Prince of Swords (3 page)

As far as he knew, Rayne was like the Ksana flower. Beautiful, sweetly scented, and deadly.

If his men found the crystal dagger, he would not be obligated to accept her proposition and take her into his protection. If they did not…well, he would address that when and if the time came.

Rayne yanked against one chain. “Jiri kept the key to my shackles with his belongings.” She pointed, and her chains rattled. “Over there.”

Lyr nodded his head but did not rise from his chair.

“Aren't you going to release me?” the girl asked, indignation in her sweet voice.

“Not as of yet,” Lyr responded calmly. “I haven't decided what to do with you, Rayne daughter of Fynnian.”

Anger flashed in her dark eyes. “I thought you were an honorable man.”

“I am honorable.” He smiled. “But I am not gullible.”

Again, tears slipped down her cheeks. Lyr studied the tears, unaffected by the display.

“If you would leave me here, then you are no better than Prince Ciro,” Rayne spat in anger.

Lyr's smile died quickly. From all he had learned of Ciro and his plans, she had just uttered the greatest of insults.

T
HE JOURNEY TO
A
RTHES HAD TAKEN LONGER THAN HE
'
D
imagined it would, thanks to his maddening traveling companion. Diella was insatiable in every way. She needed comfort, food, sex, and the drug Panwyr, and worse, she talked almost constantly.

Ciro would've strangled her with his bare hands if the Isen Demon had not forbidden it.

Diella was as yet unaware that she carried a special child within her. The child was the product of the former empress as well as the body she'd taken. It was the babe of the man Ciro had once been and at the same time it was the creation of the Isen Demon, which now ruled Ciro's body and mind. The child within Diella would not be as powerful or special as the son Ciro and Rayne would make when the time came, but it had a part to play—or so the demon claimed.

“Finally.” Diella's single word spoke of disgust and impatience as they topped a small hill on the horses which had carried them so far. Ciro knew she would not be satisfied with a
single word
, not in this or any other situation. “At last the palace is before us. I will have a proper bath straightaway, and new gowns will be made, and I will demand a soft bed with an energetic sentinel and a proper and thorough fucking.”

The body of the young girl Lilia, which had been taken by Diella's soul months ago, had once been vital and beautiful. The scar Ciro had left on Lilia's cheek did not fade, but grew deeper and redder with time, as if it had become infected deep below the flesh. There was still some beauty left on that young face, in spite of the scar, but the vitality was being sapped day by day, sapped by Panwyr and hard living and constant travel.

And by the babe,
the Isen Demon whispered.
The babe takes much.

Their horses at a standstill, Ciro studied the palace which rose in the distance. That imperial palace had been his home, his only home, for twenty-two years, before the demon had taken him. If there had been much of the man he'd once been left in his body, he might have felt some warmth or comfort at the sight, but he felt no warmth these days, not for anything or anyone. Within the stone walls of that tall, austere palace there waited his father the emperor, who would soon be dead. There awaited the throne from which he would begin his rule.

Suddenly a darkness crept into one corner of Ciro's mind. He was able to see through the eyes of his Own when he so chose, and though he could not immediately tell where or how, some of his soldiers had very recently been killed. They no longer saw anything. He tried to place the darkness. His army had suffered some losses in weeks past as they fought against his father's sentinels, but the loss he sensed had not come from that quarter.

No, the loss came from much farther away; it came from the mountain home where his beloved Rayne waited for him.

He could not see through her eyes. She was pure; she was not one of his Own. Not yet. Did she live? Or had she died with those whose command had been to protect her at all costs?

Ciro turned his horse about. He was so close to the palace, and Rayne—if she lived—was so far away. But without her, there would be no special son. She was to be his empress; she had been promised to him from the beginning.

She lives,
the demon whispered in his mind.

“How can you be sure? If I can't see—”

Do you think you are my only instrument, Emperor Ciro? You might be the strongest, the most promising. You might be my most powerful general in this war, but you are not my only vessel. Others watch. Others will see that your bride comes to you.

The startlingly clear vision in Ciro's mind was one of dark tendrils rising out of the ground all across the country, and beyond. Those tendrils claimed and took charge of willing—and sometimes unwilling—bodies. All across the land, by the sea and in the mountains and in the swamplands, those vessels waited to be called.

Take the throne, and Rayne will be delivered to you in good time.

It was Diella's grating voice which interrupted the demon's promises.

“Stop dithering about. Let's go claim what is rightfully ours.”

Ciro would only stand so much, even from this woman. “I will claim what is rightfully mine, and you will take what I see fit to give you.”

“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, waving her hand in his general direction. “Let us go and claim what is rightfully yours, my lord emperor.” Her smile was brilliant, only slightly crooked thanks to the scar.

 

R
AYNE WAITED PATIENTLY, QUITE SURE THAT NONE OF
Lyr's men would find the crystal dagger.

Her heart beat too fast and hard. It had been a long time since she'd thought about the dagger her mother had made so many years earlier. It had been a long time since Rayne had seen the weapon, and yet the details of the workings remained clear to her. Not only was the hilt made of a murky crystal, but so was the blade itself. The entire weapon had been carved from a crystal which was abundant on this very mountain. Rayne hadn't known it was possible to fashion such a dagger, but her mother, who never seemed to care much for weapons at all, had spent more than a year crafting the dagger this man sought.

She'd also kept her workings a secret, from her husband and the servants of this household. Even after death, Rayne had continued to keep that secret. Until now.

From above, the invaders made horrible, destructive noises. By sound alone she could tell that they tore apart furnishings and broke down walls. She should have been outraged, but was not. This house had ceased to be home long ago, and when she left here, she could not look back with any fondness. Would the soldiers find the dagger on their own? Possible, but unlikely. Her father was quite proud of his ingenious and secret hiding places, and Rayne had one of her own. So had her mother.

Rayne knew that her father likely had many secret hiding places she had never known of. For the most part, she did not wish to know what her father hid from her and others. While he had never confessed that his magic was of the dark sort, she knew Fynnian was not a good man. She knew that her father studied and practiced the darkest of enchantments.

But not her mother. Her mother had been light and good, and since she had crafted the crystal dagger with her own hands, then it, too, must be meant for goodness.

The swordsman who might be the answer to all her prayers seemed quite content to sit comfortably and wait for his men to complete their task. He did not seem the dark sort, but if he would ride away and leave her here, chained to the wall, alone and helpless…if he did that, then he was most definitely not an honorable man.

But if he agreed to see her to a safe place in exchange for the dagger, then she'd be in good hands. His four had beaten Ciro's eleven, and when Jiri had turned his sword on her, Lyr had responded very quickly. She'd been so sure she was about to die, and then…

“Prince of Swords,” Rayne said, making conversation while his men searched above. “What sort of position is that?”

“In Tryfyn, Prince of Swords is the leader of the Circle of Bacwyr and war advisor to the King.”

“What is the Circle of Bacwyr?” she asked.

“A brotherhood,” he answered simply.

“A brotherhood of warriors?”

“Warriors, wizards, and a few witches.”

“And you lead them all?”

He sighed gently, as if he were already tired of her questioning. “I lead the warriors, as did my father before me.”

“You inherited the position when he died?”

“My father is very much alive. He stepped down from the position and now serves as an advisor.”

“Tryfyn,” she said, her tone conversational, as if she were not in chains and he did not hold her very life in his hands. “That accounts for the accent, I suppose.”

“I have no accent,” he replied. “Yours is quite lovely, by the way.”

She did not argue with him that he was the one who spoke oddly, not her. Now was not the time. “You have mighty responsibilities for one so young.”

“I was born to those responsibilities,” he said, only slightly defensive. “And I suspect that I am older than you.”

“Not by much, I'd wager.” Since it was clear that he was a bit touchy about his young age, she let the matter die. Since he led men much older than himself, she could see why he might be sensitive about the subject.

Even though he was young, he did not appear to be foolish or capricious. His eyes were quite steady; they were narrowed and piercing and seemed to see all. They did not flicker with uncertainty or flit about. No, they were unwavering, ancient eyes set in a face which had not seen its first wrinkle. He moved as if he were in tune with his body, as if he would never make a misstep or stumble, as if he never wasted a motion or a word. If an artist were to draw the perfect male form, it would likely be just like his, strong and yet somehow beautiful—except for the hard eyes, which were much too piercing to be beautiful.

And yet those eyes were alive and real and she could almost see the soul resting there. In that way, he was very much unlike the man who claimed her as his own, and unlike her own father. She could entrust him with the dagger her mother had fashioned…couldn't she?

Certain that the men above wouldn't find the dagger, Rayne attempted to relax. Silent once again, she studied Lyr, Prince of Swords, from his short dark hair down to the tips of his dusty and very large boots. She had been sequestered in this house all her life, and had not known any men of this particular type. Her father's infrequent guests were usually older and more scholarly. In her latter days of freedom she had seen more armed men about the place, but they still had not been quite like this. Ciro had arrived young and handsome and fit, but he had never struck Rayne as being reliable and steady. Instead he was like the plants which grew wild and choked out the flowers, like a vine which sucked the very life from the tree it wrapped itself about. She shuddered at the picture of the face that came to her mind. No, young as he was, Ciro was not of this sort, not at all.

Lyr was a soldier through and through, a fighter, a champion.
Her
champion, perhaps? Was he truly a good man? Was he capable of protecting her from whatever Ciro had become?

What had Ciro become? He was no longer of the natural world, of that she was certain. His promises to eat Jiri's soul and drink his blood remained with her, as if he had just uttered the words in her ears. And Jiri's insistence that she must remain pure so Ciro could give her a special child on their wedding night was just as chilling. Most women might be pleased to know that a handsome prince wished to wed and impregnate them, but they had not looked into Ciro's eyes and seen the darkness there.

If she were not so pure, would Ciro still want her? Could she somehow make herself unattractive to him, and in doing so save herself from his intentions? Surely there were other women in Columbyana and beyond who possessed the pure soul Ciro seemed to need, women who would welcome his attentions.

No. Rayne shuddered. No decent woman would welcome those attentions, not from one such as Ciro had become.

She did wish to marry and have children someday, but she did not wish for them to be Ciro's children. She certainly did not wish to share a bed with him.

Though she was a quiet and well-behaved woman, Rayne had always kept her eyes and ears open. In the past there had been many female servants living in this house. Her father had even kept a mistress here for a short while, but that odd woman had left in the middle of the night and never returned. In listening to the other women in the house as they spoke of personal matters, Rayne had discerned that lovemaking could be nice enough if the man was gentle and thoughtful.

Ciro would be neither, she suspected.

The man she studied now, the man who held her life in his hands…she wasn't yet certain about him, but she did not believe him to be evil, as Ciro was.

Hours passed, and Lyr Hern did not move from his chair, did not seem anxious about whether or not his men would find what they sought above stairs. The light outside Rayne's tiny window died as night fell. Gradually, the sounds from above lessened, as the men from Tryfyn ran out of places to destroy and search.

Segyn, the stocky bald man, finally came downstairs. The failure was easy to read on his face. “Nothing, my lord.” His eyes flickered to her. “Should I pry the truth from her?”

It was a fear Rayne had not yet thought to suffer, that they might try to force the information from her through torture or intimidation. Fortunately she did not suffer that fear for very long, as Lyr shook his head at that proposition.

“No. In the morning, Rayne will lead us to the dagger and we will escort her to a place of safety, as she requests.” With that, he turned to head for the stairs. “Don't leave her alone. Set up a watch so that she is under constant guard.”

“You plan to wait until
morning
?” Rayne snapped, yanking once against her chains. “You're going to leave me here all night?”