Song of the Fairy Queen (30 page)

Morgan had guessed as much, a part of him too aware of the howling of the Hunters, closing on them. The sound was avid, murderous. They were angry and out for blood. And growing nearer with each passing second.

Standing, Kyri swayed, but she reached down to give him a hand up.

They steadied each other, Morgan taking the moment to touch her cheek. She turned her face into it, taking a shuddering breath before she nodded.

With a gesture, she had the horse lie down so they could both step on – neither had the strength to do it any other way.

Wrapping her hands in the Fairy horse’s mane, Kyri said, “Hold on. That’s all you have to do is hold on.”

As much as Morgan hated to admit it, it was about all he had the strength to do.

Reaching for power from the earth and sky Kyri borrowed energy profligately, knowing there would be a price to pay for it later – and it would be high – lending some to Morgan and sending some to the horse as it heaved to its feet.

They raced across the plains toward the not-too-distant mountains.

“Play elemental magic with me, will you?” Kyri snapped furiously at the witch, calling up wind and water.

She poured into it all her fear and anger.

Power rose, a shiver across his skin and Morgan looked around him as the wind grew. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. Lightning blazed as a rush of cooler air blasted past them.

Kyri had called up a storm.

“You can do that?”

It was astonishing.

Her head pounding with the effort, Kyri answered, “Can, but shouldn’t. We of the Fair are of natural magic. Playing with weather is dangerous, for it has its own rhythms, its own flow. Take from here and there goes dry. If it wasn’t an emergency I wouldn’t do it, but I won’t sacrifice us or the horse to those things.”

Understanding dawned as the skies opened, washing away their trail. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed once again.

In seconds they were both drenched and chilled.

Kyri used every trick she knew for throwing off a predator, wolf, cat or man, changing directions, cutting down and through streams, finding rock and stone to traverse as the rain passed behind them and the sun lowered to the horizon.

Morgan hung on as she trembled with exhaustion, doing little better himself.

“Look,” she said, softly.

The storm had passed. Ahead of them and to their left the sun sank, gilding the edges of black clouds. Behind them a double rainbow arched across the sky, the colors startlingly bright against the angry sky.

Now Kyri searched for someplace warm, dry and relatively sheltered as darkness slowly fell.

“Kyri,” Morgan said.

Her eyes opened. The horse had stopped.

She shook her head and blew out a breath, too tired to move.

At a tap of her heels, the horse dropped to its knees to let them off.

Their cloaks served as blankets, their clothes as a kind of pillow, as they collapsed onto a nearby patch of moss and Kyri’s wings closed around them to keep them warm.

Kyri woke with the sun sparkling on the dew and Morgan beside her, her wings wrapped around them both. He slept, his brilliant eyes closed, his body wrapped around her, one leg curled around hers, one hand cupped around her breast. It was the first time they’d slept together, she realized with a soft laugh. Turning a little, she sighed and for a time she simply lay looking at him. He was alive. Around them the birds sang and the trees whispered their secrets to each other.

Reaching out, she traced a finger over one firmly arched brow, down his straight nose, lightly over his mouth. She loved his mouth. He was so handsome it made her heart ache.

Kyri stroked her hand up into his fair hair, his muscled body was solid, alive next to hers, all the long length of him against her. Here in his arms she knew herself warm, safe and secure.

She stroked her hands over his broad muscled shoulders and back, his solid chest pressed against hers, the beat of his heart almost tangible against her.

Awakening, Morgan’s hands tightened on Kyri, pulled her closer, sighing himself as he opened his eyes to find her lying there next to him, watching him. Their legs were tangled together, her soft, firm body pressed against his, her skin like silk beneath his hands. Both of them were enclosed within her wings, the filtered light dappling them.

They both ached, their muscles were sore, he knew, but it didn’t matter, they were together and they were alive.

Rolling her gently onto her back with a care for her wings, Morgan lowered his mouth to hers. He needed the taste and feel of Kyri around him as he cradled her in his arms.

Their tongues met, danced a little, tasting each other.

Morgan lifted his head to look at her.

Wonderingly, he ran his hand over her hair, which had mostly come out of the pins and braids.

Now he finished the job, spreading her silken curls out in ripples across the thick moss. She was so beautiful, with her fine features and incredible eyes.

He brushed his thumb across her lips and she kissed it. It sent a burst of heat through him.

He drew back to admire her, the sun warm on them as the air drifted across their skin.

So perfect.

Almost in awe, he brushed a hand over her, lightly, down the column of her throat, over her ripe, firm breasts, the arch of her ribs, across that smooth belly, and down her hip.

Propping his head up on one elbow, his body close against hers so their bodies touched from shoulder to hip, he ran his hand up again as she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes glowed. With a sigh of contentment, he combed his fingers through the tight curls between her thighs, leaning his head down a little to brush her nipple with his mouth.

Morgan caressed her breast, enjoying the firmness, the roundness, playing lightly with the nipple.

Everywhere his hand passed, he left a trail of fire behind and Kyri arched, shivering.

Kyri shifted, parts of her going hot. Her hands wandered, too, over the broad muscles of his chest. Spreading her fingers, she tried to encompass one and couldn’t, laughing. There was such strength in him. He amazed her.

Her gaze flicked up to his and he smiled in return, tracing his fingers up along her ribs lightly. She quivered.

Curling her hands across his ribs, she caressed them, ran her fingers lightly over his hip, her arm stretched a far as it would go, so her fingers could drift over his thigh.

Their eyes met as she touched him, her fingers running lightly over sensitive skin.

His delight in this gentle play clearly soothed him.

Heat rose slowly, warming their skin.

Gently, he kissed her as they caressed and stroked, feeding the fire inside them.

Wrapping his hands around her waist Morgan lifted her as he rolled onto his back, looking up at her.

She smiled radiantly. Her glorious hair tumbled down around her, around them, over her breasts, down and around her shoulders and back, to brush over his skin tantalizingly. He smiled in return.

“I love you,” he said, as he lowered her and she sank onto him.

Shifting to take him, her eyes widening as he filled her, she smiled and on a sigh of pleasure, said, “I love you too.”

It was glorious.

Her wings spread to sparkle in the sun as he lowered her further, joining them completely. Her eyes closed for a moment in pleasure as she settled onto him, her back arching with sheer bliss, her face nearly as radiant as her incandescent wings.

She surrounded him, all of her, deeply, pleasure nearly blinding him as she closed around him.

Morgan looked up as her glorious eyes opened so he could watch her pleasure take her, and so she could see it take him.

Her wings stroked gently, rocking her on him. Color flushed her cheeks as she tightened and he hardened with each beat of her wings, of her heart, moving them against each other.

Morgan watched Kyri’s face as the pleasure burst through her, locking her around him as she arched. He rose up, piercing her more deeply, to take one of those lovely breasts in his mouth and then his own glory burst through him.

Arms locked around each other, they pulsed, emptying and taking, filling each other, shuddering before he fell back, Kyri in his arms, her wings spread over them both, to hold and warm.

It was peaceful outside the tent in comparison to the storm inside it, the late afternoon sunlight a warm gold. Above were the trees, swaying and bending in the breeze, below were bushes and stone, rock and lichen. Sunbeams streaked between the trees in brilliant shafts of golden light. Around the tent the camp bustled, people going about their chores, chopping wood, cooking food, sewing clothes, honing swords.

Normal activities. Peaceful.

Running her hands through her hair wearily, Kyri stepped out of Philip’s tent.

Morgan waited, watching her, seeing the signs of strain in her lovely face. He touched her arm and she smiled, reassuringly.

“It’s….difficult,” she said.

Morgan couldn’t imagine it, trying to touch the mind of a man who’d been so shattered, so abused, but he could see it in the look in her eyes. And that was all he needed.

He drew her into his arms and Kyri let him, resting her forehead against his broad chest for a moment.

Neither he nor Oryan had ever condoned torture.

First and simplest, because no man should ever be treated to such pain and suffering at the hands of another, not least because of what it required of the one who did it, that they should ever consider such a thing. What it said about the human spirit in the one who inflicted it was worse than the one he tortured, that they could bring themselves to do it. And simply, given enough pain and suffering, the one tortured would say anything, to anyone, about anything, whatever the torturer wanted to hear, simply to get the pain to stop.

If it was sometimes effective, at what cost was it to those who used it and to those that condoned it?

Kyri sighed. “But he should be able to talk now, though. It would do him good. Galan will bring him.”

“Let’s go tell Oryan.”

She let out a sigh and nodded, her fingers threading through his as they walked, drawing strength from him in the most natural way.

It was only when they reached Oryan’s tent that they released each other, Morgan holding the flaps aside for her, Geoffrey on the other side as they stepped inside.

Heads swiveled to look at them. Oryan’s, Jordan’s – Detrick, who’d led the assault on the walls. A few hours before, after being vetted thoroughly, John of Orland had joined them. His small dukedom was to the south, near one of the fingers of Haerold’s army.

“Given the circumstances, I thought it likely that I was about to share Philip’s fate. Rather than do so, I thought I’d join the resistance. I’ve told my people to flee,” Orland had said on arrival.

The other finger of Haerold’s army was still unexplained and puzzling.

“How is he?” Oryan asked Kyri.

In all of the long months of exile, the last week or so had been among the most difficult. Dorien had kept him informed, for which Oryan was grateful. Without the phlegmatic Fairy, he would have known nothing, which would have made it even harder. Still, listening as Dorien told him what was happening had been its own special torment. The long wait until Dorien had said that Kyri had Morgan, but that he was wounded and they were being pursued, had been terrible. The next wait had been longer. It had been late before he’d learned that they were safe.