Song of the Fairy Queen (39 page)

There was another crash as one of the Hunters in the back caught hold of Ford’s arm and flung him at Jena. She sidestepped neatly though, driving her sword beneath the thing’s armpit. The other raked its claws down her arm, but Gavin drove in with a flurry of the tip of his blade to score the thing two or three times.

Sword to sword, nearly face to face, Morgan and the Hunter came together with bruising force, their swords trapped between them. It was Morgan, though, who twisted away, leaving the Hunter briefly off-balance. Long enough for Caleb to lop off its head.

Kyri had taken advantage of the distraction Morgan had given her.

Spinning on her toes, her back curved as the Hunter’s clawed hand swiped at her. It caught nothing but the long length of her hair. She drove her sword up under its ribs. Withdrawing her blade, she flicked the blood from it, turning to look at Morgan even as Gavin sliced at the remaining Hunter and Jena went in for the kill.

For the moment, there was quiet.

Morgan looked at the bodies, at his people. Cold air swept in.

There was an almost pregnant pause, a strong sense of something impending.

“What do you want to bet that they didn’t come alone?” he asked.

There had been a squad of soldiers with them.

“Think that squad is waiting outside, Captain?” Caleb asked, nursing a battered arm and shoulder that had been bruised when the Hunter had thrown him into the wall.

“To see who the victors were?” Kyri said.

“There’s a good chance,” Morgan said.

Gavin ran back on light, bare feet, his eyes worried. He had scores on one arm and a bruise on his cheek. “You’re right, Captain. From the looks of it, we’re surrounded.”

Letting out a breath in the steadily cooling air, Morgan nodded, thinking quickly, his own wounds burning.

Kyri slipped her hand around his ribs and the scores there stopped paining him. She smiled up at him as she stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss.

“I’ll take care of them,” she said quietly, moving to Caleb.

By now all of them were used to being Healed, if not by Kyri, then by Galan.

Morgan watched as she finished with Caleb and went to Gavin, only then seeing the tears in the back of her dress where the Hunter had caught her. So, it hadn’t quite missed.

“Kyri,” he said.

She heard his worry in his voice and looked back, her gaze apologetic. “The only one I cannot Heal is myself.”

“Keep watch by the doors,” Morgan said to the others.

Reaching into her saddlebags, Jena drew out a white shirt. “It’s clean.”

Caught off guard, Kyri looked at them.

It was the first time Morgan saw her look so vulnerable, so undone.

With unsurprising humility, she said, “Thank you, Jena.”

Gently, Morgan pulled the ribbons that secured the straps and the top of the dress fell to her waist, leaving her bare, save for her hair. He went to one knee, turning her a little so he could see the marks. His breath hissed in. On that soft skin the marks looked ugly, deep scores that still bled sluggishly.

Was she so used to standing alone she hadn’t thought to ask for the aid she gave so readily herself?

Ripping the white shirt into pieces, he laid a hand on her waist, pressed his other hand gently against the wounds. Her breath caught only a little at the pain, her eyes still fixed on him with something very like wonder.

Carefully, he tended to her, pressing another clean piece of cloth to the scores, then binding them in place.

Even Galan had never tended to her so personally, so very tenderly. It was oddly intimate.

“They’re getting restless, Captain,” Caleb said, without looking back.

“Almost finished,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling the ends of her dress back up over her shoulders. He touched her cheek and she closed her eyes against some intense emotion. A single tear gathered, spilled and turned to crystal.

He brushed a kiss lightly by her eye. “Never forget that I love you, Kyri.”

Reaching up, she ran her fingers over his cheek in wonder and smiled. “And I love you.”

The horses stamped restlessly, made uneasy now by the smell of the dead Hunters and the blood. He eyed the horses curiously.

“Kyri,” he asked, “Can you make them follow you?”

She followed his gaze. “Your horse is Fairy, the rest should follow.”

It would put her in the fore, but surprise might do the trick.

“You’ll need your bow,” he said.

“And you’ll need your shirt,” she said, smiling, taking a quick moment to run her hands appreciatively over the strong muscles of his chest, “although I very much appreciate the view.”

He appreciated the touch, he loved her hands on him. He ran his fingers deep into her hair, drawing her mouth to his for a quick kiss.

“I’ll get them,” he said.

Dropping her bow and sheath to her, pulling on his shirt, he said to the others, “Get the rest of your gear on, quickly and be ready to go.”

He dropped down lightly to join them, buttoning quickly before pulling on his coat and settling his hat on his head once again.

“Saddle them up,” Morgan said.

Outside they heard a horse stamp restlessly, mirroring its rider’s agitation.

They wouldn’t wait much longer.

Kyri swung up into the saddle, her sword sheathed, bow strung and arrow notched.

“Stay low until you’re almost on them,” Morgan said, tossing a blanket over her to cover the red dress. “Use the horses to scatter them, distract them, give us time to get out and then bring the horses around. Caleb, Jena and I will go out the front, Ford and Gavin the back.

She nodded.

“Everyone ready?”

Morgan looked up at her, crouched over the horse, her brilliant hair spilling down over her shoulders. He kissed her once again, quickly.

“Go.”

Setting heels to horse, Kyri gave it the command and the horse leaped forward, the others, uneasy from the storm, the fight and the blood, the scent of the Hunters, pounded after.

Outside the sky had cleared and the light was brilliant, nearly blinding against the frosted whiteness of the snow, but Haerold’s men in their dark livery against that brightness were impossible to miss.

Kyri literally rode one down, the impact of Morgan’s horse striking another audibly, a thud of flesh and bone. The other horse was driven back, its hooves scrambling in the snow, falling, taking its rider down with it. Guiding the horse with her knees, Kyri rose up, bow in hands and shot the first one she saw, drawing an arrow, setting it, turning to face backward to take another.

The horses charged, scattering Haerold’s horses and men before her as she rode around the barn. Some of the men fought to gain control of their mounts, the others were taken completely off guard. And then she was around. Morgan reached for the pommel of his horse, swinging up behind her to take the reins in one hand, leaning back a little to draw his sword without cutting her.

One of the soldiers tried to grab the reins, but Morgan drove him off.

The others of their party gained their saddles and they were off through the snow, leaving Haerold’s squad in confusion and disarray behind them.

The table in Oryan’s tent had been cleared of maps and missives, correspondence to foreign courts and reports from around the Kingdom. There had been a letter there from one of Oryan’s vassals, a surreptitious offer of aid, supplies, even funds. Oryan still didn’t known whether Patraic was playing both ends against the middle or was still his man. The table though was now clear, save for a tray with several bottles of good wine and the best cups Geoffrey could find.

He bowed his head, remembering, grieving a little still for what had been, for his Gwenifer.

There were times now when Oryan simply talked to her in his head, seeing her as she’d been, his beloved wife, listening to the memory of her voice, knowing so well what she would say. Or what he thought she’d say. But there were days when he couldn’t picture her clearly any longer… He was losing her again…and that was as it had to be, but he still missed her intensely.

A single lantern illuminated the tent as Geoffrey held the flaps open for Morgan and Kyri.

Oryan stood alone, his head bowed, his expression pensive as he stared down into his wine cup.

Morgan and Kyri looked at each other, both frowning a little.

“Oryan?” Morgan said.

The man himself looked at them as Geoffrey brought them each a glass of wine and then simply stood back a moment, a glass in his own hand.

Oryan lifted his cup a little. “I wasn’t certain this called for anything close to a celebration, but I thought we should mark the date somehow.”

He looked at the bewilderment on their faces and nodded. “I nearly missed it, too. Caernarvon weather being what it was, the temperature rarely varied much there by the sea, something to do with the currents or some such. Unlike here. There was no snow there that night. But I checked and I counted.”

For a moment he paused and then took a slow swallow of his wine.

“It was one year ago today that Caernarvon fell,” he said, quietly. “So, it’s an anniversary of sorts.”

A familiar voice called from outside. “Geoffrey?”

“That will be the others,” Oryan said, his deep voice steady. “But first I wanted to raise a toast to the two of you. If it weren’t for you both, I wouldn’t be here today, my Kingdom would be laboring under the hand of my brother with no hope of relief and I and my son wouldn’t be alive. I’ve never thanked you for that and I need to do that.”

Kyri’s heart caught.

Seeing the look in Oryan’s eyes, Morgan simply nodded his head.

“I also need to thank you for your friendship during these difficult and sometimes dark days,” Oryan said. “That being said, that’s enough of that. A toast, then, to restoring the crown, to health and happiness.”

The three of them raised their glasses to drink and then Geoffrey went to the tent flap to hold it back to allow the others in.

Philip was the first, with young Jordan at his side, the older man still a little stooped, the gray streaked through his hair more liberally than it should have been for his age, but otherwise he looked more at ease with himself. It had helped that Oryan included him as part of his privy council and gave every evidence he truly valued Philip’s opinion.

It was Jordan, though, who had changed the most. He was still young, still somewhat impetuous, but he’d taken on the gravity of men years older, assiduously listening at every meeting, but saying little until he was certain no one else said what he needed to add. He had taken over much of his father’s duties of running his dukedom from exile, although another sat in his castle.

Behind them were Detrick – Gaia as always at his heels – Martin and Corvin and a few other of the rebel leaders following.

Morgan and Kyri had known this meeting had been planned, but both had been too busy to truly take note of the date, to their chagrin. It was a chancy thing, to have so much of their hierarchy in one place, though, but necessary under the circumstances.

The tent flaps opened to allow Galan, Dorien and Solon to pass, all of them bowing their heads to Kyri in respect as they entered. Solon looked at little startled to be in attendance, but as he stood in Kyri’s stead in Faery when she was here she’d decided he needed to be here for this meeting.