Myla By Moonlight (10 page)

Balic wore no mark of his sovereignty but still carried himself regally. Unafraid to sweat alongside boys of fifteen to encourage them to work harder, to push through the pain and feel pride when they emerged with bruises and calluses, he still commanded respect with a look. Taric hoped one day he could be half the ruler his father was.

“Sire!” he called with formality.

Balic turned his eyes briefly at the shout, but it was a second too long. The gangly lad he’d been sparring with cracked him across the back with a cotton-wrapped club. The king went down hard.

Taric ran, as did most on the field. The wide-eyed youth dropped his chin and stared in horror at the crumpled monarch, unbelieving he’d just hit the king. Balic was still lying on the grass when Taric and Mactog reached him. He lay there laughing. Breathing a sigh of relief, Taric offered his hand and pulled his father to a stand.

“Trumot.” Balic grinned at the still-stunned man-child. “You keeping hitting that hard and one day you’ll end up champion of Taric’s guard. Well done, son. You saw an opening and took it without hesitation. Well done.”

Now beaming from the praise, the lad scampered after his troop mates to the next exercise. Mactog grumbled a few choice words about old men who couldn’t keep their minds engaged learning to knit rather than disturb his training schedule, but he clapped the king on the back before joining his students.

Balic turned to his son with a breathless grin. “Either the youngers are hitting harder or I’m getting older.”

“I think now is the time for diplomacy and I’ll pick the stronger boys.”

“Good man.” Balic wiped sweat from his eyes before strolling back toward the well beside his son. He glanced at Taric with narrowed eyes. “You want to pick my brain. I recognize the look. You have that same gleam in your eyes you had when you’d look at puzzles as a child.”

Taric snorted. “I like puzzles but only if they have an answer. And yes, I’m looking for answers I hope you can give me…about Myla.”

“Myla? Don’t know that I can help you much there. Mactog has spoken to her more often, though not since your training began. She scared him shitless when she appeared out of the blue. It seems she felt he was too lenient on you in the lists. It wasn’t enough that you train as a soldier. You had to excel for her, be pushed and molded and challenged until you far surpassed your peers. You can thank her for most of your bruises that first year. She was a fierce taskmaster and spared no pity.” Balic drank from a dipper, the water streaming down his short golden goatee. He returned it to the bucket with a hard thump. “I’ve only spoken to her once and that was nearly thirty summers ago.”

“When?”

“You used to tell me stories about the pretty lady who sang songs to you at night. Your nurse was very competent but far from pretty. So one night, I sat in the nursery and waited. I thought maybe…I don’t know, I wondered if it was Tarsha.” Balic’s face was trained on the young men running laps around the field ground carrying large grain sacks but his vision was unfocused.

“Most of the night there was nothing. Just before dawn, a voice from behind me told me to go to bed. I turned and there stood a beautiful dark-haired woman in a red gown. She told me her name, said Tarsha had sent her and that she would always guard you. Then she sat on the side of your bed, stroked your hair and whispered a sweet song in a language I don’t know. I watched her turn to smoke and she… I knew then Tarsha had kept her promise. She’d kept you safe. Her greatest fear was Marchen hurting you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Balic grunted. “You were barely talking. That was the only time I’ve seen her and you stopped talking about her. Except the night of the Minstrel’s Feast. She frightened you then.”

“Yeah.” Taric’s voice softened in recollection. At six summers, he’d been determined to be viewed as a man. The naiveté shamed him now. Balic had sent him to bed long before the celebrations had ended, irritating him and making him feel like a suckling child. Rebelliously he thought to light the fire in his chamber himself rather than wait for a servant. He struck flint to tinder and watched in horror as his winter tunic sleeve began to smolder from a stray spark. Myla appeared and smacked at his arm until the clothing lay cool but the skin underneath stung from her blows.

“Taric! Never play with fire. You are too young and it is too dangerous.”

“I can do it!” he spat in defiance.

She glowered at him more harshly than his father ever had. Her eyes glittering like glass, she gripped his wrist. The flint crashed to the floor. Her words slipped with icy anger down his back.

“You cannot and will not attempt this again, do you hear me? I will keep you safe but do not waste my energy on stupid, childish actions. You will have far too much need of me in the future. Do not add protecting you from your own stubbornness to my duties. Behave yourself.”

She had left him before a cold hearth feeling juvenile and humiliated. But he had not tried to start a fire again until he was much older. Last night, he’d started a fire of a different type and it still scorched his blood.

“Papa, do you know the spell Mother used to create Myla?”

Balic studied him, a deep wrinkle between his brows. Taric forced himself not to fidget. “No. What are you looking for?”

Avoiding the question, Taric posed one. “Was Mother trained…as a sorceress? Or was she born to magic?”

“Both. Like you were born a prince but had to be taught to fight and to speak, the customs, the laws, the ways to judge fairly. Magic was in her blood but it had to be harnessed.” His wrinkle deepened and Taric turned away, watching the soldiers as well.

It was easier to talk if he didn’t have to see the growing unease on his father’s face. “Then is my blood half-magical?”

“I suppose. You mother was… Tarsha is recorded as the most powerful sorceress of our age. So I did watch when you were a child but never saw any inclination toward the art from you. Despite my aversion to the craft, I would’ve seen to your training had you shown some talent in that area. Taric, what’s going on?”

“I’m still working through some things. I’ll tell you when I can explain it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like the same thing you said when you shaved Bryton’s head to see if his hair would grow back the same color.”

The childhood memory slammed into him and Taric barked with laughter. And then both he and Balic were slammed to the ground by a huge black cat. The massive jaguar laid her body over both of them, her hot breath moist against Taric’s chest. When his eyes blinked the spinning stars away, he saw the fletched arrow imbedded in the support post of the well roof, directly where their same-height heads had been.

“Thank you, Myla,” he gasped, struggling to sit up.

Balic pushed at her haunches, freeing his legs with a curse. “Damn it, Mactog, which idiot lost his arrow?”

“That would be Ivor again, sire,” the trainer wheezed, running to them. “Are you both all right?”

“No, I’m damned pissed off and now my ass is sore!” Standing, Balic ripped the arrow from the wood and pointed it at a grimacing adolescent. “You’re a menace with that damn thing. You nearly took out two lives with your carelessness. Mactog, keep him away from those bows or so help me, I’ll use him as my next target!”

Whirling in fury, Balic froze at the sight below him. His son, heir to his crown and joy of his heart, sat ruffling the neck fur of the largest black cat he had ever seen. There appeared to be an easy affection between his son and the deadly animal, which he assumed was normal. Well, as normal as a grown man sitting in the dirt with a jaguar in his lap could be. Obviously, Taric no longer feared his guardian. The animal pushed its great head against Taric’s chest in play, nearly knocking him over. He merely laughed, grabbed fistfuls of ebony hair and shook the cat’s ears. From between wickedly lethal fangs, the cat’s pink tongue licked at Taric’s face.

“Stop that. I prefer the other Myla do that.”

A paw the size of his head swiped at him with gentleness, messing his hair. Only then did Taric look up. “Oh, Papa, uhm…” Rising, he dusted his backside and blushed.

“I assume this is your protector.” Balic fixed the cat with a glare but she seemed unimpressed and merely blinked intelligent eyes. “Good day, Guardian.”

Her head bowed but she remained seated by Taric’s side, unwilling to leave her charge even now. Taric’s hand strayed to rest on her head, stroking behind her ear and she began to purr. Loud and low, it vibrated the air around them.

Balic stared. So this was the form that had freed his son from captivity and ended his brother’s life. He’d heard Taric tell the tale, believed him even, but had never imagined… How could the slender woman he’d seen in the nursery be so large an animal? The cat easily outweighed either he or Taric.

“I owe you my gratitude, Guardian. It seems my first wife chose her spell very well indeed.”

Rising, the jaguar padded toward him and he steeled himself not to step back instinctually. She merely nuzzled his hand. Her rough, broad tongue tickled his fingertips.

“I think she’s saying you’re welcome.” Taric grinned.

“Wetly.” Balic pulled his hand away but half-smiled at the animal. How many times had this being saved his son? Now, she had saved him, also. “The question you asked earlier? About the spell? I have no idea. Of everything we shared, Tarsha kept her magic close to her heart. She’d sent the midwife away to get word to me. No one was in the room when she spoke it except for you…and Myla. Maybe she could tell you.”

The cat canted her head, fixing glowing gold-green eyes on Taric. Balic could have sworn the feline looked hungry.

Chapter Five

Taric went in search of Bryton, Myla in feline form at his side. Balic had seemed unnerved by her misting to him as a child and Taric didn’t want to make his father uncomfortable by having her repeat the magic. He liked having her beside him in any fashion. They did garner some strange looks, prince and feline walking through the courtyard, but Taric supposed it did no harm. If anything, his reputation would be enhanced. What other future king boasted a great wild cat for a pet and did not even leash her to walk through his kingdom?

Snorting at his own whimsy, he found Bryton overseeing melee challenges, watching carefully for any mistakes. When his captain spied their approach, his eyes widened. Several soldiers turned to gawk but discipline had taught them to hold their tongues. For her part, Myla cast her mesmerizing gaze around and growled, reminding them to see to their training. The soldiers scurried to obey her loud but unspoken command.

“How goes the morning?” Taric watched a set of guards perform a maneuver, avoiding his friend’s face.

“All right. Falcon’s lame.”

“What?” His gelding had ridden hard and Taric had left him in the capable hands of the stable master. Now guilt befell him.

“Nothing serious. Most likely a bruised ankle from our lengthy ride but he’s been set to rest for two days. You’ll have to use another mount.” Taric nodded and Bryton bit his lip. “Sorry about last night. Didn’t think to knock.”

“It’s all right.” Shrugging off the discomfort, Taric caught Bryton’s eyes. The stern look was not expected. “Nothing happened. Stop looking at me like I slept with your sister.”

“My sister wouldn’t have your royal ass and you’re playing with fire, Tar. She’s not real.”

“Really?” He squatted beside Myla, stroking her long back, and looked up to his captain in challenge. “Feels real.”

Bryton’s lips opened to speak but a horn blast shrilled the morning—the battle call. Every soldier on the field took off at a run, Taric and Bryton in the lead, Myla before them. Her long form ate the distance in powerful leaps but she never moved far from her master’s side.

Balic stood in the open double doors of the grand hall, parchment in hand. Taric skipped two steps at a time until he reached his side. Myla crept behind him, pressed against his leg. The king grimly handed him the report without a word.

Taric skimmed the sparse words and his stomach clenched. Marchen had gone too far this time and had taken Luta with him.

“Today we mourn.” Balic’s voice rang over the assembled crowd. “Nine leagues to the south, on the borderland of Claverham, there was a village called Istimar. It is no more, thanks to the enemy’s torch.”

“Survivors? Were there survivors? My sister lives there,” called a cracking voice from one of the youngest soldiers.

Balic drew a breath, his gaze falling on Mactog. The wizened trainer moved behind the young lad. Taric witnessed the maneuver and pinched his lips tight.

“No. Each inhabitant from the eldest toothless woman to the smallest crawling babe was slaughtered without mercy.”

Gasps, cries and shouts of outrage filled the sunlit air. Balic gazed deep into his son’s eyes. Taric read each emotion there, from the misery to the hatred and felt them echoed in his own gut. One hand held high, Balic waited until the swarm settled to speak. Words of ceremony learned at his father’s knee churned in Taric’s ears.

“How shall we respond to this?”

Every eye fell to him. The weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders, Taric stepped beside his father and did the only thing valor would allow. He was Eldwyn’s military leader now, the choice was his but it had been predetermined by a hundred generations of military might. He echoed the ancient words of his ancestors with a deep, loud voice that carried to every ear. “Mourn for the lost and weep for the dead but vengeance belongs to me! To arms! We ride in three quarters of an hour. Segur!”

His family name hailed back, the crowd exploded in action. Soldiers scurried to prepare, kiss family goodbye and ready their mounts. Women grouped together, hands to quivering lips, praying for mercy. Squires and pages darted like hummingbirds, always a split second faster than the adults around them.

Balic offered his horse in Falcon’s stead and Mactog promised to ready the enormous animal himself. Taric knew this gesture was more than fatherly. Thunder was as well-known on the battlefield as his father had been. The midnight horse was more knight than charger. Balic was inserting his presence into the fray and Marchen could not miss the move.

Before the allotted time was up, Taric sat atop Falcon’s sire and collected his thoughts. The report set the level of destruction in Istimar as unparalleled and unprovoked. Its proximity to Luta’s land was its death warrant and Taric might as well have been its executioner. His planned capture might have prevented the deaths. The border guards reported that nothing remained, not one stalk of wheat lay untrampled and the ground was changed from brown to deep, wet red. The account of the children bothered him the most, the innocent of innocents. How could any soldier take a sword to a crying toddler? But Marchen’s had done just that and Taric would see him pay…one day.

Thunder pawed at the dirt, anxious to move, and Taric soothed him with low, quiet words. Lunian clutched her husband’s arm in the frame of the great hall doors, worry and concern wrinkling her forehead. Taric sent her a small grin and she smiled, too wide and too bright but he welcomed her care. His father caught his eye and sent him a slow majestic nod. In that short head move, a message was relayed.
Fight with honor and make me proud.
Taric returned it.

Bryton made a final pass, checking each detail before vaulting into his saddle. “All set. Where’s your kitty-cat?”

Taric pushed guilt below a knotted throat. “Returned. Don’t piss me off today, Bry. I’m not in the mood. Ride out.”

a
b

Crickets and night thrushes battled with cicadas and belching frogs to claim the night air, the scent of burnt earth and death pungent in the wind. The chatter grated on his nerves like a blade against stone.
Is it too much to ask that one go mad in silence?
Palming his skull, Taric tried to blank out the sounds but the memories remained.

He thought he had prepared himself to see Istimar but he’d been wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for what they found. His tongue still tasted the bile that had risen in his throat at the smoldering devastation. Marchen’s troops had spared nothing, not one stick of building, not one breath of life. If it hadn’t been trampled, stabbed or slashed, it had been burned. Not one humble cottage boasted a roof and most lacked four walls. The common well had been salted and the fields stretched black and smoking. Dark red wetness marred the only road in huge swaths.

His battalion had arrived as three border guards were removing the last of the bodies. A deeply dug communal grave yawned in a field meant for wheat. Taric took one look at a forlorn infantile foot peeking from beneath a stained bloody sheet and almost vomited on the spot.

Paler than normal, his voice hollow, Bryton had assigned men to help with the burial. Taric joined the hushed procession, carrying the child’s remains in trembling arms. His muscles barely moved but his soul quaked with the burden. The price for his freedom weighed next to nothing.

The weight lay in the tales the border patrol shared, gleaned from the few who survived long enough to tell the horrors before death claimed them. Tales of women so badly raped they were split from the bottom out, of girls too young to bleed suffering the same. Stories of men castrated and impaled to the ground, forced to watch their families suffer before they slowly bled out, of the elderly dismembered and strewn across the countryside, of children nailed to walls and used for target practice. Each spoken word twisted Taric’s bowels and Bryton stepped behind a bush to puke in revulsion.

Taric belted his resolve tighter, notching it with steel hooks. Marchen would pay.

“Knock, knock.”

Stopped mid-pace, Taric rolled his eyes at Bryton’s sarcasm before whipping the tent entrance open. “Get your ass in here.”

“Just making sure you’re alone.”

“Enough, Bry. Not now. What do you know?”

His shaggy head rolling to ease stiffened muscles, Bryton sank onto a low stool. “Scouts have just returned. Two infantry divisions half a league inside Claverham territory, maybe seventy-five strong apiece. More horsemen farther south, maybe fifty. Rumors circulate they’re headed east toward Farmingale.”

“Rumors.” Taric tongued his cheek. “Send fifty men west toward Bridgecord. The rest will head east at dawn.”

“Have you eaten? You look like shit.”

The thought of food soured his stomach and it lurched painfully. Shaking his head, Taric pulled a taper closer to the map, spilling pale yellow light across his future kingdom drawn in ink. Dipping the quill in black, he flung an excess droplet away before drawing a single line through the word Istimar. It was no more. It would exist forever in the horror of his mind.

“I’ll get Henic to bring you something.”

“No, I’m fine.” The mountains and valleys blurred in his vision and he blinked to clear it. “You need to get some rest. How many guards—?”

“Tar, you didn’t do this. Marchen did. He’s hiring mercenaries now, foreigners brought over on ships from who knows where. They’re evil and spare nothing.” His friend read him so easily it lifted his lip in a half smile. “You don’t know he wouldn’t have done this whether you escaped last night or not. Luta planned your capture, not Marchen.”

“He used it, that’s enough, used it to strike with a fine blade.” Pacing once more, Taric waved his hand absently. “This absolute destruction, the killing of children…he’s losing it, Bry. Papa said you can’t stop madness and Marchen is mad. I’m more convinced of that than ever. I’m through looking for a weakness.”

Standing straight, he forced his voice to the coldest he could. “The only end for madness is death and I’ll give it to him. Find three of your top men, the best you have and send them to me. We’ll leave at daybreak. Marchen’s days are numbered. Honor means nothing now.”

“You’re talking outright assassination. That’s a crime, Tar, punishable by death. Not even you are above that law.”

“I don’t care. That bastard has to die. He’ll be headed toward Southaven this time of year. It won’t be hard to get to him.”

“No.” Bryton firmly shook his head, defiance blazing in vivid blue eyes. “I won’t do it. You can order me to do almost anything except send you to your own death. I’ll hogtie your ass and send you back to Thistlemount in a wagon before I let you become an assassin.”

“It’s the only peace I can give my people.”

“And who shall give you peace, my charge?”

Twirling on his heel, Taric spotted Myla. The golden candlelight licked across her skin and the breath stole from his lungs. One side of her hair hung loose, her comb being tucked in his pack. Felinity graced her movements when she stepped toward him.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Bryton grumbled, standing. He stopped before the tent flap as if to say something but shook his head and departed without further word.

Taric couldn’t get his tongue to move, to speak. His entire existence hung by one fragile thread perilously close to snapping. Myla paused a half-step before him, her green eyes bathing him in concern. He swallowed and she leapt. Her arms around his shoulders, she gripped him tightly.

Taric pressed his face to the curve of her neck and clung like a frightened child, inhaling the sweet summery scent of her hair. Like wildflowers in a breeze, it blocked the stench of destruction. She brought him salvation with a touch, gave him strength with her embrace. The touch of her skin gave him the power to believe in beauty. He had never needed her so much as he did this minute.

“Peace, Taric. Find your peace. You had no hand in this evil and nothing could have prevented it. Long ago it was planned and its destiny forged in a fire of hate. Marchen but used you as an excuse for his unbalance. Peace, my prince. Be at peace.”

“Be with me.” His words whispered with pleading as he claimed her mouth.

All thoughts fled his mind except for the taste of her lips, the succulent sun-heated berry of her lips. Her second golden comb dropped to the ground with a faint bump and waves of mahogany filled his hands. He didn’t care. He’d buy her a dozen combs in a dozen metals but he had to feel the softness of her hair. Satin against his calluses, it captivated him.

Her petal-soft mouth parted under his. She made him feel alive and strong and pure. She returned each kiss hungrily, washing the filth of war from his soul, bleaching the stain of death away and leaving him raw with yearning. He needed her. He loved her.

Myla wrapped her arms tighter, pulling him close, willing him to feel her comfort. He trembled. So many reviling, repulsive images had seared though him, tarnishing the goodness he kept within. Deep in his spirit, she’d tasted his sorrow and the guilt flooding him. Taric was not to blame for the mindless hatred but he was caught, a fly in a spider’s web, and could not escape. The circumstance of his birth bound him to the ugliness. His honor refused to let him forget it.

Emotional and physical need flavored his kiss with a spicy tang. His hunger surged through her, his need for cleansing, for purification, his need for her.