Prince of Swords (18 page)

As they slogged forward, he said to Rayne, “It seems no one can be trusted.” Not Segyn, not a beautiful woman seemingly in distress…no one.

“I trust you,” Rayne said simply and honestly. “Perhaps I can rely on no one else, not until this war is over, but I do trust you, Lyr.”

His heart sank, and he felt more a traitor than he had when he'd gone hard with Beatrisa's mouth over his cock and her visions of lust in his head. “Don't,” he said softly. “Don't trust even me.” In the distance the howl which had haunted this night came again.

P
HELAN CAME UPON THE WITCH WHEN THE SKY WAS
touched with gray. He was close behind his prey, but the fact that they were horsed and he was not did not work in his favor. No matter how hard he tried, he could not catch them, and seeing the witch, bound unnaturally as she was, only angered him. He'd been running most of the night, splashing in muddy waters, fed and protected by the unnatural energy of the Isen Demon. And still, he had not caught them.

For hours he'd been oddly optimistic that at any moment he might come across the witch Beatrisa and two unconscious victims, but instead he found the witch trapped much as he had been, caught up in the limbs of a tree which served Ciro's bride.

Beatrisa had attempted to burn away the limbs and had been successful in some cases, but she'd also scorched herself here and there during the inexact process. The beautiful witch was clearly frustrated when Phelan found her caught in twisted limbs, covered with mud and spots of burned flesh and cursing more loudly and vividly than any Circle Warrior he had ever heard.

The witch instantly recognized Phelan as one of the demon's servants. “Release me,” she commanded confidently.

Phelan stood a few feet away and studied her. “You worthless bitch, you've failed miserably at the one task you were given. Why should I waste my time freeing you?”

Her answer was to send a weak spit of fire his way, a bit of flame he easily sidestepped. The spark fell to damp ground and sputtered before extinguishing with a gentle pop. “How long have they been gone?”

“I don't know,” she said as she struggled. “I almost had the man where I wanted him, and then the next thing I know, I am tightly bound and separated by several feet.”

“He stopped time,” Phelan explained. “You should've seen that trick coming, you pitiful hag.”

“He should've been mine,” she whispered.

“Perhaps you overestimated your charms,” Phelan said as he examined her naked body beneath the twist of limbs.

Beatrisa's cold glare made clear what she thought of his statement, but then she ignored it and continued on. “It was the woman who called my own tree down to bind me with its limbs. I would've been free hours ago if not for that bit of magic. She parted the water with her breath, and called upon these limbs to bind me. What manner of witch is she?”

“I'm not sure,” Phelan responded. A powerful one, one the Isen Demon wished to use for himself.

Beatrisa lifted her pretty blue eyes to him, beautiful eyes which concealed her age and her hate and her dark magic. Perhaps she didn't realize that through the demon which connected them, he knew her well. She'd used those eyes and her fine body to seduce many a man to his death, and she was foolish enough to think they would work on him. “Free me, and I will reward you well.”

Phelan laughed loudly. “I have no need of your reward.” He remembered Gwyneth and for a moment wished that he had not killed her. When he had his own army, he'd need women, too. He should've made her his slave instead of strangling her, and kept her for a while.

Beatrisa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I smell my sister on you. You should've waited for me, if your aging body only allows for one hard cock a month. I'm much more desirable than she. I'm prettier, I'm smoother, and I know tricks that would make poor Gwyneth blush to her toes.”

She was trying to get a rise out of him…one way or another. “I killed your sister when I was done with her.”

Beatrisa smiled. “All the more reason to free me and take me with you.”

He didn't have time to worry about this pathetic, useless creature. He walked past the witch, following the path Lyr and the woman had taken. Eventually Beatrisa would manage to free herself. If not, she'd tire and the crocs would get her. “I haven't the time to waste on a miserable failure such as you.”

She screamed as he walked away, and he found her reaction amusing. Phelan plodded through the swamp for a while and then he ran, splashing up the shallow water, his eyes focused straight ahead. He had been entrusted with a very important task, and unlike the witch he'd left behind, he would not fail.

Even the snakes kept their distance, as if they sensed that he was more dangerous than any of them.

 

R
AYNE HAD NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY TO SEE SUNLIGHT AS
she was when the sun rose over the last of the swamplands. With the sun came hope. With light came promise. With this day came welcome solid ground.

She still had not forgiven Lyr, not entirely. He hadn't succumbed to the nymph's blatant attentions, but for a moment, a very long moment, there had been an expression on his face that she wished to be reserved only for her. It was an expression that spoke of need and promised pleasure, of burning desire and uncontrollable yearning. Of lust. She had seen that expression in his eyes before, and foolishly she had thought it meant more than a man's easy arousal.

If she had not been there, watching as the witch tried to seduce him, would he have succumbed to her wicked spell? Would he have lain with the nymph in the mud and muck, amid the decay of the swamp?

She could not answer that question with any authority, and that concerned her. Lyr said she could not trust even him. Was he right in that statement? Was she more alone than she imagined?

Rayne tried to push the disappointment out of her mind. With everything that had happened in the world of late, her apparent poor choice in love was of little consequence. It wasn't as if Lyr had promised her anything, it wasn't as if he'd sworn undying love to get what he wanted from her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed determined to make her accept the fact that he did not care for her in any way other than the physical. Even more so since he'd been forced to kill Segyn.

His features seemed to ease a bit as they moved onto drier land. She suspected he would never know true ease again, that he had indeed been burned by the betrayal of his friend, but she was glad to see the hardness of his jaw diminish a bit, she was glad to see his fine mouth not so hard, at least for a while. She wanted to take his face in her hands and tell him again that she loved him, to see the expression of longing that was hers, and hers alone.

Rayne longed, so desperately, to know Lyr in a time when there was no war, no mission, no duty to drive him forward. She longed to hold him without feeling as if every moment they shared was stolen. She suspected that what she longed for was desperately and irrevocably out of her reach.

By midmorning they were leading their mounts across tall grasses, not sloppy marshlands or endless puddles of muddy water. No reptilian creatures would be hiding beneath the grass, not the way they hid in the water of the swamplands. Yes, she much preferred solid ground. The skirt Gwyneth had given her was muddy at the hem, but still in better condition than the blue traveling dress she'd stuffed into one saddle bag.

When Lyr indicated with a rise of his hand that it was time to stop to rest the horses, Rayne dismounted smoothly, dropped to her knees, bent forward, and kissed the ground. It was an impulse she gave into without question, and when the soft grass tickled her cheeks and the scent of dirt filled her nose, she was not sorry. She remained there, face against the ground. She didn't care how she might look to Lyr.

Earth Goddess, Gwyneth had said. She still didn't believe that could be true. Perhaps she did possess some magic, inherited through her father and perhaps even through her mother. She did have a special connection with the land and things which grew upon it. Maybe she would even admit that it was possible she was a natural-born witch of sorts, but Goddess? Goddesses were not of this earth, she was certain, so how was it possible?

A voice whispered to her, and though it had been years since she'd heard that voice, she knew it was her mother who spoke to her as she pressed her face to the ground.

“You are a keeper of the land, and very much of this earth.”

Rayne held her breath and listened closely for more amid the long grass and sweetly scented soil. She needed sleep, her mind was spinning, and yet she knew that what she'd heard had not been her imagination or an illusion. After all these years, her mother spoke to her.

“You are
his
keeper, too,” the voice whispered, and at that, Rayne lifted her head to watch as Lyr gave his attention to the horses. She had no doubt about the subject of her mother's insistence, but the Prince of Swords was a man who did not need or want a keeper.

“His heart needs a keeper, a healer.”

Rayne sat up and watched Lyr, who gave the horses his full attention. He stroked their necks, checked their limbs, whispered to the animals words of thanks for leading them through the swamp. None could match him in battle, but there was more to life than swords and war. Even in war, life continued on. Perhaps he did need a keeper of sorts. Perhaps that keeper was her.

She knew the precise moment her mother's spirit left her. It was as if a physical presence departed. How many times over the years had her mother attempted to speak to her? Why had she never learned to listen? The dark energy of her father's house had interfered, perhaps, because here in the meadow so far away, wearing another woman's clothes and more than a little covered in mud, she heard very well.

Her fingers touched the gem at her chest, her mother's gem. If her father's pieces of gold jewelry held on to darkness, as Lyr had suggested, maybe this piece contained light.

Rayne sat on the soft ground, happy to be connected to the solid soil and glad to be surrounded by tall, soft grasses. A yellow butterfly lighted on her hand, and she smiled. Another followed, this one smaller and a bit brighter in color than the first. In spite of all that was happening, she couldn't help but smile. Yes, life went on even in the midst of war.

Lyr spun around quickly, drawing his sword smoothly and moving toward her with haste. A heartbeat later than he, Rayne heard what had alarmed him. A footstep and a labored breath.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Segyn approaching, a drawn sword in one hand, a length of decaying wood from the swamp in the other. His eyes were crazed, and he smiled. Lyr ran toward her, and toward Segyn, but he was too far away. She tried to rise from the ground but it was too late.

“Not this time, bitch.” With that, Segyn swung the length of wood at her head.

 

H
E WAS SO SHOCKED TO SEE
S
EGYN, HIS REACTION AL
most came too late. Lyr called upon his magic and swung his sword, and the sturdy limb his old friend had been swinging stopped inches from meeting Rayne's head and likely killing her. There was great force behind that attack.

Everything stopped. The butterflies which had flown from Rayne's hand as she'd tried to rise, the grass which was bent beneath the pull of her skirt, the horses which had dropped their heads to eat. All stopped, all but him.

Lyr moved forward cautiously. He no longer trusted anything, not even his own magic. Even though he had been honing his craft for years, he could not always control the amount of time all was frozen. Time sometimes moved forward on its own, unbidden, but he usually had at least a few minutes to do what had to be done.

He moved Rayne out of harm's way first, and breathed a sigh of relief when Segyn's weapon was no longer upon her. He placed her several feet away, in a position that looked as if it would be comfortable enough when time resumed its forward march. When that was done, he faced Segyn, a man he had called friend for years, a warrior who had taught him much of what he knew of battle, a traitor who was not what he'd pretended to be. A man he'd killed once.

There could be a quick end to this fight. A sword through the heart while Segyn was immobile would end it, but Lyr hesitated. He'd taken that route before, stabbing Segyn while the man had been helpless, and it had tasted bitter for days. It tasted bitter still. There was no honor in delivering such a death. Was that why the man had come back from the dead? Was Lyr being punished for delivering a less than honorable death to the once honorable warrior?

No, Segyn had never been honorable. He had only pretended, and though he had pretended very well, he was not, nor had he ever been, a true and worthy warrior. Obviously the wound Lyr had delivered had not been fatal as it had appeared to be, and in his drugged state he had simply not realized the fact.

No matter what the case, Lyr's own honor had been tarnished by offering such a death. It had seemed the only way at the time, but now that he had the chance to face his enemy in a fair fight, it was only right to take it.

Lyr did not need the wave of his sword to start time again. That was the easiest way, it took the smallest amount of energy, but he did not wish to move the point of his sword away from the enemy. Segyn, the enemy. That combination of words still took some getting used to. They still stung. Segyn, the enemy.

Lyr called upon his magic again, and with a brief flicker of his fingers, time resumed. Segyn's swing continued mightily, spinning the man around with great force, as the object of his weapon had been moved. Segyn spun wildly, lost his balance, and fell. He landed on his back as Rayne screamed briefly.