Myla By Moonlight (17 page)

Chapter Eight

Balic paced the library, reading the elegant swirls of Elora Marchen’s handwriting. The girl had a pretty hand and, it seemed, a sharp mind but she was clearly terrified of her legal father.
If only she knew what an unstable butcher he was.
Disgust thickened his tongue and he lowered himself into his chair.

Taric walked stiffly into the room, going directly to the unlit fireplace. Barely sparing his son a glance, Balic stacked the letters. “You should have no trouble denying her claim. She’s quite emphatic in her refusal, in a flowery, girlish way. Still, I don’t trust Marchen farther than I can piss into the wind. Take them all, mark each passage where she says anything about the proposal.”

“I’ll do it tonight.” The words came from far more distance than across the room and Balic looked up. The wide span of Taric’s shoulders stood even with the mantlepiece he crossed his arms on. His chin rested on his wrists.

As always from this viewpoint, Balic smiled. Taric’s hair was lighter than his own deep honey gold yet bolder than the sunshine of Tarsha’s. It was like he’d borrowed from them both, blended the tones and invented his own shade. His son had done that feat many times over, blending traits and claiming them for his own. He’d grown into a fine man and Balic was so very proud of him, had chosen his name well—Taric Batu, Star’s Gift. He was everything Balic had wished for on a long-ago star. Did all parents feel this way when studying their grown children?

The stiffness in Taric’s spine started a trickle of unease. “Are you worried about the Elders’ Council?”

“No.” A deep breath sang noisily. Taric stepped away from the hearth but did not turn. “But I might not fight it.”

“What? Of course you’ll fight it.” Confusion flared but was pushed aside by anger. “You have no choice. If you don’t contest it, she wins Bridal Retribution and you basically forfeit the crown you’ve yet to claim. You
will
fight it.”

“Papa.”

Did his voice really stagger? What had happened with his guardian when he’d dragged her from the room? Was he hurting?
Concern wiped the anger from his mind and he pushed from the chair. “Taric, what’s wrong?”

“What if I choose a bride who…isn’t exactly proper? What happens then?” There was something hidden in those words Balic couldn’t discern. Taric whirled to look at him and the agony etched on his face stabbed Balic’s belly like a knife. “What if I tell you I…found my bondmate and she’s not what you expect?”

“I expect nothing but that you love her.” He licked suddenly dry lips. “Have you found your heartmate?”

With a nod, Taric sniffed and swallowed hard. “What if she’s…a farmer’s daughter or a barmaid? What if she’s a widow with two children already?”

The barely controlled ache in Taric’s voice frightened Balic more than anything he’d ever known. Stepping forward, he kept his eyes on his son’s face, silently offering comfort. “If you bonded to her, Taric, if she is your heartmate, I don’t care if she’s a paid whore from the lowest tavern in the land.”

“What if she’s not real?” The whispered question explained everything and destroyed the same.

“No.” His eyes widened but his vision pinpointed until the only thing visible was the torment on his child’s nodding face.

Taric watched the blood seep from Balic’s features, his jaw loosening on its hinge and his eyes filling with disbelief. The frosted numbness of Myla’s farewell began to fade, flooding him with a hot ache and a hotter anger.

From the center of Taric’s chest, boiling heat inundated his body. He’d had enough. His bondmark threatened the crown, Elora threatened the crown, Marchen threatened the crown and he had yet to inherit the damn thing. The Elders’ Council had the power to change his destiny, Myla had changed his destiny and Marchen could change it at any moment with one well-placed arrow, but he couldn’t change a damn thing.

Balic spun on one foot and stalked to the window, hands clasped tight behind his rigid back, and stared out at the courtyard. In the wavy glass Taric could only make out smudges of reflection but he could guess what was written there. The loss of the throne meant nothing in comparison to losing his monarch’s, his father’s, respect.

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“No.” Balic’s murmur was thick and gruff. For several moments, he stared out at the roses swaying in the wind. When he turned, Taric’s stomach lurched to find matching eyes filled with the first tears he’d ever seen there. “You could never disappoint me. I just hoped you’d be spared the pain of loving someone you can’t hold. At least I had four summers and got a son. I can’t give even that to you. I wear a crown that doesn’t have the power to keep my own blood from the despair I know too well. It might as well be worthless.”

“Worthless or not, everyone seems intent on taking it from my head when I’ve never worn it.” Hands running through his hair, Taric widened his stance and planted both feet for a battle. He crossed his arms defiantly. “But they’re going get a fight if they think I’ll give it away so easily.”

“Fight the Council and the Marchens, I agree, but how do you plan on fighting something that doesn’t exist?”

“Myla exists!” His voice louder than he intended, he didn’t wait for a reprimand. He dropped his fisted hands to his side. His ranted volume increased as he paced. “She bleeds, she eats, she sleeps…she cries. She loves me as I love her and I’ll find a way to make her real. I refuse to believe it can’t happen. If a scar appears out of nowhere and a burn can hold a jaguar then, damn it, there has to be a way!”

A chuckle drew his eyes to his now-smiling father. “You have your mother’s passion. Nothing could stop Tarsha when she set her mind to something. Telling her it was impossible just made her more determined. If there is way, you’ll find it.”

“Help me.” Taric crossed to the desk that separated them, leaned on the glossy top and locked his gaze on his father. “Tell me who trained Mother. Who do I go to with my questions?”

“Her teacher died before you were born and Tarsha had far surpassed her knowledge by that time. I don’t know of anyone who had the level of talent your mother had.”

Despair dropped his head far between his shoulders.

“But you could start at Windmere.”

Taric snapped his head up and frowned. “Her birthplace?”

“Yes, also where she trained. Someone there may have answers or at least be able to tell you where to look. But first, you have to go before the Council.”

Frustrated, Taric pushed off the desk with a growl, sending Elora’s letters sailing.

Balic’s voice was firm. “Sotherby sits adjacent to Windmere, Taric. You can’t ride into the southlands while still being accused of Bridal Revocation by Windmere’s neighboring lord and be assured of coming out alive. It’s too close to the seat of that bastard’s evil.”

“I’m going to be standing less than four feet from Marchen in a matter of days.” Taric’s boots stomped across the floor with echoing booms.

Balic’s gentle words halted the sound. “Surrounded by a dozen Elders. I’ll send Mactog. He knew Tarsha when we were courting and knows who her friends were. He might remember servants, and people may talk to him. And I trust him. He’ll find out anything there is to find.”

“Thank you.”

Something pecked at Taric’s brain like a chicken scrounging for a last kernel of corn. He knew something, something just beyond his reach. Bits of information and memories tumbling around his mind, he rubbed his fist against his chin. Puzzles had fascinated him as a child and this was the puzzle of his life, one he would solve no matter what. Steeling his resolve, he tried to view the problem as a maze. Where to begin? The beginning. All puzzles had a beginning.

“Papa, do you still have any of Mother’s magic tools?”

“Yes.” Surprise heightened the king’s tone before a grin appeared. “I have all her papers, pieces of spells—words that make no sense—and letters to others in the craft. No better place to begin than the beginning. Well done. Come.”

After finding Mactog and retaining his help, king and prince darted up the stairs like two eager puppies, hope lifting Taric’s bleak mood. Balic thrust his antechamber door open and Lunian squealed.

“Balic Segur! You nearly stopped my heart.” Seated at her loom, the queen pressed a slender hand to her heaving breast and sighed. “I didn’t even know you’d returned.”

“Within the past half hour, Lu.” Distracted, Balic started rummaging through a tall chest, pitching pillows and blankets aside. Not finding what he sought, he shot into the bedchamber. Taric stood helpless and smiled at his stepmother’s shocked face. A frown pinched her mouth. She vaulted from her bench and stormed into the other room. Her voice screeched loudly and Taric grimaced.

“What are you looking for? Stop that. There is nothing in that chest except for my shifts.”

Balic appeared once more with her directly behind him. He pulled a low bench seat from the window and opened it, rifling through it like a man possessed. “Lu, when you moved in here, did you see a wooden chest, about this big?” He held his hands apart at shoulder width.

“Do you mean Tarsha’s papers?”

Excitedly, he grabbed her hands. “Yes.”

“It was under the bed. I put it in the cedar trunk over there for Taric one day so the parchment wouldn’t collect mold.”

Taric spun and popped the cedar lid but not before his father rose and pressed a loud, hard kiss to his wife’s mouth. Taric hid his grin. She might not be Balic’s heartmate but she made him happy. It was good to know and terrifying at the same time.

Lunian laughed. “All you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to make a mess of things.”

While she refolded blankets and straightened drawers, Taric and his father settled at a small table and opened the box lid. A whiff of jasmine touched Taric. Balic’s eyes closed, but only for a second. He pulled out several thick sheaves and handed one to Taric with an encouraging nod.

They read in silence for hours. Lunian came and went, keeping quiet as a whisper.

His mother had written with a graceful hand. Her strokes were delicate but grew bolder when speaking of different herbs—that meant nothing to him—to people he’d never heard of. Words foreign and strange halted his flow and he stumbled over them, pondering their meaning, their intentions, before moving on with a defeated sigh. It was like reading in two tongues and he was fluent in only one. In the last letter, Tarsha spoke of his impending birth and he paused to reread the understandable and happy words. Sometimes he missed never missing her. It would be nice to have at least one memory to hold.

“A few names, that’s about all.” Balic sighed wearily, tossing a letter back in the box. Lunian sat on the arm of his chair and stroked his shoulder.

Taric refolded a parchment and shook his head. “I’d hoped for something more. Most of this makes no sense to me. It’s like reading a different language.”

Balic grumped. “It is a different language, one that I don’t know a soul who speaks anymore.”

“Slight as it is, the names give me someplace to start searching.” Taric grabbed onto the smallest clue but the tasks before him were daunting. “Let’s see, I have to go on trial and defend a crown which I don’t have yet, discover a way to bring a cloud of violet smoke to life, and thwart the magic of the most powerful sorceress ever recorded. All while fighting a war with a madman. Life won’t be dull.”

“You come from magic. And I’d like to think I gave you some gifts, even if it is just stubbornness. You will succeed, Taric.”

Balic grounded his resolve and Taric nodded. He would succeed. He didn’t dare fail a single task before him. “It may take a dozen seasons but I’ll solve the riddle and make Myla my bride.”

“Taric, you’re getting married?” Lunian’s eyes shone with feminine pleasure, latching on to the least of his worries. Taric could almost see her planning feasts and gowns.

Would he ever get to see Myla in a formal gown walking to him? Would he get to crown her or was he reaching for a star?

Stars fall. If they fall then they can be grasped. I have a chance. I will make this happen.

“One day, if I’m lucky.” He sighed.

“Why wait?” Balic’s query furrowed his forehead but his father’s rounded eyes were lively. “She’s shown herself to a few, why not let the world see her? Let Myla be your princess while you search for an answer. If she has to—” he waved his hand toward Taric’s stomach with a curled lip, “—then let her as she needs. I’ve seen her. Myla’s very solid when in this world. No one would know she isn’t fully human if they’re not told such. So why not go ahead and get married? Worry about finding the charm with Myla at your side not in it. And having an intended princess in the wings would do no harm at the Elders’ Council, either. It might strengthen an already-strong case.”

“Who is Myla?”

Lunian bounced her inquisitive eyes between the two men and Taric’s lips curved. Why not get married? If he could bed Myla then he should be able to wed her…if he could get her to speak with him again. Balic explained as best he could while Taric refolded letters and papers.

The queen’s face remained studious, listening. “So Myla is a magic spirit?”

“Something like that,” Taric murmured. A servant knocked and Lunian rose to answer, stepping outside to ensure their privacy. Standing, he caught Balic’s gaze and gripped the back of his chair in tight hands. “But what if I can’t find a way? I’ll be married but the crown is still forfeited. Myla can’t carry a child unless she is fully human. No child, no heir.”