A Tale Of Two Swords Part 4

Gil had wondered, on previous occasions, if he might have misjudged Dougla.s.s, having thought his meanness to be due to a man of his small stature being allotted such a small portion in life. But now, he concluded that Dougla.s.s was unfortunately entirely unpalatable on his own merits alone.

How was it, Gil asked himself, that he found himself connected to the pair before him? Penrhyn was an insignificant little country, and it exported nothing save the sour wine that some found a delicacy. Its kings were forever looking for ways to improve their situations, which usually entailed wedding their daughters to those who might pour money into monarchial coffers so the kings might import the things they desired instead of grousing about the fact that they couldn't produce the like themselves.

That had been one reason for Dougla.s.s's enthusiasm over Gil's betrothal to the quite tart Tiare.

Penrhyn also held, in a handful of quite inconsequential mountains, several mines of brencara, the sapphire gem that was quite necessary to the weaving of the spell of secrecy that covered the vale of Neroche. Gil's father had counseled him that it would be advisable to cement a supply of that rare gem far into the future. Gil was quite certain that the necessary spells could be cast with naught but his own two hands to aid him (indeed, he had proved that to himself the first time his father had suggested a match with the violently acerbic woman before him), but he supposed his father had, in his heart of hearts, been less taken by the fact that Tiare had also been one of the few who hadn't begged to wed Gil because of his fierce beauty (their words and not his), and the delicious peril of putting themselves in his questionable hands, than he had been taken by the thought of a steady stream of sour wine running into his kingly cup.

Either that, or his father had suffered a complete and utter loss of good sense and betrothed his eldest son to Dour Dougla.s.s's nastiest daughter after one too many gla.s.ses of that sour wine.

Gil couldn't have said.

All he knew was that he was committed to a course he was quite sure he no longer wanted to pursue, without an out in sight.

d.a.m.n it anyway.

He swung down off his horse with a sigh and nodded to his guests. "If I might offer you the hospitality of my hall?" he asked politely.

Tiare rolled her eyes, her father made a sour face and a noise to match, then they both clambered down off horses that had seen far too much wear. And whilst they were about their journeys to the ground, Gil murmured a spell under his breath. The strength of it took a good deal of his own, and it certainly hadn't been a proper job (there was a good deal of screeching coming from inside the corridor in which his name figured prominently in uncomplimentary ways), but at least most of the castle was again put to rights.

He hoped that hadn't been a mistake. If evil eyes had been watching, there had certainly been magic there to be seen.

"Here, wench, come take our horses," Dougla.s.s said, gesturing behind Gil.

Gil opened his mouth to speak, but given that his breath had been taken away by what he'd just done, he didn't manage it. He leaned against his horse for a moment or two, then found himself eased aside as Mehar took the reins from him. She looked at him briefly with all the expression wiped off her face.

"With your leave, my liege?" she asked.

He would have scowled at her, or at least reminded her that she hadn't been all that forthcoming with her details (though he supposed he should have been quick enough to know that the only horse breeder who could generate the kind of stallion Fleet was would indeed be Robert of Angesand), but he didn't, mostly because he didn't have the breath for it.

"Gilraehen, go bathe," Tiare said crisply. "You look no better than that filthy peasant there."

He looked at Tiare quietly, quite steadily, and with no lack of warning-or so he intended it. Tiare returned his look, quite unimpressed.

"Can you not try to look the part that is now yours?" she demanded. "Where is the cloak trimmed in ermine? The ruby encrusted scepter? The crown with diamonds and emeralds wrested from the mountains of Fhir Mhoil where dwarfs vie for the mere right to gaze at the map in the hall of a.s.syent and guess where the truest gems might be mined? I do not see it upon your head."

" 'Tis under his bed."

Gil looked at Mehar in astonishment as she walked past him without so much as a smile. She called to Fleet, clicked to his horse, then led off Tiare and Dougla.s.s's horses toward the stables as well. He stood there now without excuse. And as tempting as it was to leave those guests standing before his doors, he knew he couldn't.

"A better welcome we certainly could have expected," Dougla.s.s groused pointedly.

"I've been a bit busy," Gil said, then gestured toward his front door. "If you'll follow me, I'll see you settled."

"In heaven only knows what sort of unacceptable accommodations," Tiare said with a heavy sigh.

Gil said nothing more as he led them into the palace. It was almost overwhelmingly tempting to tell them to go find lodging elsewhere-say, in the next kingdom. He tried to lay his finger on a good reason why he couldn't, but the only one he dredged up was that his mother would have been unimpressed by his hospitality and sorely disappointed in his aforementioned comportment and attention to duty. He didn't think that was a good reason, but perhaps it was the best he could do for the moment.

Besides, it was his betrothed he led down the pa.s.sageway to the great hall.

d.a.m.n her anyway.

He tried to concentrate on what was being spewed at him but all he could think about was the fact that he really wished he was out in the stables, inviting Mehar of Angesand to sit whilst he tended their beasts-not showing Tiare of Penrhyn her chamber and listening to her tell him how it (and he) was lacking.

After waiting for his guests to be settled, he led them to the hall so they might soothe their complaining stomachs.

"Is there no supper waiting for us?" Tiare asked, aghast.

Hay, straw, a few choice oats. If those were good enough for their horses, wouldn't they be good enough for Tiare and her sire? Gil closed his eyes, took a deep breath to sh.o.r.e up his dwindling supply of patience, then ushered them toward the table. "If you'll take your ease, I'll see what Cook has on the fire."

"Do you have no servants?" Tiare asked, still quite unhappily surprised. "And your hall-has no one polished the floors? Scrubbed the walls? Cleaned the tapestries? It looks as if all your people have been on holiday for weeks instead of seeing to their tasks."

He would obviously have to work on that hasty spell he'd thrown together and add a bit of cleaning to it. He was actually quite impressed that the place looked as good as it did and that no one had suffered any cuts or bruises as the stones had replaced themselves in (mostly) their proper places.

"I'll go put the whip to the sweepers," he said dryly.

"I should hope so," Tiare said. She dusted her chair off, accompanied by several noises of disgust, then sat down, and looked around expectantly.

Alcuin appeared at Gil's side. He glared at Tiare and Tiare returned the glare. Gil thought it wise to excuse himself before he found himself in the crossfire.

"I'll see how supper is progressing," he said, making Tiare and her father a low bow, then escaping to the kitchens, wondering why he'd ever let his father talk him into having anything to do with the woman he quickly left behind him. He had supposed at the time that since he had to wed, he might as well please his father in his choice. Penrhyn was as good as any for the making of alliances.

Then again, so was Angesand.

He wondered if Mehar knew how very rich her father was, or how very powerful. It was no secret that Robert considered himself ruler of his own small kingdom on the edge of the southern forests. Mehar obviously knew little about her sire's reputation, else she never would have dared flee her home. The number of men Angesand could command with a mere frown was impressive. Why they hadn't come thundering down the road right after her, Gil didn't know. All the more reason to keep a close eye on her.

Though to what end, he couldn't have said, given that he wasn't free.

Would that he were.

He walked through the kitchens. "Penrhyn's here," he said, hurrying on his way. He heard something hit the wall behind him and surmised Cook had thrown a pot lid at him. "That could have killed me!" he bellowed back down the outer pa.s.sageway.

"Save me cooking a wedding feast!" came the response.

True enough, he supposed.

He walked along his preferred path that led to his preferred location and found that his steps were not as light as he might have otherwise wished. He slowed to a stop. What was he doing, going to find a woman he couldn't have? Thinking to pa.s.s any more time with a woman who couldn't be his?

He put his hand on the door to the stable, stood there for a very long moment whilst he wrestled with his duty, then sighed and turned away.

That was when he heard Fleet scream in anger.

He flung open the door and sprinted forward, coming suddenly to a skidding halt, sending straw and dirt scattering everywhere.

A man stood over Mehar, the dagger in his upraised arm gleaming wickedly in the lamplight. Fleet was cras.h.i.+ng against the stall door.

Mehar was frozen, a look of complete terror on her face.

Gilraehen cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I think you're trespa.s.sing."

The man turned, then snarled out a vicious curse.

Gil felt something akin to pity for the fool. If he'd had a better fortnight, he might have been kinder.

As it was, he suspected the man might pay for quite a few things that hadn't been his doing.

Chapter Five.

In Which Mehar Loses Her Heart in a Most Thorough Manner. . .

MEHAR sat on the floor and s.h.i.+vered. It wasn't just from the terror she felt, though that was certainly flowing through her abundantly. Nay, it was that she was watching Gilraehen the Fey prove all the rumors about himself to be true.

She'd come to the stables, removed the gear from Gil's horse, and put him in his stall. She'd done the same to Fleet, without lingering over his grooming as she usually did. A pity she hadn't. If she'd still been at her work, she would have had something in her hand, something she could have used as a weapon. As it was, she had turned from Fleet's stall only to face a man of grim and evil mien who announced himself with nothing more than a drawn dagger pointed at her. She'd tried to flee past him only to find herself thrown to the ground.

She'd tried desperately to draw a spell of protection around herself, but she'd forgotten the words, forgotten how Gil had taught her to weave the words, forgotten everything but her fear and the knowledge that she was going to die. Either at this man's hand or Hagoth's; it was inevitable.

And then Gil had appeared.

He had brought no sword, but apparently he hadn't needed one. He'd fought the bounty hunter with his hands alone.

Or with one hand, rather.

Mehar was torn between watching his good hand as it now made a casual motion that sent the man's knife flying, and staring in horrified pity at his withered hand as he held it to his side.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen that other hand. She had seen it after he'd worked the magic that had so suddenly and completely put the palace to rights. She'd seen it as he'd leaned wearily against his horse, his ruined hand tangled in its mane. He'd stood there, stripped of all the illusion she now knew he was capable of. A powerful magic, his, if he could maintain it about his person so easily.

The company from Penrhyn had obviously marked nothing amiss. Perhaps they'd been too busy complaining about whatever seemed to fall beneath their critical eyes. Mehar had counted herself lucky to have escaped before they turned upon her like ravaging dogs.

"Think ye can best me?" the bounty hunter demanded angrily, trying to lay his hands on Gil and finding it somehow quite impossible. Wherever he lunged, Gil seemed not to be; wherever he struck, Gil was no longer there. "Use both hands, d.a.m.n ye, and give me a fair fight."

Mehar found that her breath had returned, and with it a bit of her courage. "He's Prince Gilraehen, you know. He doesn't need two hands."

The man faltered and came to be standing quite still for a moment before he made the usual signs of ward she'd always seen accompany any talk about the eldest prince. Mehar couldn't help but laugh, though she supposed she might have been doing the same thing if she hadn't pa.s.sed the last few days in Gil's company and found him to be an ordinary sort of fellow.

When he wasn't about his magic, that was.

She looked again at the bounty hunter to judge his reaction to it all. He looked appropriately horrified and was still frantically making signs of ward against Gil.

And then, quite suddenly, the man wasn't there. In his place was a large, quite ugly, quite immobile spider. Gil, his breathing just the slightest bit labored, looked at her.

There was a wildness in his eyes that she might have feared, had it been directed at her.

"He's yours," he said.

"That's a very big spider," she said.

He lifted a single finger in the slightest of gestures and the spider shrank to something that could have easily been squashed under her shoe. Mehar looked down, then took a deep breath.

"I suppose something larger than he might eat him." She looked at him. "Do you think?"

He waited. When she said no more, he stepped forward and ground the spider under his boot.

And so ended the life of one of her father's ruffians.

Gil held out his hand and pulled her up onto her feet. From there, it was all too easy to go into his arms. She closed her eyes, breathed in his wildness, and felt it sink into her soul.

Far, far too easy, indeed.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head and s.h.i.+vered. "I'm not, but that is thanks to you. I wanted to use the spell, but I couldn't remember how to make it work."

"It takes time."

"I don't have time."

He ran his hand gently over her hair. "You have me to look after you until you master what you must. You have time."

She lingered for another exquisite moment, then pulled away, and took a step backward. She didn't have him; there was a woman inside the castle who would make certain of that. And she certainly couldn't ask him for his time when it was promised elsewhere. She looked up at him, into his fell eyes, and wished things were different. If she'd had her sisters' beauty, her mother's grace, her father's blessing and riches . . .

But how could she have ever expected the future king of Neroche to look at her and see past her stained fingers and flyaway hair?

"Thank you for the aid," she said, suddenly finding it easier to look down at his boots than up at his face. "I think I am unprepared for this."

"We all are, in the beginning," he said.

She looked up at that. "Trading the mage lessons for pasties," she said in mock disgust, trying desperately to find a lighter tone. "You are a terrible liar."

He smiled and the dimple in his cheek almost felled her where she stood. "I didn't lie. I did take him all number of treats, for then he would let me from my lessons early."

"Well, you seemed to have managed in spite of that."

He sobered slightly. "The magic in the blood cannot be denied. As you have found."

"You're hedging. You led me astray with that story, diverted me from finding out who you really were. And that business about your name," she said with a snort. "Gilford, indeed."

"It seemed worth the lie, to have you see me differently. I wanted the novel experience of being just Gil the Ordinary," he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "With you."

"And how was it?"

He smiled at her. "Much like you are. Breathtaking."