Rejar (18 page)

Yaniff could not totally blame him for his attitude. Though he would not speak it out loud, the old mystic thought Traed had just cause. The boy had suffered greatly at the hands of his cruel father.

The repercussions of the Guild’s unthinking actions were coming home to roost. Traed refused to acknowledge their entreaties to take his rightful place within the Charl.

Yaniff sighed. Should the Guild discover the extent of Traed’s power, they would force the issue. A power such as this was extremely rare. They would never allow such a gift to lie fallow.

It was a situation that, if left alone, could cause much grief.

Traed was not one to be forced into anything. Better the man make his own discoveries.

“Can I not choose to visit my son without a reason?” Yaniff narrowed the distance between them.

The corners of Traed’s mouth lifted very slightly. He knew Yaniff too well. The old wizard never did anything without a reason.

He opened his eyes and stared at Yaniff standing above him. “What would you have of me?” he asked, casting aside pretenses.

Yaniff chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “I think I am getting too transparent in my old age.” He sat next to him on the rocky ledge. “Interesting view.”

“You did not make this climb to speak to me of scenery.” Traed was direct, if nothing else. His was the blunt honesty of a man who walked alone for most of his life. Under the present circumstances, it was a trait which worried Yaniff.

“No, I did not.” Yaniff replied truthfully. It was best to approach Traed directly. “You must go to Rejar.”

Traed’s pale green gaze shifted to the vista beneath them. “Why?” he asked calmly.

Patience had always been one of Traed’s finer points, Yaniff thought. An important quality for a high-level mystic. Especially for a high-level mystic who refused to acknowledge his abilities. “You are Chi’in t’se Leau to Rejar.”

Traed looked at Yaniff inquiringly.

“There is danger around him. His kind heart will lead him into trouble.”

Traed’s expertise with the lightblade was well known. He had been called an artist of the blade. But others could make the same claim. “Is there no one else?”

“It must be you,” was all Yaniff would say.

Traed did not relish the idea of leaving his mountain retreat. He was not sure he was ready to; as far as he could tell, he had come to terms with nothing. When last he saw Krue there had been shadows in the older man’s eyes when he looked upon him—the man who, by right of law, would have been his father had the Guild not interfered. Their ruling, made well before Traed’s birth, forbid Krue to acknowledge him as his son of the line.

It pained Traed for he loved Krue greatly.

Hence, for Krue and Krue alone, Traed said, “I will go.” For the first time in his life he would wear the cloak of his family’s honor. Ironically, the unacknowledged son would protect a favored son. As was his wont, Traed reflected on this aspect dispassionately.

“I expected no less. Guard him and guard him well, Traed. Nothing must happen to him. If it comes to it—your life for his.”

Traed nodded curtly. For Yaniff to ask such a thing was enough for him to know.

“I hear you, Yaniff, though I do not know if it falls to me, as you say. I will not be the cause of further disruption in the house of Krue—I will consult with Lorgin first.”

“Do so. The outcome will be the same.”

* * *

Traed stepped off the platform into the gardens of Lorgin’s home.

It was place of uncommon beauty. The peaceful surroundings filled him with a rare serenity. Sounds of enchantment surrounded him: crystal chimes, trilli singing in the trees, a gentle waterfall.

He walked over to the open doorway; there did not seem to be anyone inside. Was anyone here?

Since no one could observe him, Traed closed his eyes, concentrating on his inner vision until he saw a picture of Lorgin seated on a bench. He was behind the main trunk, several levels below by the small pool. Traed made his way there.

Lorgin, concentrating at the task at hand, did not hear him approach. Traed had never seen him so absorbed. “What is it you are doing?”

At the sound of Traed’s voice, Lorgin looked up, a huge smile on his face. “Traed! When did you return from the Sky Lands?”

“I have only just arrived, Lorgin. You need not prepare yourself to rant at me for failing to visit with you.”

Lorgin grinned. “Actually, I am glad you have come back on your own. Now I will not have to drag you out of there.”

Traed’s raised eyebrow said, as if you could.

“I vow, Traed, you choose the most inhospitable regions in which to lose yourself.” Lorgin teased him. “First Zarrain, now the Sky Lands ... Perhaps next time, you can take pity on me and go to a place more amenable. Mayhap an island in the Placid Lagoon?”

Traed snorted. “That is not humorous.”

“Come, Traed, if you must torture yourself, at least think of me.” He gave him a patent look. “The one who is always sent to retrieve you.”

Traed looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead, his green eyes glittering with suppressed amusement. Usually it was Rejar who had this effect on him. When Rejar set his mind on mischief, there were few who could resist his beguilement. One corner of his mouth curved. “I will think on it.”

“Ah! Then mayhap I will sleep tonight!”

Traed actually chuckled. “So what are you doing?” He nodded to the small piece of wood in Lorgin’s hand. It looked as though Lorgin was carefully mutilating it with the blade of his Cearix.

“It is called a toy. Adeeann says the children of her world play with such.” Lorgin lopped off a chunk from the bump at the top. “It is for the babe.”

Traed stared at the lump of wood. “What is it supposed to be?”

Lorgin proudly held up the piece. “You of all people should know since you lived on Zarrain so long! It is a prautau.”

“A prautau?” He squinted, trying to see a shape in the hacked up mess. “Where is its head?”

“Here.” Lorgin pointed to a protrusion bulging out on one side.

Traed was skeptical. “Then where are the feet?”

Lorgin pointed to six misshapen spindles sticking out from the other end.

“Prautaus do not have spindly little legs like that! Give it to me.” Lorgin gingerly handed over his creation. Traed removed Yaniff’s Cearix from his waistband and began to expertly whittle away at the wood. “Why a prautau?”

“Let us just say it has a special meaning for Adeeann and me.” Lorgin smiled slowly at the fond memory.

Traed paused briefly to look over at him, then resumed carving. “Where is Adeeann?”

“She went with Suleila to the village.” Lorgin leaned back against the trunk of the tree, lacing his hands behind his head. “She will be back for the evening meal. You will join us.”

It was a Lorgin invitation: one part request, three parts command. Traed nodded.

They sat in silence for a time; Traed working at the carving, Lorgin watching him out of the corner of his eye. Waiting.

Finally Traed spoke. “Yaniff has asked me to go to your brother.”

“Then you will go.”

“In your stead. I realize you cannot leave your zira now when she is so near her time. As your friend, I—”

“No.” Lorgin was going to put a stop to that type of thinking immediately. “In your stead. You have a responsibility to Rejar as I do to you. You are his brother of the line. If need be, you must stand for him. This is your place, your honor. You are his brother.”

Traed exhaled noisily. “Krue does not acknowledge me as such.”

“He cannot. But I acknowledge you. And so does my brother. We know who you are. In our minds and hearts, we are your family.”

Traed was deeply moved by Lorgin’s words. He could not speak.

Lorgin gazed into the pool. “I vow Traed, this request of Yaniff’s unsettles me. Rejar is well equipped to defend himself. In some respects, because of his Familiar abilities, he is more able than either you or I. The danger to him might be of the kind one cannot touch. This concerns me.”

“I would heed your words, Lorgin. There has always been truth in them.”

“Good—then I say you will go.”

They both knew Traed could not refuse the sacred trust. He was bound to go. Still, Lorgin had always had the ability to manipulate a situation to his liking.

Traed ran his finger down the edge of his blade, saying softly, “Since when did you get the idea you could order me about?”

Despite the ominous tone, Lorgin caught a glimmer of a smile on Traed’s face.

He raised a regal eyebrow. “Since I discovered I am the elder brother. Now, let me see what damage you have done to the babe’s only toy....”

Chapter Nine

London

She had no intention of “finding out,” as Prince Nickolai had so crudely put it.

Lilac gave herself one last cursory glance in her floor-length mirror. It was her wedding day.

The guests were below awaiting the bride’s entrance. Leave it to the Prince to get a special license! The banns hadn’t even been read. It was rather scary, the speed in which he moved. Once his Highness had made up his mind to be a groom, he was like a stampeding bull.

The analogy made her cringe.

No sense thinking of that.

No sense at all—because it wasn’t a white lacy veil she stuffed a stray strand of hair back under, but a moth-eaten cap.

Turning to view her backside, she looked over her shoulder at her reflection.

The stablekeeper’s son’s clothes fit her perfectly. Thank god the jacket was so loose—no one would suspect she was a woman in this getup. Except... did her hips look a bit rounded? Come to think of it, she had never seen a boy with such a curvaceous posterior. Lilac bit her lip.

“Oh, miss! I do wish y’ would reconsider!” Emmy stood behind her, wringing her hands. “Where will ya go? What will ya do? ‘Tis a bad business, I tell ya!”

“Oh, hush, Emmy! I’m just going to disappear for a while.” Lilac was hesitant to tell even Emmy where she was going for fear the Prince would worm it out of her. It was only a pure stroke of luck and an unusual visit from Lady Harcorte last week that had saved her.

Seeing Lilac’s distress, the kind woman had offered to shelter her for a time. “Until this ghastly mess blows over,” she had said. Lilac was extremely grateful. To throw off suspicion. Lilac herself had invited Lady Harcorte to the wedding—much to Auntie’s horror.

She was downstairs at this very minute, ready to carry out the ruse of consoling the Prince when he was left standing at the altar. Lilac thought it had been a very clever plan of Lady Harcorte’s and commended her on it. Lady Harcorte had smiled, calling her a lovely, naive little girl, who was much too sweet for the Prince.

There wasn’t much time left. She threw the sash on the window up and gingerly grabbed for the wide limb of the oak tree outside.

Lilac had never actually climbed a tree before, but how hard could it be? Her cat, Rejar, did it all the time. With one last push, she launched herself out the window.

A strong hand grabbed her ankle.

“Emmy, what are you doing?” she whispered frantically. “Let go!” She tried to tug her foot free from the powerful grip. Instead of being set loose, she was inexorably being drawn back into the room.

There was only one person she knew of who was that strong.

She clutched at the windowsill, refusing to let go. Unfortunately, by this time, she was back in her bedroom in a rather horizontal position, parallel to the floor. “Unhand me at once!” she ordered.

“If you say so,” the deep voice drawled. He released his hold on her and she fell in a sprawl to the carpet.

Throwing him a venomous look, she sat up, rubbing her backside.

Rejar knelt down on one knee beside her. He reached up, removing the lopsided cap from her head. Her hair tumbled down in total disarray, strands flying every which way. A smile quirked his sinful lips.

“I like this outfit you wear to your wedding.” The dual-colored eyes flashed with more than amusement. Lilac could swear she saw a hint of anger blossoming in the depths of those blue and gold eyes.

She looked away for a moment, worrying her lip. Just what would he do if he got really angry? Would it be better to push him into finally loosing his temper outright with her? He might call off the wedding then. Or, should she...

She wasn’t going to have the chance to do either, for Prince Azov simply stood up and tossed her over his shoulder.

“Ahhh! Put me down! You crude lout! You barbarian! Do you hear me?”

The entire assemblage heard her.

Lilac screamed and ranted down two flights of stairs, bouncing on the Prince’s broad shoulder.

Every head looked up to watch this unprecedented spectacle.

It appeared Miss Devere was to arrive at her wedding with her backside bouncing in the air, wearing a lad’s clothing, and shouting like a dockside whore.

The Prince, on the other hand, calm and collected, appeared impeccably groomed in a black cutaway coat, black pantaloons—which, the ladies noted, clung snugly to his muscular limbs—and a white frilled shin protruding from the deep V of his gold waistcoat. As was his style, the Prince was without his cravat. His gorgeous hair, of course, hung free.

The scene in its entirety was more than the spectators could have hoped for. Invitations for the wedding had been zealously coveted amongst the ton. It appeared his Highness was not going to let them down. This wedding would be talked about for ages.

“Don’t know why she picked him over me,” Lord Creighton sniffed.

Leona Harcorte glanced at the gangly lord out of the corner of her eye. “Incomprehensible,” she murmured in a sarcastic undertone that was completely lost on the obnoxious lord. She knew for a fact it had been the Prince who had done the choosing, but she had no intentions of sharing that actuality with anyone. Not that she would need to—anyone with a decent set of ears could plainly hear Miss Devere’s viewpoint on the subject.

Everyone except the nitwit next to her.

As Rejar passed by with Lilac howling from his shoulder, Creighton waved his lace-edged hanky in the air, affecting a laissez-faire attitude. “C’est la vie!” he shouted merrily at the pair. He thought the gesture combined with the fashionable french verbiage displayed him to great advantage.