, I told him nothing else.”

Justifiable pride laced the lad’s words. Not many men

endured DiSanti’s methods of persuasion without breaking.

“He has agreed to the price, but he’ll not come alone,”

Je’al added.

“I never believed he would. DiSanti is no fool. However, it

will not matter. Alone or with a troop of men, he will fall into

our trap.” The anticipation of satisfaction flowed through Kyne.

Soon his blade would taste DiSanti’s blood.

“Does the prince understand what we will do? Does he

accept the risk?”

Je’al nodded. “Those loyal to the prince will do what they

can to protect him, but he knows his life along with that of his

family might be forfeit in the chaos that follows DiSanti’s death.”

“We will do everything to safeguard the prince and the

royal family. The lad is Dramon’s one hope of avoiding civil

war. With DiSanti gone, the populace will rally around Prince

Timon, and the Council will follow. Were you able to determine

who among the Council supports the prince?”

“No. DiSanti either bought them outright, killed them or

forced them into hiding. If any are loyal to the prince they are

not saying. The Prince’s support comes from the servants, the

palace guard, the ranks of the army and a few of the

commanders. With DiSanti dead, his rogue generals will fight

to maintain control, but will be like a sand worm without a head.

They will devour themselves.”

And any who get in their way. “I pray we’re right, or

we’ll be plunging Dramon into a bloody civil war.”

“Better to die fighting for our freedom than to die as

DiSanti’s slaves.”

Je’al’s heated protest did little to ease Kyne’s apprehension.

“DiSanti is a wily bastard. He’ll not be easily defeated. How

many will die to gain freedom for the rest?”

“As many as necessary,” Je’al declared.

***

In Kyne’s chamber, Sianna stripped off the damp and soiled

tunic. Exhaustion tugged at her. Each breath made her chest

ache.

Je’al would live. She’d told Kyne of Je’al’s broken ribs but

neglected to mention his punctured lung. Only her special touch

had saved the young man from drowning in his own blood.

Coughing, she wrapped her arms around her waist, leaned

forward and waited for her body to absorb the damage.

When would she learn to ration her talent? To give only

what was needed rather than trying to heal all?

Never. She couldn’t hold back. Though draining, when she

offered a healing touch she received more in return than she

bestowed—a satisfaction, a benediction. The Eternal One had

blessed her with a gift. One she must share. Despite the risk,

she couldn’t be miserly with it.

The coughing stopped and the ache faded as her body

returned to normal. Warda whined anxiously and nudged her

with his cold, wet nose. She shivered, suddenly aware she

crouched naked in the middle of the room.

“I’m fine,” she reassured the hound. “But,” she huffed

through the fabric of the clean blouse she pulled over her head,

“your master is a complete fool. He cannot see the truth about

me,” she complained as she tugged a fresh skirt over her hips

and slipped her feet into slippers.

She plopped down into a chair by the hearth. Heat from

the cheery fire eased some of the chill from her flesh as she

turned her attention to her tangled hair. The teeth of Kyne’s

comb snagged and yanked at the knotted mass. Tears sprang

into her eyes, but whether from pain or heartache Sianna couldn’t

say.

Warda laid his shaggy head in her lap. She fondled his ears

and asked, “What is the truth? I am my father’s daughter, but I

am not who Kyne believes me to be. By not telling him my

father has two daughters, I lied to Kyne. But I only did so to

protect Laila and myself. I didn’t know Kyne then as I do now.

Because I couldn’t read his emotions, I didn’t know what he

would do if he thought I wasn’t Laila. Now that I know he’s

incapable of hurting an innocent, I could reveal the truth and

know I’ll be safe.” Her hands stilled on Warda’s head.

“But what of Laila? What if he discovers her presence

here in the castle? Will he still think her guilty of Aubin’s murder?

Can I be certain of what Kyne will do? And what of the others?

Even if Kyne offers Laila pardon for her supposed crimes, will

his people allow the pardon to stand, or will they seek their own

justice against her?” The questions haunted Sianna.

As if offering comfort, Warda pressed against her leg.

“No. I cannot risk her nor the child I believe she carries

until I am assured of their safety. I must seek Laila out and

convince her to leave this place. Only then can I reveal myself

to Kyne. But your master will want some explanation for my...”

Heat rushed up her throat and into her face as memories crowded

her mind. “...being a virgin when he thought I...Laila...had lain

with Aubin.” She shoved away thoughts of Kyne’s hands and

lips touching her, stroking her, introducing her to the passion

between a man and a woman. “What do I tell him?”

“Yes, what do you tell me?”

Sianna gasped and looked up. How much had Kyne heard

of her conversation with Warda?

Legs spread, he stood in the open doorway, silhouetted in

the light spilling into the chamber from the hall. In her rush to

dress she had neglected to light any lamps, finding her way by

the glow of the fire.

“About what?” she managed to squeak.

“You tell me.” He stalked toward her.

Behind him the door closed with a thump. She winced at

the finality of the sound. Judgement was at hand.

On trembling legs she rose and moved behind the chair,

putting it between him and her, meager protection if he decided

to grab her. His tone told her nothing of his mood, and shadows

shaded his expression. Like his face, his emotions were hidden

from her. A sudden longing for the bond she’d felt with him

settled in her heart. Would she ever again know that sense of

completion?

Warda woofed a greeting and trotted over to Kyne.

“Traitor,” Sianna accused, then smiled as the hound wove

around Kyne’s legs and he stumbled.

He swore softly. “Lie down, Warda.”

With a grumbled growl, the hound found his corner and

settled into a shaggy ball, head buried beneath his tail. Sianna

watched and wished she could curl up away from the questions

she knew Kyne would ask. Questions she still had no idea how

to answer.

“Come here, Sianna.”

Kyne sat in the chair across from the one she sheltered

behind. Flickering flames cast his features into sharp relief, all

hard angles and dark shadows, but she still could gain no clue

as to what he might have heard. Had she revealed all?

“I’ll not hurt you.”

Regret laced Kyne’s voice, and in that instant his emotion

came clear to her. That she might fear him gave him pain.

Though he was a warrior, Kyne, like all people, desired to be

loved not feared.

Though frightened of his judgement, she knew he would

not raise his fists to her. She could not let him believe otherwise.

Kyne watched the flicker of emotions dance across

Sianna’s pale features: fear and misgiving, understanding then

compassion. In a rush she came to kneel at his side and rested

her head in his lap. Like a skein of tangled silk, dark hair spilled

down his legs, leaving her slender throat bare and vulnerable.

The warmth of her cheek against his thigh and her display of

trust sent a jolt of longing through him. He wanted to gather her

into his arms, soothe her fears, ignite her passion and his, but he

no longer had the right—if he ever had.

He wished her anger had remained. Anger he could counter.

Her gentle understanding near defeated him. He pushed her

away and stood.

“In a matter of days, your father will fall from power. He

will be captured, tried and found guilty of his crimes. My sword

will soon separate his head from his body.” He hardened his

heart and stared down at Sianna. “Will you stand at his side and

share his fate? Speak. Convince me of your innocence.”

She lowered her head, refusing to meet his glare. “I am

DiSanti’s daughter, but I am guilty of nothing else.”

Kyne knew he must pass judgement on the slender woman

at his feet. Could he do it? Condemn her to death? Lift his arm

and bring his sword down across her neck? His stomach lurched

at the thought.

What other choice did he have? She claimed to be DiSanti’s

daughter and as such shared at least a portion of his guilt.

“Aubin’s dying words were of the child he and his lover

might have conceived. But you came to me a virgin. Why would

Aubin lie? Did he love you so much he sought to protect you

from my vengeance even in the face of your betrayal?”

Sianna’s head shot up. “I did not betray your brother!”

Kyne grabbed her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

“Liar! When I found him, Aubin still clutched a note from you

asking him to meet you at the Lyon’s Head tavern.” His fingers

dug into her flesh but, caught up in his memories, he didn’t ease

his grip when she flinched. “Your father’s men waylaid him in

the woods. Do you know what they did to him?” He punctuated

each word by shaking her.

Images flashed through Sianna’s mind. She felt his pain

and anguish. She saw what he saw that terrible day—Aubin

lying broken and bleeding in the mud. Tears streamed down

her cheeks as Kyne held his brother’s mutilated body in his

arms—her arms—and begged him not to die. She heard Aubin’s

pained whisper when he spoke of Laila’s betrayal and the child

she might carry.

She trembled with the intensity of Kyne’s memories—now

hers. But below them all she sensed something more, something

stronger than pain or guilt or fear or hate. Stronger even than