Myla By Moonlight (22 page)

“She was quite the pupil, isn’t that so?”

“She was. Tarsha had a remarkable flair.”

“Much more powerful than you ever were.”

“Yes, my gifts were minor in comparison. I never finished the training.”
Truth.

“Not all magic has the same root. Queen Tarsha excelled in potions, foreshadowing and spellsongs. Could you tell the Council…what was your gift?”

A cornered animal is the most deadly and unpredictable. Like a wolverine’s in a snare, Marchen’s lips curled back into a feral grimace. Hostility etched his face with no disguise. Bryton unsheathed his sword with a rasped slide and held it at his side. Taric stepped closer to her. Every lord in the realm was poised at the end of their bench, straining to hear Marchen’s reply.

Myla dipped her chin and leered at him with predatory hunger. She had her prey on the run and a growl rumbled in her throat. Tasting his fury, her tongue slicked along her upper lip. “You do not answer, Lord Marchen. Very well. Is it true your gift was for channeling?”

Katina and her classmate gaped at the right dais.

“What is channeling?” the Inquisitor barked but Myla did not drop her hunter’s gaze. Striding to the gawking young Truthbearers, the Inquisitor gripped Katina’s elbow and whirled her toward him.

Bryton was beside him in an instant, sword point escorting the Elder back toward his table with a grim look. It was forbidden to touch a Truthbearer during a proceeding but Bryton’s face registered far more than ceremonial duty.

“Channeling is very rare and very difficult to master,” Katina explained, directing her words up to the high table and Balic’s scowl. “There have been no masters of channeling recorded for over three hundred summers. The immense strain it places on the mind can drive one insane.”

“But what is it?” the Inquisitor barked, his trembling face fixed on Bryton’s sword tip at his heart.

“Channeling is…control. It gives the user the ability to concentrate all his or her magic into a single focused beam. The old accounts tell of channelers who could burn buildings with a thought, pulverize stone in a blink, things of violence.” Katina’s voice tremored with awe and fright. Her throat bobbed in fear and she twisted her fingers together in front of her. “Some say if a channeler allows his or her magic emotional rein… It’s considered the most evil of magic deeds and…was punishable by death in our ancient laws.”

“Why? What is so wrong with the practice?” Myrtlewood’s lord asked.

“The channeler’s power, if fueled through intense emotion such as hate or love or fear, can be projected into the mind of another to change behavior, induce nightmares, bend their will or even…implant memories of things that never occurred. Memories the victim thinks…believes are truthful. It always leads to madness in the victim. Many take their own lives.”

Pandemonium blasted the hall in ear-screeching levels but Myla heard Taric exhale behind her. His sense of relief flooded her soul followed quickly by his horror of what Marchen had done to his child. Myla refused to drop her gaze from the silver-eyed snake across from her.

“Enough!” he bellowed, rage raking his frame as if lung fever gripped him. Dripping from the ceiling timbers, the word oozed wrath. If possible, Elora shrank further into herself, wilting and cringing at her father’s voice. “I demand judgment. Whatever power it’s claimed I might or might not have is irrelevant. I will not stand here and allow my daughter’s rightful claim of abandonment and lechery to be hushed by a twittering student and a brazen whore in a tiara.”

Taric leapt over the baluster with a curse and was halfway to Marchen before Bryton slammed into him. Bryton grunted and strained but managed to force Taric backward while the pounding of eleven gold goblets on wood called for silence.

Bryton hissed in his ear. “Calm your ass down. Let the Elders do their job. Show them a prince, not a love-struck hothead.”

Taric snapped his bright blue tunic down smartly, reclaimed his regal posture and walked directly to Myla on the raised platform. His trembling hand engulfed hers but she was too focused on Marchen to grip back. The metallic taste of angry blood called to her tongue and she salivated. There was no kill so glorious as one made to protect your own and Taric was hers. He always had been and always would be.

“Lord Marchen,” the Inquisitor began with a gruff cough, “in light of these discoveries and allowing that the Elders’ Council is well aware of the…conflict between your two houses, I ask you…did you magically enhance or alter any memory of your daughter?”

A smirk lifted Marchen’s lips. “I did not use any means to invade my daughter’s mind.” His falsehood rope blazed white.
Truth.
Murmurs rose once more.

“But then, she’s not your daughter, is she? You have no blood children.” Taric’s quiet words ran through the room like a chilled blade. Emeric’s bark-brown eyes whipped to the dais and his fleshy mouth gaped in surprise. Elora moved not at all.

The Inquisitor’s eyes bulged and he turned back to the right-hand platform, frustration-beaded sweat along his temples. Myla watched the droplets slither down his face and felt her muscles cramp with the need to pounce. Elora, who gazed absently outward, stood lost in her own shattered world.

The Inquisitor pointed toward her and bellowed. “The Council of Elders has had enough of games, word play and hidden agendas. Lord Emerto Marchen, did you use magic to influence this woman’s mind, yes or no?”

Myla heard the beat of Taric’s heart, the room was so silent waiting for an answer. Inside, her tail twitched, waiting to balance in a leap.

Marchen braced his hands on the baluster and his cheek peaked, his tongue rolling inside. His hate-filled gaze was riveted to Balic.

“No.” Blood red light burst from his arm with a loud hum.
Lie
.

The goblets began banging again, each lord calling for a vote. Marchen’s eyes closed but his posture did not change, still gripping the baluster with fiercely white knuckles. Katina’s classmate dimmed the lighted rope with a touch.

Myla turned to Taric with a triumphant wink. He smiled back before tightening his lips and lifting his chin, facing straight ahead. She returned her eyes to the brewing explosion to her right, prepared in an instant to bleed her protection over Taric’s form should Marchen leap in body or enchantment.

Each lord wrote briefly on a small slip and dropped the vote into the empty goblets. Katina and her classmate gathered each goblet and brought them to the Inquisitor’s table. He read each vote aloud—ten not guilty and one guilty. Nimon Luta had followed the sway of the majority. Marchen’s backers had fled, cowed to the evidence mounted. Emeric alone had voted against Taric despite the proof.

Taric exhaled and Elora loosed a bloodcurdling scream wrenched from the pit of madness. Gooseflesh rose as Myla heard the call, the animalistic cry of one no longer fully alive and thinking. Marchen spat a curse and backhanded her, knocking her off the dais where she lay in a crying mass. Three lords leapt to their feet and angry shouts filled the room.

“Silence!” Balic’s majestic tone quelled the crowd with one word. His searing look fell to Myla for an instant before he righted his overturned cup. His gaze shifted to the men below him.

“Charmists, redistribute the judgment chalices. Elders of Eldwyn, I wish you to address a matter based largely on the events of this day. You are all aware of Emerto Marchen’s…insubordination toward the monarchy. To date, it has been dealt with through blood and steel. That is not an issue for this court. Today, I bring before you a separate matter. Over a hundred twenty summers ago, my family bequeathed the land of Sotherby into Marchen hands for safekeeping, as all your lands were placed with your ancestors. The present Crown no longer agrees with that stewardship grant.”

“You arrogant bastard! You can’t strip me of my land or my title!” Marchen screeched. Veins bulged along his neck and brow, his pulse visibly erratic.

“Oh, but I can.” Balic grinned like a wolf closing in on a rabbit. “Not for your personal hatred, but for your criminal use of magical influence over an innocent and using that impropriety to lodge false charges against another. You dare strike a woman in the presence of this Council and you reap the reward. Be that woman feeble-minded from your mistreatment and your reward is swift and harsh.”

Balic stood, erect and proud, every inch a king and spoke clearly. “I call for a vote. Yay or nay in forever removing the name Marchen from the Council of Elders, the land of Sotherby and the lexicon of nobility of all Eldwyn. Vote now.”

He bent to make a bold swipe with a quill and dropped it with ease into his cup. Every lord did the same. The tension jumped from palpable to choking. Tiny hairs on the back of Myla’s neck rose, evil whispering across her skin, and she gripped Taric’s hand. She being stronger than half a dozen mortal men, he winced at her grasp and rubbed her knuckles until she loosened her fingers. Balic did not remove his glare from Marchen’s, amber fire to iced steel. The royal guards all tightened their flanks.

The vote was eleven to Emeric’s one for removal. The head Royal Guard lowered the emblem of Sotherby in Marchen colors from the rafter. The banner dropped to the stone and a torch ignited it.

Malice was a heartbeat in the room, pumping hatred and power. Breath rasping in barely controlled malevolence, Marchen did not flinch. No one spoke until the fabric smoldered to ash.

The Inquisitor kicked at the last bit of glowing ember. “It is done. Leave this hall and this land, Emerto Tangot Marchen, and never let it be darkened by you or your kin again. Your family is forever banished from Eldwyn by order of her Elders and by consent of her king.”

Marchen chuckled coldly. A reptilian menace creased his lips and angled his brows. “Oh, I’ll leave, but hear me, bastard king. You and your spawn will both feel my revenge. For this and for what was stolen from me long ago. I’ve just started tormenting you. Watch your back, Balic, yours and those you hold dear. You never know where I’ll be but I’ll never be far. Now I have no fear of letting my magic loose on you.”

“Nor do I,” Myla murmured with narrowed eyes.

Marchen gripped his wailing daughter by the arm and half-dragged her from the room. His pasty son followed with downcast eyes. The room breathed with relief. The pageantry to close out the proceedings was no less flamboyant or ritualistic but Myla viewed it through a removed lens, her essence trailing the Marchens down the hall. This threat was too unpredictable to leave unattended.

She stayed with their churning bitterness until Taric’s kiss ripped her from her watch. The abrupt jolt from burning-cold hatred to blistering-hot love thrust her thoughts into a spin and she reached out blindly. Her palms met hard muscle.
Taric.
Melting against him, she absorbed every drop of his love, his happiness, his gratitude.

The burgeoning warmth kindled desire deep inside her useless womb. Tonight, she’d gather enough memories to ward off the chill of returning to him as a guardian only.

Chapter Twelve

The Elders’ Council celebrated with as much lively good humor as their trial had been tense. Food and wine flowed, plentiful and rich, exposing Myla to delights she had never imagined. She tasted cake so light it was like eating a cloud and puddings so sensuous they embodied lust. The absence of evil heightened everything. Taric fed her bites from his plate he thought she would enjoy. She far preferred the taste of his lips to any offering.

Musicians crowded the night with rhythm and song. The echo trembling in her belly, Myla laughed. How strange to have a vibration outside that rippled through her feet and up her legs. Beyond the table, dancers enthralled her eyes, swirling and whirling in dizzying patterns, never missing a step. Bryton and his Kat, as he called her, clung to each other. The melody turned frantic, each spinning faster and faster until Myla thought sure they’d fly apart. Instead, he stopped her abruptly and kissed her in full view of all. Katina merely tossed her head back and laughed into the night. The sound of joy rang from her throat and she wrapped her arms about his shoulders.

“Dance with me, daughter.”

Balic held his hand out and Myla stared. Dance? She knew no dances. Spinning to Taric, she sent him a pleading request for clemency but he smirked and nodded.

“You’ll have to do the same at our wedding. Practice now. Just spare his toes.”

Hard and firm, Balic’s hand gripped hers kindly and pulled her from her seat toward the dance floor. The tune slipped from lively and fast to slow and melodic and he smiled down at her before cupping her waist. His hand was similar in size and shape to his son’s, yet she still felt none of the tingles Taric’s touch created.

“Relax, Guardian. Pretend it’s a swordfight. Anticipate my moves and follow my lead. Here, hand on my shoulder, but gently if you please. I still carry your wound.”

“I will not apologize for defending Taric,” she grumped before her eyes shifted to the right. “But I am sorry you are pained.”

“No matter. You’ve saved him all his life, today included. I owe you a great deal. Tell me what you would like. A jewel? A banquet? A home of your own? What good is being king if you can’t reward those who do the most to serve you?”

“I require nothing.”

“Then let me be magnanimous and just say…thank you, Myla.” All traces of arrogance slid away from his somber bronzed eyes. His tongue was thick and gruff when he did speak. “He’s all I have in the world. The crown owns everything, but Taric is
my
son,
my
blood, the only thing truly mine. Thank you, not from a king but from a father.”

A burst of such overwhelming parental love washed over her, her eyes moistened. Tears clogged her throat and she nodded her head in acceptance rather than try to speak. She did as he requested and followed his moves as if in battle and found dancing rather easy, with its gliding grace and symmetry.

A tension began to creep into Balic’s shoulder and she tilted her chin, studying the monarch who suddenly would not meet her gaze.

“You have questions to ask which burn your tongue but you are fearful to voice them.” Her probing firmed his lips.

“Yes.” The melody surrounded them and they moved in accordance for several moments before he swallowed with difficulty. “She died alone, except for an infant and you. Did she blame me for not being there?”

“I sensed no blame in Queen Tarsha that night.”

“I tried. The storms hit so fast. She wasn’t due for another few weeks. There was a logging accident along the east line. I was helping… I left the instant I got word and rode straight through the gale, fast and hard, but I—”

“She knew. She called for me to protect Taric but she knew that you would love him. It made her death easier, to leave her child with the one person she trusted without doubt.” His eyelids snapped closed. “After I came, as she faded, she sang to him, stroked his cheek like this.” Myla drew the side of her thumb along his temple down to his short beard. The king drew a shaky breath and tightened his jaw.

“She always did that…to me.”

“Rest easy, Your Majesty, Queen Tarsha had no pain and no blame, only love in her last moments in this world. Love for her son and you that she carried with her beyond this life.”

Without a word, he took her palm and led her to the dance floor’s edge. Taric was dancing with Lunian, both of them laughing. They stopped when Balic thrust Myla toward his son and briskly left the hall without a backward glance. Lunian hefted her heavy skirt hem and scurried after him.

Taric’s troubled gaze followed their fast steps. “Myla, what—?”

“At times, the pain of your mother’s passing is an awesome weight and even broad shoulders buckle.”

The catch in her voice was not for the king but for the man beside her. Balic proved to her that love lasted beyond death, beyond absence. It endured. The love she and Taric shared would endure forever, but like the monarch, he would have to face each day without her. She would rather see Taric saddened than dead.

Immediately, they were jostled from behind and Myla reacted, stepping in front of Taric and lashing out. Bryton and Katina had accidentally twirled into them, laughing and wrapped in their own world. Myla’s instinctual shove skidded Bryton’s backside several feet along the stone floor. Katina squeaked and then hid a laugh behind her fingers.

Taric had no compunction and his hearty chuckle sounded over the music. He strode to offer Bryton a hand.

The captain glared at her before accepting the outstretched palm. “Lady Myla, you and I have to come to some sort of truce if we’re both to guard the prince. He’ll never have anything to fear from me and I’d prefer to stop being at the receiving end of your wrath.”

“Wrath? Sir Bryton, you’ve yet to see an inkling of my wrath. I, however, see quite a bit more than I believe you wish me to.” Arching her brow, she pointedly looked at his leggings.

His rough skid had torn a large gap from his waistband to his knee and the flesh of a tightly muscled buttock flashed bright against the blue material. Flushing red from the roots of his hair to his tunic edge, he gripped the fabric with a curse. He muttered something which made Taric snicker.

Katina sidled to his side, hiding his exposed leg with her long skirt, and saucily offered to escort him to his chamber to preserve his modesty.

“Bry has no modesty,” Taric teased. “I remember once in a tavern in Brisc—”

“Shut up, Your Whine-ness. I’ve a few tales of your debauchery I could share myself if you like.”

Wickedness gleamed in Taric’s maple eyes. He leaned close to his friend and whispered. Myla’s feline-sensitive ears heard the exchange. “An altogether different magical ‘cat’ seems to have caught your attention, my friend. Trying for your own piece of make-believe ass?”

“Nothing make-believe about those breasts.” Bryton smirked but the gaze he settled on the young woman was gentle. “Release me for the night. My ass is hanging out here and…well, you’ve got Myla. I want to concentrate on something other than your ass for a while.”

“Consider yourself released from duty.” Stunned disbelief lifted Taric’s brows and hushed his already soft voice. “You’re really taken with her.”

“Taric, shut up. You really are the Crowned Prick, know that? You talk too much.” Without another word, he led Katina from the hall.

Impatience hardened Taric’s jaw as he made the rounds, speaking with every member of the Elders’ Council. Each man wished them well in their marriage, spoke of attending the wedding or issuing invitations for stays at their own homes.

Myla dragged her feet. Bit by bit, their good wishes added guilt to her soul. Taric would have a mess to sort through when it was announced there would be no wedding. But no mess was as daunting as leaving Taric unprotected. He would have to muddle through it. She could not swallow the knot which stuck in her throat and simply smiled blankly at all who congratulated them.

Nimon Luta stiffened at their approach but Taric didn’t hesitate. He strode to the younger man and stood poised above his seated near-captor. The slick, gaunt man rose to his feet, swallowed and stuck out his hand. Internal struggle twanged from Taric but he gripped the hand.

“Thank you, Nimon. Today you proved yourself more of an honorable man to me than your father has ever been. You voted with the evidence and not…allegiances.”

Lips trembling, Nimon raised his chin. “I am my father’s son but I’m a man in my own right and will think for myself. I—I believe in honoring your promises but I made no promise to anyone except the crown. I will honor those commitments and no others.”

“Honor is always a good policy.” Taric smiled. A half bow and he turned to leave but Nimon’s hand shot out and gripped his arm.

“Prince Taric…your bride? Isn’t she…wasn’t she at… I mean…”

“I have known my bride since childhood,” Taric explained with no real answer at all and left the younger man gaping in confusion.

A giggle tickled Myla’s lips. Leaving those you don’t fully trust bewildered was also a good policy.

a
b

“You’ll need a maid. When we get home, I’ll talk to Lunian and see who she recommends for you.”

“A maid?” Myla stopped the silk from sliding off her hips and turned to Taric. He’d unlaced her gown, the back ties being too cumbersome for one person to undress alone.

“Well, as much as I like undressing you, you’ll need a woman to help you with some things, like laces. I’ve never dressed a woman, only undressed them.” His sheepish grin carved his dimple deeper into his cheek and she grabbed the image, holding it tight. She would need no maid. There would be no more gowns.

The silk rustled like leaves in autumn when Myla draped it over the chair back, unsure what to do with it. She supposed a maid would take care of that duty, too. Her fingers shook, skimming the sleek fabric. It was a beautiful gown.

Taric had already shed his bright tunic and gleaming boots and now crawled to lounge on the bed, watching her move about the room in her loose shift. She touched this object and that, weighing some in her hand, fingering others lightly. How lovely these things were. A room designed for a young woman, it contained glass bottles in a myriad of colors, each one holding a different scent. She paused to sniff them all.

The silvered brush set on the low table was far heavier than it looked, the bristles firm and tight. She pulled it through her loose hair with a sad smile. Taric loved to brush her hair. How she would miss that. Rich velvet fabric the color of the ocean’s waves cascaded from the high ceiling to hide the night sky. She pushed it back. The glass window was clear and small. It creaked slightly when she shoved it open, the perfume of night blooms heavy in the air. Flowers. How she would miss the fragrance.

From below, the faintest strains of laughter wafted from the barracks. Everyone was celebrating. Marchen had been cast out and most assumed this war was over. She knew it was not. His venomous rage still seared her skin. No, it was far from over. It was in fact, too close.

Eyes closed, with her face to the night wind, Myla searched for Marchen. He was still in the castle, deep in his chambers on the other side. Brewed hatred bubbled in his aura, turning it black. No, he could not be dismissed so easily. Dimly, she heard Taric speak her name and began pulling back from the evil stain when something else caught her mystic eye.

Celebrations meant life and living meant loving. Lovers were entwined everywhere throughout the castle, young and old, noble and servant, married and enamored. Her breath jerked, a bounty of physical expressions flooding her soul. Many of the acts she recognized. A blush warmed her skin as she recalled enacting several of them with the man behind her calling her name.

One unfamiliar but stirring scene snagged her vision and she let it linger voyeuristically. This was to be her last night in Taric’s arms. She wanted to taste every pleasure she could before the bitterness of pain soured her.

Taric called her by name again and her bones quivered, her essence knocking back into her temporal body. The night had begun and her time in this world careened toward an end. Recalling the flirtations of Bryton and his Kat for the past two days, Myla turned from the window and fixed a sultry stare on her beloved. When he locked eyes with hers, she lowered her lashes primly before raising them once more.

“What are you doing, my love?” His tease was laced with yearning and she chose not to answer with words.

Instead, she tossed her head back, allowing the full waves of mahogany to shimmy across her shoulders. Her fingers went to the loose ties at the neckline of her shift, playing idly with them.

His maple eyes followed her movements and darkened to chestnut. “Myla, were you spying on others again? Using your magic to see…private matters?”

“Perhaps.” Rolling her hips as she had seen Katina do, she strolled to the edge of the bed and took her lower lip between her teeth. Taric’s glance shot immediately from her waist to her mouth.
This flirting is quite provocative, powerful
.

Sitting beside him, Myla walked her fingers up his arm, from wrist to elbow before speaking. “I did sense something that intrigued me.”

Her walking fingers climbed past his shoulder and traversed the plane of his chest. A prominent ridge formed in his breeches.