Keepers of the Flame (34 page)

“I
love your smile.” He smiled back.

The
winged horse nickered and Elizabeth sensed it wanted attention from both of
them and that made her smile again.

“You,
Faucon, are the one who has a smile to melt hearts.”

He
looked at her, his gaze lingering. “I’m glad you think so.” Then he turned back
to rub the volaran between her shoulders. “I am not one of those like Calli and
Marrec who speaks Equine fluently, and has good telepathic rapport with
volarans. My own volaran and I partner well, but I can’t understand what this
pretty lady is saying.”

“Me
neither,” Elizabeth said.

Once
again the visualization of the huge flower waving in the wind came. Faucon met
Elizabeth’s gaze. “I think that’s her name.”

Clearing
her throat, Elizabeth dipped a small curtsey to the volaran. She held out her
hand and the winged horse licked it. Elizabeth laughed. “Lovely one, I am
Elizabeth.”

The
volaran sent a red robe with a white cross on a glowing golden pole that looked
like one of the fenceposts that held out the horrors.

“Very
strong, very Exotique, very beautiful,” Faucon said, lifting Elizabeth’s free
hand and kissing it.

“Merci.”
She grasped his
hand, looked at the volaran, bright silver against the black and starry night.
“I’ll call you Starflower?”

The
volaran lowered and raised her head.

“Starflower.”
Elizabeth petted the volaran again.

“She’s
big enough to carry us both. We could probably catch up with Bri and Sevair,”
Faucon whispered in her ear. “The coach is slower than a volaran, even with
Distance Magic.”

The
foolishness appealed to Elizabeth. She glanced at the sky, clear and achingly
bright and beautiful. A night ride with her lover on a flying horse! What would
ever match that? “Ayes,” she said.

In a
few minutes, Faucon had Starflower equipped with a long saddle and simple
reins. He lifted Elizabeth onto the volaran, mounted himself.

“How
will we find the coach?” Elizabeth asked.

“Listen,
the notes leave a trail.” Faucon swept his hand toward the sky.

Elizabeth
strained her ears, but heard nothing more than usual. So she peered where she’d
last seen the carriage. Concentrating, she saw an iridescent rainbow swath
sparkling in the sky, almost lost in the thick starfield. The path was fading.
“Let’s go!”

So
they rose, and this was nothing like the prosaic little hops to Castleton. Now
she felt darkness and light envelope her, and Faucon’s arm went around her
waist. The scent of him and sweet musk of the volaran added spice to the
mystery of the night. She settled against him, warmth in the cool air.

They
flew.
The freedom of it blew through her like the evening breeze,
lifting her spirits. Magic swirled around her. She was one with the night, the
volaran, Faucon.

He
didn’t talk, nor did the volaran. They were in tune, surrounded by a golden
aura.

God,
this was wonderful! Laughter rippled from her.

She
saw the fancy carriage almost too soon. There was disappointment that they’d be
sharing this moment, then came a wild spurt of glee that she’d surprise Bri.

Drawing
up to the coach, Faucon yelled with voice and mind,
Hail the coach!

Elizabeth
felt
the jolt of surprised minds within, then the curtain over the large
window vanished, and so did the glass. Bri shrieked with surprise and laughter.

Elizabeth!

Bri!

Bri
stuck her torso out of the coach window, screaming with laughter, waving her
arms.

Everything
in Elizabeth tightened. Bri in a flying coach, off to Somewhere. Herself on the
back of a horse with silver wings, flying in the beautiful night with a strong
man who adored her behind her, and a winged horse that had come just for her.

She
waved at Bri, watched as the two large hands around her twin’s waist, steadied,
then tugged at her to come in.

“See
you later!” Bri screamed.

“Later!”
Elizabeth waved back, feeling Faucon’s arm around her. Then the volaran turned
back.

It
was like a fairy tale.

F
aucon awoke the
next morning, arms wrapped around Elizabeth and smiled. She’d loved the volaran
ride. Loved Starflower already.

He
dared to hope Elizabeth loved him.

Last
night they had sweet, wild sex for a long, long time. She’d given more of
herself.

He
could only hope that they’d bonded enough or would bond enough to keep her here
with him. His arms tightened around her. She murmured and snuggled close.

She
didn’t say the other man’s name.

It
had only passed her lips once, and that during one of their lovemaking bouts
the first night, and Faucon didn’t think she knew she’d said it. The moment had
been one of exquisite agony for him. But she hadn’t mentioned the man since.

He
knew the fool had been stupid enough to let her go, and she knew that Faucon
understood she was raw from a heart wound, but they didn’t speak of it. He’d
been gentle and tender with her.

Faucon,
someone
whispered in his mind. Ah! That call had wakened him. Glancing at the window,
he saw it was full light, past time for him and Elizabeth to be up. He didn’t
care. His major domo, Broullard, would hold breakfast for them.

But
Broullard didn’t call him. Frowning, Faucon considered the timbre of the Song.
Luthan. A noble Chevalier like himself, a man who lived only a few doors down
the hallway, and more, the representative of the Singer.

Faucon
, again the
murmur. He smelled the sweetness of his woman’s body, cherished her against
him, thought whether he wanted to answer the man. No.

Yet
Faucon, like Luthan, knew of duty.
Ayes?

I
need to speak with you, confidentially. Everyone else has left for the day.

I’ll
come to your suite shortly. Keep our meeting secret, except—

Please
do not tell Elizabeth.

No,
she’s too new to our world. I don’t keep secrets from Broullard
.

A
sigh from Luthan.
Telling him is fine
. Hesitation.
I need your help.
You may have to enlist others.

Curiosity
piqued, as Luthan had probably intended, Faucon said,
I’ll be there soon.

Thank
you.

Faucon
disentangled himself from Elizabeth, watched her stretch out on the bed. She
appeared older than Bri, with more faint lines. He liked that. A mature,
womanly lover. From their bonding during sex, he’d gotten impressions of her
long and rigorous training to become a medica, harder than here on Lladrana,
and that had aged her.

He
smiled as he scanned her nude body. She slept raw, and he liked that, too. He’d
stopped wearing short trous to bed. As he felt the stirrings of arousal, he
turned away, went to the shower and let cool water diminish his ardor.
Dressing, he saw it was another gray day. This year had been more gray than
sunny and that was a concern. But he didn’t let it bother him, just added
another layer of clothes.

When
he stepped from the bedroom, Broullard bowed and indicated the set table.
Faucon smiled at the weathered face of his major domo. They’d been together for
years, fought together. Broullard had stepped into his father’s shoes when he’d
died when Faucon was thirteen. Everything that he knew about being a noble
estate owner, a Chevalier, and a man he’d learned from Broullard.

Sniffing,
Faucon smelled hot, fresh bread and eggs, knew they’d be prepared exactly as he
and Elizabeth preferred. “I’ll take my breakfast with me,” he said. “Can you
prepare the same for Luthan?”

Broullard
raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

“Thank
you. Luthan mind-spoke me, requested a consultation.”

“I
would guess that he chafes at the Singer’s restrictions,” Broullard said. “He’s
been…restless…for some time.”

Faucon
hadn’t noticed. “Interesting.”

A
couple of minutes later, Faucon took a loaded tray and walked through the door
Broullard held open. “I’ll let you know what Luthan says, what he wants.”

Broullard
nodded.

“Take
care of my lady,” Faucon said lightly.

“Of
course.” Broullard smiled. “She’s a good woman. Good for you.”

Faucon
smiled himself, warmed by the approval. “Ayes, she is.”

Whistling
a Chevalier flying tune, he walked the wide corridor to Luthan’s door. The man
opened it as Faucon reached it. Faucon was reminded that Luthan and Bastien had
lived under the heavy Song of their father for a long time.

Glancing
at the sterile sitting room, Faucon clucked his tongue. “I sensed you were
hungry, so I brought food.” He sighed. “Set the table. You need a major domo,
someone like Broullard to take care of you.”

“There’s
only one Broullard,” Luthan said, and hurried to put hot pads on the small
wooden table for the dishes and Faucon wondered why, the piece of furniture was
so scarred it wouldn’t have mattered. Broullard had wrapped silverware in
napkins and placed them on the tray.

Luthan
helped unload the tray, sat and ate and fiddled with his cutlery. He
was
restless. An oddity. The man was usually as calm as a mountain, wasted no
motion.

“Thank
you for agreeing to come, the confidentiality, this breakfast,” Luthan said.

Faucon’s
brows winged up. “You’re welcome.” He grinned. “You’ll find the food not nearly
as expensive as the dinner you paid for last year.”

A
snort came from the man and his lips curved, too. “Trying to keep you from seducing
Alexa. I knew she and my brother would be together, then my ingrate brother
goes and gets a fine feast out of it.”

Faucon
stilled. Luthan’s words had been off-hand, but had reminded him all too well
that the man had a touch of prophecy.

Faucon
put down his fork. “Perhaps the Singer bade you be silent on matters that we,
the nobles and Chevaliers and Marshalls, should know of.” A conflict of duties
would trouble the man.

“Ayes.”
Luthan stood, swept a hand over the plates and silverware, Sang a cleansing
tune.

Very
efficient, not quite polite, and an evident habit that the preoccupied man
didn’t even notice.

Standing
himself, Faucon replaced his possessions back on the tray. He hesitated as he
heard the opening and closing of his door down the hall, the strengthening of
Elizabeth’s Song, then its diminution as she left the building.

Luthan
was at the window, watching. “Your woman wears her medica robe well, with
authority. I always think of her twin bouncing along like a cheerful puppy.
They—” Luthan’s hands gripped the window frame until his knuckles whitened. He
paled. Faucon froze. The man was having a vision, one of the reasons the
Singer, also a prophet, valued him.

Crossing
to the window, Faucon laid a hand on Luthan’s shoulder. “Can I help?”

Luthan’s
shoulder heaved under his hand once, twice as the man drew in deep breaths.
“No. Thank you.”

“And
your vision?

“I
must think on it.” Luthan’s voice was sober, with a trace of sadness in it.
When he turned and met Faucon’s eyes, his gaze was as cool as usual. “Several
paths, I believe.”

Cold
touched Faucon’s spine. He didn’t doubt that Luthan had seen tragedy. Wanting a
reassuring look at Elizabeth, Faucon glanced out the window, but only saw a
whisk of red before the door to the keep opposite closed.

So
he turned away to find Luthan staring at him, as if weighing him, then Luthan
shook his head. “Too many melodies tangling,” he muttered. Abruptly, he said,
“It’s the Seamasters.” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.
She
knows something too, but isn’t saying.”

“The
Singer?” Faucon allowed himself a little sigh. “A strange and difficult elder.”
He sat in a comfortable chair. “If it’s information you want of the Seamasters,
you’ve come to the right person.”

“You
have seaside estates.”

“Ayes.
I know the Seamasters, individually and as a group, though I’m not in their
counsel. My cousin handles all my sea business except the mercantile trading.
Do you want me to ask him about the Seamasters?”

“Yes.
No. I don’t know.”

A
skiff of wariness zipped though Faucon. Again, very unlike Luthan. “Have you
spoken to Bastien of this?”

Luthan
turned squarely to him. “No. I only have
feelings
.” Luthan sounded
irritated, both at the vagueness and the fact that feelings weren’t logical.

“Hunches?”
Faucon said.

“Ayes.”
Luthan’s lips narrowed. He closed his eyes.