Song of the Fairy Queen (21 page)

Laughing, Kyri bowed out, leaving Gaia and the other three to continue as the drumbeat rang even faster before flinging herself down next to Morgan, flushed and smiling. It had been a long time since she had danced like that.

Morgan held out a cup of watered wine. “I thought you might need this.”

Propping her head on her hand beside him, gasping, she downed it gratefully and tossed her hair back over her shoulder.

The gleaming golden mass sprayed out across the grass.

Morgan caught a strand of it and the tight curls wrapped around his fingers. It was as soft between his fingers as he imagined the thin silk shift she wore would be.

Turning and spinning, the dancers’ feet flew as laughter rang off the trees.

One of the other women was the next to miss a step and then it was Gaia and the last woman.

Everyone clapped the rhythm now, some laughed while others took bets on the winner.

Kyri tipped her head back a little, intensely aware of Morgan’s touch, of his fingers in her hair.

Laughter was Gaia’s downfall. She was unable to restrain herself she dissolved into exuberant giggles, her arms around her ribs.

One of the men called out a challenge of tall tales and the stories flowed as the guitar and pipe played.

Morgan leaned his back against the tree, content to sit as he played with Kyri’s hair and simply listen to the tales told in the fire-lit darkness.

There was a great deal of laughter.

Unsurprisingly, it was Detrick who told the best story, a complicated tale whose conclusion had everyone roaring with laughter, Morgan and Kyri included. The man had a quick mind.

A lute played softly, and someone sang a soft and lovely ballad.

Some folks had already disappeared into the darkness, singly or in pairs.

When Morgan looked, he noticed neither Detrick nor merry Gaia were anywhere to be seen.

Caleb had already gone to his bedroll.

Morgan sighed.

As much as he wanted to ignore it, it was growing late.

Reluctantly, Kyri had to consider leaving as much as a part of her wanted to stay. Duty called her.

It was a long flight back to Oryan and an even longer ride, as she knew that Morgan knew. They both had responsibilities, but his were here.

Hers were not.

She tipped her head back to look up at Morgan.

The firelight was soft on the strong features of his face. Those crystal blue eyes met hers.

So light those eyes, so pale a blue, as bright as a Fairy’s wing.

Gently, Morgan brushed her golden hair back from her shoulder as he’d always wanted to do, his fingers skimming over the satiny skin.

“You have to leave,” he stated simply.

She shrugged a little, helplessly.

“I should,” she said with a sigh.

Reluctantly, she sat up and pushed the rest of her hair back over her shoulders.

Morgan got to his feet and offered her his hand.

With a soft smile, she took it and he raised her to her feet.

For a moment they were close, their bodies almost touched…

If they’d been anywhere but here with so many watching…

His fingers lightly brushing the back of her arm, Morgan escorted her into the darkness, to where the moonlight streamed through an opening between the trees. It was clear enough there for her to take flight.

Kyri took a step, two, as her wings unfolded, before she looked back at Morgan.

The moonlight lit his strong features and turned his eyes silver. Something within her caught at the sight of him.

Even as Morgan tried to find the words, a reason to call her back, she paused and turned.

She ran back quickly to press a soft, swift kiss to his mouth, her hands light on his chest, before she spun away once more. Her wings spread in one long stroke, then another, a third, lifting her from the earth. Halfway up she rolled to look back at him. Moonlight glimmered over her wings for only a second, a moment, a breath, before she completed the roll, dropping only a little before she swooped upward.

Morgan could still feel her lips on his as she disappeared into the darkness.

The great tent billowed over Oryan’s head, soughing softly as he bent over his desk to make notes. It was a soothing sound. The wind was picking up a little. It was likely to rain tonight. He looked up at it absently, smiling with distracted amusement. Once there had been a time when he wouldn’t have noticed a shift in the wind, much less known what it meant, but he was getting to know his Kingdom on a far more visceral and intuitive level than he ever had. Now he knew when a change in the winds meant rain, or not. There was that smell in the air, too, a dampness, the promise of showers. The farmers needed it, the ground was too dry.

He wouldn’t have known that either.

Geoffrey and Gwen’s people – his now – had become skilled at erecting the tent, setting it up quickly and tearing it down again just as quickly, so they could move on again, much like the rebel bands. After all, they’d learned it from them, as the rebels in turn had learned it from the Wanderers.

The tent had become more comfortable as well. The simple cot he’d used while hunting had been replaced by a frame bed, ropes holding the thin mattress in place. He had a small chest for his clothes. A single wagon could hold it, tent, bed, tables and all.

The King’s traveling castle, some called it. It even had a little flag in his colors that flew from the top.

Chuckling a little at the thought, he went back to his reports.

Unfortunately, there was nothing to laugh at there.

Haerold had moved on Dorset’s borders at long last and Oryan awaited word on the outcome. When last they’d talked, Philip had been considering surrender, to live to fight another day. He’d known full well he couldn’t face Haerold’s forces alone and Oryan couldn’t aid him. Not yet. Still, with all that Oryan was hearing from across the Kingdom, Philip might have been better off to fight rather than subject his people to Haerold’s oppressive rule.

His brother was also trying to bring the countryside under control as well, with little success thanks to Morgan, Morgan’s Marshals and the nascent rebellion.

That rebellion continued to grow despite, or perhaps in spite of, Haerold’s Hunters – those wolf-like men – who fanned out across the countryside, searching for him, of course, and for any sign of the rebellion. Sometimes they had wizards with them. Neither the Hunters nor the wizards asked gently, which only fueled the resentment, anger and fear of the people.

Morgan’s Marshals were the key there, too, stepping between the Hunters and the people of the Kingdom where they could. Word had come back to Oryan that the people saw Morgan especially – and Oryan by extension – as some kind of hero, someone to protect.

The only thing that concerned him was that it seemed Morgan seemed to be trying to be everywhere at once. He worried that the man was stretching himself too thin.

But then who wasn’t these days?

It was at times like these when Oryan missed Gwen the most.

She’d been his solace, had filled the emptiness inside him, eased the burden of his crown, had been his sounding board and held him in the night when the decisions he had to make were particularly difficult.

All he had left of her now was Gawain.

When was the last he had seen Gawain? When was the last time Oryan had looked to see his son? Frowning a little, he wondered how much time had passed. Weeks, months? In the life of a child, so much could change in that short time.

He pulled Kyri’s little silver bowl toward him, poured a measure of water into it, sifted the herbs over it and triggered the magic.

Gawain
.

Oryan wanted to reach out and touch the boy, his son, pictured in the cup playing tag with a group of other children, all of them of about the same age. Gawain was laughing. Happy. The woman Liliane watched as she weeded a small garden nearby, smiling fondly as her hoe worked the weeds away from some pole beans. Was it his imagination or had Gawain grown taller, ganglier? Surely he had.

Oryan bowed his head, here where others couldn’t see.

For his son alone he would do this, he would fight. If for no other reason so that Gawain might live long enough to grow into a man. So that some part of Gwen would live on in their son. For Liliane, too, who watched over his child for him.

And for all those who worried over the fate of their children in these dark times.

There were so many other sons and daughters that it seemed Oryan’s shoulders must bow beneath the weight of them.

He’d sent messages to other Kingdoms seeking support. At least one had sent back offering refuge – but save for that one few had responded with tangible aid, one or two with funds. Most waited to see what Haerold would do – what terms Haerold would ask or offer them, to see where their best interests lay. Oryan wanted to fault them for it, but he couldn’t. Not when he would have done much the same in their place, not wanting to interfere in another’s kingdom.

Whistles echoed through the woods, bird calls that weren’t from birds, asked and answered.

Oryan’s head lifted.

He’d grown familiar with them now too, and knew them well enough to know what they meant.

He banished the magic and put the cup away.

He had a visitor.

Someone was coming, passing through the intricate web of security that Morgan and Kyri had woven around him.

Now there was an ally who’d proven priceless. Kyri. She’d never faltered once, neither she nor any of her people, he blessed her and them for it.

Automatically, Oryan got to his feet as the door flaps went open and Geoffrey said, “Lord Jordan of Dorset.”

The boy stepped through, striding forward, his hand extended… a younger, slightly taller and more intense version of his father, his hair more reddish than Philip’s, but otherwise they were very much alike. Oryan remembered him from that spring visit. The boy had grown, it seemed, in only a few short months.

It was clear Jordan was upset, his eyes were reddened, his young face pale and set.

“My apologies, your Highness, for this sudden and unexpected visit,” young Jordan said, clearly floundering for the proprieties, the words tumbling over each other, “but my father is taken and I nearly with him…I would join cause with you, my Lord King.”

He tried to go to one knee to pledge his fealty, but Oryan held him up, Jordan’s words a shock.

“Say again?” Oryan said.

Only seventeen, the boy was barely old enough to claim his father’s dukedom.

“Haerold,” Jordan said, and now his voice was shaken. He was visibly overset and undone. “They met for parley under a white flag and still Haerold took him. Haerold’s men killed the guards, ran them through and they took him.”

Parley.

The shock was shadowed in the boy’s eyes.

He’d watched, helplessly, as his father was taken under a flag of truce, in violation of all the conventions.

Clasping the offered hand, Oryan drew the boy close instead, his hand over the boy’s neck as Jordan’s head fell against his chest.