Song of the Fairy Queen (64 page)

Her wings unfolded and she took off as howls filled the night.

Circling, she fired off one shot and then heard the hum of an arrow go past.

Instantly she pulled up out of range and flew west, dipping low long enough to turn before she flew north again to intercept Morgan and the others.

Landing on a moving horse was something she’d never tried. Until now.

Circling, she waited until her speed was matched to that of the running horse or slightly ahead and she dropped into the saddle, scrambling for balance.

She shook her head at Morgan.

“We’ll have to chance it, Morgan. Galan will never make it with Angela in his arms.”

“Galan.”

Circling above, Galan called, “I heard.”

“Pull up,” Morgan called.

Quickly, Galan dropped, handing Angela to her father before swinging up onto the back of the draft horse.

“Go…” he shouted.

Behind them the baying echoed.

Kyri had no whistle and the horses of her people were too far away…

The big draft horses had never been meant for this kind of punishment but they galloped gamely all the same. Behind them, the howls of the Hunters were gaining. Morgan looked at Kyri. She met his eyes and took a breath. Time was running out. Soon they would have to decide – fight or run.

Dawn was breaking, the Hunters hadn’t yet spotted them by sight. Once they did, though, any plan to draw them off of Gawain and the others would be gone.

They all heard the thunder of horses’ hooves coming toward them out of the north.

What now?

A wave of riders came over the horizon, racing towards them in the thin light.

Morgan almost checked them up and then he saw it.

They wore colors, ribbons of green and silver.

Specifically, they wore Gwenifer of Gilead’s green and silver, not the more dangerous scarlet and gold of Oryan’s House.

“They’re wearing colors,” he shouted to the others. “Keep going, they’re wearing Gwen’s colors.”

The riders split around them, one of them shearing off to come up beside them.

Blinking in astonishment, that rider, tall, slender, with thick dark hair, checked up.

One look at Morgan’s face and the man’s jaw dropped.

All he could do was stare in disbelief.

John of Orland clearly couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Morgan?”

“Hello, John,” Morgan said.

Orland stared. “Someone said they thought it was you, but we thought he was mad. We thought you dead or worse, in Haerold’s dungeons. Where have you been?”

“The second,” Morgan said, “until Kyri found me.”

His breath caught in wonder, Orland said, “Kyri?” and looked past Morgan to see her. “Kyri.”

“Hello, John,” she said.

For a moment he could only stare at her as well, shaking his head as his eyes went from one to the other.

“Damn,” he said softly. “Welcome back, Kyri. After all this time you did find him after all.”

Morgan looked at her, but Kyri wouldn’t look at him.

Ducking her head a little, she only said, “I said I would.”

“And Caleb, too. Good to see you, man. Who else have we got?”

Morgan said, “Colton and his children, they had a safe house to the south and east. This is Gordon and this is Gawain.”

John of Orland clearly missed it, but Morgan shook his head lightly at the boy. Not yet. Morgan had other plans.

He grinned.

“Well,” John said, “I know a few people who’ll be glad to welcome you back from the dead, Morgan. Quite a few. Follow me. That lot will draw them off, disperse in different directions and find their own way back. There’s more waiting ahead. I was to identify you as friendly and bring you in.”

A dozen men and women waited over the rise, all of them in Gwen’s colors.

They formed up around their small party as escort – several of them casting glances of amazement and relief to see Morgan and Kyri – leading them north and west, now, into the dense Great Western Forest.

Single file, they rode through the cool green wood over rock and between boulders. A deer bounded away, startled. Kyri took a deep breath of the rich forest air. It smelled of good earth and pine, of the musky scent of lichen and moss.

Once this had been one of her people’s places.

Morgan turned in his saddle to look back at her. She smiled in return, knowing he understood and remembered as she did other trips into a forest.

Around them, unseen amidst the rock and brush, were the King’s Guards. Morgan’s Marshals.

They crested another rise and there below them was the King’s tent, a half a dozen others surrounding it and some open camps. Sleeping blankets ringed around campfires.

The King’s tent had clearly taken some damage and been repaired but everything else was so like the last time he’d been there that Morgan was taken aback. It seemed only yesterday.

How long had it been since he’d seen Oryan? Two years, more…?

As they rode past a tall, somewhat familiar young man stared at them, gaped, and then took off running through the camp.

“It’s
Morgan
,” he shouted. “It’s him, truly. It really is Morgan. And Kyri’s back, too. Kyri’s with him. The Queen of the Fairy has returned.”

John of Orland clearly couldn’t believe his eyes.

People popped up all over to look and see for themselves as the riders went by.

“Jordan,” John shouted, trying to call him back before he gave up, shrugged and let the young man go.

Dismounting outside the High King’s tent, Morgan lifted Kyri down from her saddle as he had of old, pausing for only a moment to look at her, to touch her cheek. She slanted a smile at him. His mouth brushed hers for only a moment before he slid his arm around her as the others gathered around.

Morgan grinned, winked at Gawain.

“Back in the pack,” he said, with a lift and turn of his chin.

Gawain grinned, eyes widening as he understood and the rest surrounded him, young Angela grinning excitedly, too.

It would be a surprise. This would be great fun.

His pale blue eyes twinkling, Morgan, with his arm around Kyri in the lead now, followed Orland to the tent, the rest in tow.

“Geoffrey,” Orland called, as they approached.

The flap opened, Geoffrey sweeping it aside.

His eyes met Morgan’s and he gaped.

“My Gods,” he whispered. “It’s Morgan, by the Gods.
It’s Morgan
.” His voice rose. Then he looked at the woman beside Morgan. “
And bless me, it’s the Lady Kyri with him
.”

Inclining his head, Morgan said, “Geoffrey, it’s good to see you again.”

Beaming, the old man shook his head. “Oh, my good Lord Marshal Morgan and it’s good to see you again. And my Lady….my sweet Lady Kyri.”

Kyri smiled at him fondly, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand. “Geoffrey, my old friend.”

He almost wept and mopped at his eyes before recovering himself.

Straightening, turning, Geoffrey declared, “Your Highness, welcome the return of your High Marshal Morgan, himself in the flesh and the Lady Kyri with him, who is Queen of the Fair.”

Oryan went still.

It was very nearly pain.

Slowly, hoping against hope, Oryan lifted his head and his heart followed as he saw them framed in the doorway.

Oryan looked at his oldest friend.

Morgan.

It was him. It was Morgan.

Oryan almost couldn’t believe it, but there couldn’t be two like Morgan, not with that fair hair and those brilliant blue eyes.

His heart ached.

“Morgan,” he breathed, coming to his feet.

He seemed almost unchanged, a little gaunt, a little sharper, perhaps, but it
was
Morgan.

And beside him, her unusual eyes serene, smiling as always, was Kyri.

Something in Oryan’s heart came back together again, seeing them.

It had almost broken his heart to admit that Kyri had been right to do what she’d done and then it had all come to naught.

Now….

He’d dared not hope to see Morgan alive again.

Now he did, but more…

“Morgan.”

There was a wealth of emotion behind that single word.

He strode across the floor.

Their hands met in an arm-clasp and then Oryan pulled his friend into a sharp, fierce hug before pushing him back again to look at him.

Oryan shook his head.

“Morgan,” Oryan said. “They said you were dead, disappeared, that Haerold had you, but there was no big public trial…”

He’d given up on even thinking that Morgan was still alive. It had been just one more grief layered on top of the others.

“I missed you, my friend. I feared you dead.”

He’d grieved and deeply.

Their arms were locked together tightly.

“Morgan,” Oryan said again, looking into clear blue eyes he’d known so well for so long.

Oryan had changed
, Morgan thought, looking at him. His old friend had grown leaner in the time he’d been gone, had been honed by adversity, by suffering and sorrow. But he’d also grown stronger where others might have bowed beneath the pressure.

“It’s unbelievable,” Oryan said, before turning to look at Kyri.

She was so beautiful, so sure and so calm…

Save for that one moment, that one time, when Oryan had Called her….

Laughing, he swooped her up in a bone-crushing hug – mindful of her wings – and planted a kiss right on her pretty mouth.

“You said he was alive,” Oryan said, “and he is. You said you would find him and you did.”

Laughing, Morgan said, “Hey, she’s mine, go get your own girl.”

Startled, Kyri staggered as Oryan set her down again but she grinned with delight even as Morgan pulled her back into his arms.

Morgan looked at his old friend.

The King, his friend, Oryan, was a less haunted man than the one who’d stood up only moments before.

“It’s good to see you again, too, Oryan,” Morgan said.

Their hands came together again in a strong handshake, looking at each other. Each who’d thought and believed the other dead.