Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
WINDSONG
W indsong castle was built on a cliff. The ocean crashed on one side, its sea foam fingers reaching for the impenetrable stone walls towering high above. The city lay cocooned at its feet on the other.
The ballroom was on the east side, the terrace open wide to the cobalt sea beyond. It was here that Sage was to meet her dance partner for the day. It was here that she may find herself done for.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the briny air, listening to the waves bash themselves against the jagged rocks below.
Was the queen just a curious creature by nature? Delighting in spontaneous antics that shook up the monotony of court life? Sage wouldn’t blame her. She could only imagine how dull it might get.
Not that she would know. Didn’t care to. Though she knew that’s exactly where her cousin wished her to end up. Seated among these people. If not above them.
Sage didn’t know exactly what sense picked up on him. Not sight or smell or sound.
But, there…like a fine silken strand in a great web had snagged, he r body locked up. Same as it did when she stepped into the courtyard last night.
She opened her eyes and turned from the terrace.
He moved with lethal grace and surety, scanning the ballroom as if he were walking onto a battlefield. Sage watched him through the filtered light, taking in the powerful lines of his body as his muscles shifted beneath his clothes–marked where he kept the weapons.
A blade in each boot, another stitched into a seam of the coat, just above the wrist. That was to say nothing of the rapier blade housed in the ornate walking cane, hitting the marble in time with each step.
He was observing her in a similar fashion, those intense eyes missing nothing.
Interesting...
Sage had been here for three weeks now, and not a single male had checked her for weapons. Any perusal of her body had stemmed from entirety different curiosities.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She grinned as he stepped onto the terrace.
The bright sun only enhanced his features, emphasizing his angular bone structure, weaving its light through his raven hair, making his eyes mere reflecting pools of the undulating sea around them. Achingly handsome. So attractive it was difficult to not stand in awe of his perfection.
“You have a small knife sewn into your belt, and a hairpin that could slit a throat with barely a thought.” Bastian stepped up to her, so close she could now make out the black flames that flared from around his pupils.
He did not smell of oils or perfume, but of night-chilled mist and crackling embers. “Shall we begin?” He extended his hand.
Sage accepted his offer, took his hand, and let him lead her out of the sun into the ballroom. His fingers were calloused in all the spots where the hilt of a sword or a dagger might rest. Another interesting fact, Bastian LaGoryen used more than just his magic .
She shouldn’t be surprised, given how well versed his brother was in combat. The Warborn had been a group of only four for decades. Eirik LaGoryen took less than two months in Ventus to be accepted into their ranks.
For as much as Sage had heard of the more gregarious brother, she had discovered little regarding his dark-haired twin. Other than the basics. Bastian LaGoryen was a prince. An Elemental turned vampire from the House of the Dragon. Skilled at all four of the elements, and one of the Chosen Ones. An impressive pedigree.
Watching him last night had proven why there was little more for anyone to go on. The male was as guarded as they came. His smile was trained, polished to exactly the perfect degree of charm. His words were polite–only as many as needed to get out of a conversation.
But the way in which he moved…on and off the dancefloor, was intrinsic, effortless. As if the universe made room for him. A beautiful, living weapon. That was what Bastian LaGoryen was.
“What shall we demonstrate for them tonight?” He pulled her from her observations as they strode to the center of the dancefloor, their shadows mimicking them on the pristinely white walls.
An easy question. Her favorite dance, of course. “A waltz.” She let go of his hand and turned to face him. “Unless you prefer a tango?”
His eyes lit with something she couldn’t quite read, but it sent a spark racing through her. “Perhaps we will save the tango for the encore.” He started for the record player on a stand by the wall.
“You’re that sure we’ll win?” she asked.
The sly grin tossed over his shoulder was answer enough, but he said, “There’s only one thing I hate more than losing.” He selected a record and placed it, turning back to her. “Losing to my brother.”
Her breath caught at the mischievous nature of that grin. She suddenly wanted to know what a full, genuine smile would look like on his handsome face.
She pushed aside the electric humming of her body, and willed her magic tapping just under her skin to heel. She’d made it this far, passing just under the radar. No need to blow it all with one simple waltz.
He walked back over and extended an arm, an invitation to begin dancing.
Sage had the strangest feeling she was about to embark on so much more.
She quieted her overactive mind and stepped into his dance frame. Every nerve in her body ignited where his hands touched. As if he had lit tiny fires atop her skin, just under his fingers.
Sage pushed the unnerving sensation aside and focused on the music drifting into the room. The haunting score was full of sorrow and longing. This was just another dance. Same as all the others. He was just another male. Same as all the others.
She relaxed into his strong hold and abandoned herself to the music.
He moved them in time, slow at first. Obviously testing her ability to follow. For she was certain it was not for any doubts in his lead.
She sank deeper into the gentle pull of the melody, allowing her body to communicate openly with the wordless conversation of the dance.
Bastian syncopated their rhythm, quickened their steps, commanded the music. Molded the dance into the moving sculpture he wished it to be. Painting the dancefloor with the brush strokes of their feet.
Sage’s stomach turned lightly, as if she were diving off a cliff in a giddy arc. Each turn swirled her skirts around her ankles in eddies of silk. She laughed, or perhaps it was a gasp, when he swept her across the empty ballroom. The waves outside provided a heavy downbeat against the cliff. Two bodies fused as one–their breathing, their movement, this dance… As easy as the breeze rolling in off the sea.
The music drew to a swift and dramatic end with a flurry of violins and strings. He took advantage of each and every beat, only releasing her to spin out ahead of him when the crescendo broke .
Sage pivoted in time to the softening chords and dropped into a low curtsy before him as the last whispers of the song faded from the room.
Her breathing unsteady, hair falling free around her face, she held her position until the record stopped, the ocean outside the only sound.
Slowly she lifted her head. A few feet away, bent in a regal bow before her, Bastian lifted his.
His eyes, depthless and still as a forest pool, met hers. In that brief snapshot of time, both of them suspended low over the marble dancefloor, something was awoken and laid to rest in his gaze.
She didn’t have a chance to ponder what it was. Not as some emotion in those blue orbs shifted.
“Your eyes are green,” he remarked.
“Ish,” she replied, her standard answer to the question.
At a passing glance, or depending on the color of clothing, they could pass for brown. Up close, though, the green dominated, enhanced by the distinct gold ring around her pupils. The same color as her cousin’s.
Bastian didn’t relinquish his stare as he rose upright and came toward her. And something in his gait–a prowl–made her straighten.
He stopped in front of her and angled his head, thick ebony hair sliding over his brow. “Unusual,” he said.
The ballroom doors swung open. “I heard everything you said, LaGoryen,” the princess’s singsong voice called out, “I’m just choosing to ignore you.”
“All I’m suggesting is that we keep it simple,” Eirik’s deeper voice followed.
Sage turned as Bastian’s brother stepped over the threshold behind the princess. “Ah, brother. Lady Kerrington.” The redheaded twin smiled. “I was just telling Her Royal Highness here a cha-cha might be out of place for our dance tonight.”
“Nonsense,” Princess Mekale countered. “Mother said we could pick any dance.” She nodded resolutely. “I say we shake things up. ”
“The cha-cha?” Bastian raised a brow at his brother, a grin on his mouth, as if he already knew the answer. “What other dances have you introduced to Ventus, Eirik?”
The larger twin’s smile grew. “Everything Latin American.”
“Cha-cha is my favorite!” the princess exclaimed. “Second only to samba.” She beamed at Sage. “You have to learn them.”
Sage smiled politely, but before she could answer, footfall sounded from down the hall. Heavy, purposeful steps. Two sets of them. Headed in their direction.
Both bothers tensed when two of the Warborn, Fenrir and Chogan, marched in, stone-faced.
“The king wants us,” the latter said. Eirik was already moving for the door. The golden-skinned warrior looked at Bastian. “You, too.”
T he wind had done a good job disrupting the scene of the attack, but a hint of the stench remained–burned flesh.
Fenrir crouched down and spread his hands in front of him, inches over the charred ground. He closed his eyes.
Eirik and the others hung back, well outside the circle of destruction, and watched. No one uttered a word as various emotions pulled at Fenrir’s brow, his mouth, the muscles in his back.
Eirik didn’t envy his friend’s ability to see and control the elements of chaos. Not now, as the dark-headed fae read what he could from the aftermath. Especially when Fenrir jerked back, physically extracting himself from whatever energy he’d discovered in those strange ashen diagrams.
“Well?” Venderson pressed.
Fenrir shook his head. “There is no characteristic darkness here. No reason. No purpose. None that are known to this realm. None that are found in the hearts of any animal. At least, not any I know.” He looked to King Calian. “But it’s thick. As if this energy has had years, centuries, to amass. ”
“Does it have a purpose?” the king asked.
Again, that tightness pulled at Fenrir’s normally jovial face. “To consume. To what end, I do not know.”
“That gives us nothing new,” Venderson said.
“We have three survivors now.” Zaire looked the King’s Authority in the eyes. “That’s new.”
Venderson visibly recoiled. Eirik would have found more joy in it, had he not been so focused on Bastian’s reaction.
His brother hadn’t spoken a word since the king had told them of the newest occurrence: a witness. Not just a survivor, but a fae there when his comrade was taken. And who lived to tell the tale.
Not that he had much to relay. Only, a small child had approached, then morphed into mist and wind, and dragged his friend away.
There was only one problem with that story; nothing denoted anyone being dragged anywhere. The circle, other than being stirred by the elements, was intact.
Borgen knelt. “This symbol.” He pointed to one of the swirling marks. “I’ve seen it before. Carved into the side of a tree.”
“Where?” King Calian asked.
Borgen looked up. “The Arrows.”
“And you didn’t report it?” Venderson bristled.
Chogan answered the King’s Authority dryly. “If we reported every marking we came across on trees, or buildings, or ruins, we would have little time for anything else.” He turned to the king. “I’ll go with Borgen to the library. See if we can find anything that might help decipher it.”
Teakin spoke up. “Might Bastian and I be permitted to speak with the witness?”
“He’s already been questioned,” Venderson stated. “I don’t see– ”
“He hasn’t been questioned by anyone who shared his experience.” Zaire faced the king. “I can accompany them.”
Calian nodded. “Yes. Perhaps they’re experience can shed greater light on this new incident. ”
Venderson looked ready to object for a second, but then said, “Should I send a word to Hornhall?”
The king turned away from the scene. “Not yet.”
Hornhall
H is tread echoed out across the polished marble. This was it. It had to be. Their foolish ruse was at an end.
Archer would walk through those double doors at the end of the corridor, face his mother and Lord Ulrich, and be accused of treason. He only hoped whatever cell they put him in would be far away from the witch who had landed them there.
A godsdamned wyvern!
They’d found a godsdamned wyvern. And he’d given it to Katarra. He’d given a living relic to a godsdamned sociopath.
Archer pinched the bridge of his nose against the onset of a headache–a now familiar ailment when he thought of the female he’d staked his life on. What the fuck had he been thinking? First to let her kill that lord today, then to reward her with the first wyvern to be seen in nearly fifty years.
He deserved to die. Slowly.
Two guards turned from their post outside the council room and pulled open the heavy oak doors. Archer did not have to break stride as he transitioned from the bright corridor to the large windowless room.
A fire lay in the hearth, large enough to house a bull. A lion–eyes ablaze and roaring as it was speared by a knight–was carved into the mantel. It stared down at him as he walked to the table.
His mother sat at one end, Ulrich at the opposite. Four others were already seated between them, backs to the door .
Marvelous. Witnesses to his sentencing.
The four males stood as he approached. Three did so without haste. They were draped in flowing blue velvet. Wizards.
The fourth male rose at a more leisurely pace, clad from head to toe in fighting leathers and various weapons. Clearly not a wizard.
And by the way his hand hovered close to the dagger at his side–he knew how to use it. Not some lord’s untested son then. Here to cut his teeth at the tourney.
Archer reached out with his senses.
Not of this realm. Not fae .
It gave him hope. Perhaps he wasn’t being called in to die. At least, not today.
The others rotated to greet him. Lord Ulrich said, “Arch-wizard Kastor, Master Huron, and Master Matthias you know.” He motioned to the warrior. “Sterling LaGoryen, you haven’t had the privilege of meeting yet.”
Outwardly, Archer kept his face neutral. Inwardly, he cursed every god, past and present, for his rotten luck. Four realms… Four realms and countless territories, and one of Katarra’s blasted relatives was here, in Hornhall. Under the same roof with the infamous queen who was supposed to be dead.
Would Sterling LaGoryen recognize her? Even wearing a different skin. Would this male be their downfall?
At the head of the table, his mother smiled. A polished smile that reeked of court-trained cunning. “A dragon has finally come to Hornhall. Isn’t that exciting?”
Archer inclined his head as he pulled out a chair. “Quite.”
If LaGoryen took issue with Archer’s tone, he didn’t show it. “A pleasure to meet you.” He reclaimed his seat, and his gaze drifted to the Queen Regent. “Though, dragon only by house.”
Archer’s mother winked. “So far.”
Archer fought the urge to roll his eyes and reached for a bottle of wine. He poured a glass and sat down. Glancing to Master Kastor, the oldest of the three wizards, he asked, “Are you here to commiserate the passing of the late king?”
“We are,” the seasoned immortal said.
“And to test a ward of ours who has just come of age,” Master Matthias added. “Hanna is resting now. Such a taxing journey for one so young. But she will be ready whenever you are.”
Only a limited few in the realm could determine if magic was gifted to a child. Unfortunately for Archer, he was one of them. But they had others who conducted these tests. Master Wizards of their own. Surely, he hadn’t been summoned here to oversee such a mundane task.
“You wish me to assess the girl?”
The three wizards shared a glance before Master Huron answered. “She is an orphan. We know not who her family is. But there is some…” He cast another quick look to Master Kastor before continuing. “...Suspicion.”
Archer arched a brow. “Suspicion that her parents were rebels? Or suspicion that her bloodline might be pure?”
“Both,” Master Kastor said. “Either way, discretion is required.”
Archer took a swig of wine. “The sooner the better.”
“In a hurry, son?” his mother cooed. The silver Regent pin on her dress glinted under the chandelier lighting. “To get back to watching the champion?”
“She is a marvel.” Lord Ulrich’s eyes glazed with the fiendish glow they often got when talking about the contestant, Talon. “Did you hear? They found a wyvern today.”
All heads swiveled to Archer. He set his glass on the table. Hand hovering over the rim, he stared at the burgundy wine. “Yes, after she separated Lord Bermon’s head from his body.”
Master Matthias gasped. Master Huron muttered something in Latin. Arch-wizard Kastor said, “I would very much like to see the creature.”
“The wyvern?” Archer slid his gaze to him. “Or the champion? ”
LaGoryen laughed. The corners of Master Kastor’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “The beast. And the lady,” the elder said.
“The champion will be available after the next event. Later today.”
“If she wins,” his mother said snidely. Clearly she did not share Lord Ulrich’s favor for Champion Talon. “Lady Cashmitt’s specialty is knives.”
“Very well.” Archer downed the rest of his glass and stood. “ If she wins.” He plucked the wine bottle off the table and inclined his head to the masters and Sterling LaGoryen. “I’ll have to ask her about the wyvern.”
“Nonsense.” Hs mother placed a hand on LaGoryen’s arm. “I’ll take you all to see the creature myself.”
Archer turned for the door. “Yes, mother, you should do that.”
It might be the one time he didn’t ask Katarra not to maim or kill anyone. He smiled. Perhaps the golden eyed elite was growing on him. Or perhaps his loathing for the woman who spawned him was just expanding into reckless territory. Regardless, he’d give good coin to see anyone dare touch anything that belonged to Katarra Diaboli.
W alking into the stables, Katarra saw Anarchy thrashing his head back and forth, teeth bared, ears pinned flat. Two grooms were cursing and dodging those teeth from the opposite side of his stall door. A muck wagon had been parked outside of it.
The stockier male looked up anxiously as she approached. “He doesn’t want us to clean his stall today.” The groom barely moved his head in time, as Anarchy tried to bite off his ear. “I don’t know why. He usually likes to roll in the fresh hay.”
Katarra waved them away. “I’m taking him for a ride. You can do it then. ”
The lad exhaled and eagerly lifted the steaming wagon of horse shit, then jerked his chin to his assistant. “Let’s dump this and come back once he’s gone.”
As the two grooms headed out, Katarra chuckled and approached the stall. “What’s got you all riled up? Surely you’re not still upset about the overgrown lizard.”
She had left her newest pet in her chamber with a leg of lamb, and a warning pinned to her door. It read simply stay out . With a crude drawing of a headless knight bent over a log, a blonde female gleefully holding the head up by the hair. An easy enough directive for any passersby.
Now what she craved was a real ride. The one this morning with the imbecile crew didn’t count. Katarra knew she’d have to answer to Archer later for leaving without permission. But fuck him. The bastard had enough control over events as it was.
She took Anarchy’s bridle off the wall and walked to the stall door. “Seems you could use a better run, too.”
Katarra reached for the latch. The stallion lunged for her. “Hey!” She yanked back her hand.
Thankfully, the stallion was just posturing. He’d have taken a plug out of her if he really wanted to do so. Anarchy paced in front of the door, still agitated, guarding…
Katarra stepped to the right, trying to get a better view of the stall’s interior.
Between the angry swishing of his long tail, she could make out a form behind him. Then the stallion’s large head was in front of her again.
“What are you protecting?” she asked, daring to reach up and stroke his forehead.
He acquiesced, allowing her to touch him. His long black eyelashes fluttered, and his whole body relaxed into that touch. Unburdened by it.
Katarra continued to stroke his soft nose and again tried to peer around him .
A child… Huddled up tight as a ball in the corner.
She looked Anarchy in his big, depthless eyes. “Fucking softy.”
Katarra then spoke to whoever was hiding in his stall. “You might as well come on out. If my horse hasn’t chosen to stomp you to death, you must be worth keeping alive.”
Following the soft shifting of shavings and hay, a little voice, a girl’s, spoke confidently. “I need to get into the castle.”
“I am sure you realize that hiding out in here won’t accomplish that.”
“I was waiting for the right time.” The shadow moved closer to the light.
Anarchy lifted his head on alert, ready to take on anyone new to the stable. But surprisingly, he had not a care in the world for the urchin squatting in his stall.
As a pair of golden eyes came into view, Katarra asked, “What need do you have at the castle?”
“My sister and friends were brought here,” the little girl stated. “I wasn’t supposed to come, but I had to see it for myself.”
Katarra slipped the bridle over the stallion’s head. “See what?” She fitted the bit.
“If she has the powers.”
Ah, so the girl’s sister had been brought here to be tested for magic. Katarra pulled Anarchy’s forelock free of the browband. “Would you not learn that whenever she returned?”
“ If she returns.” The words were barely a whisper.
This might very well rank up there with one of the more fascinating conversations she’d had in this realm. One had to love the honesty of kids.
“Why would she not? Do you suspect she possesses a special gift?” Katarra continued to caress Anarchy’s muzzle.
“I just need to see her.” The girl said, a bit more clipped–impatient. Not an urchin then. Too self-assured. Brave. “Can you get me in?”
Katarra replied, “Why would you trust me not tell on you? ”
The girl stepped fully into the light of the stall, her dusky bronze skin a sharp contrast to her bright yellow eyes. “I trust your steed.” The child looked Katarra in the eyes, lifting her chin as she did so. “And you’re the only one he trusts.”