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StrandsofSunlight p {text-indent:0px;text-align:left}  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication www.ellorascave.com Strands of Sunlight ISBN 9781419917936 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Strands of Sunlight Copyright © 2008 Anya Bast Edited by Briana St. James. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication September 2008 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Strands of Sunlight Anya Bast Chapter One Arden Village, Galland, 1111 Rhiannon lay belly down, heedless of the damp earth soiling her tunic, and tried to coax the forest cat out from beneath the bush with a tiny bit of cheese from her pocket. The cat yowled and Rhiannon held the cheese out farther. The animal snagged it with a claw, then retreated deep into the cover. “Rhiannon.” The voice was low and menacing and one she knew all too well—Wen, son to Ada, the woman to whom Rhiannon was indentured. She should have been more vigilant. Clutching her herb satchel, she jumped up and whirled, coming face to face with him. A greasy tendril of his thick brown hair fell into one mud-colored eye. She didn’t like what else shone in those eyes—dark desire glimmered alongside cruelty. It was never a good combination. It was getting harder and harder to evade him. He’d been after her in earnest ever since her breasts had grown too full to bind. He grabbed her shoulders. Hard fingers bruised her flesh. The long, thin scar that she’d given him last time he’d caught her in the forest shone white against the sun-kissed skin of his face. “Let me go, Wen,” she said. “This time I won’t stop merely at scarring your cheek.” Rhiannon’s hand dropped to the small knife at her belt, but Wen beat her to it. He yanked it away and flung it into the forest. Damn! Her best knife! It would take forever to find it in the bushes. He dipped his head and brushed his cheek against hers. His fetid breath filled the space between them, causing her to gag. “This time I won’t stop, either. Don’t run, love. You’ll only be making it worse for yourself. We’ll give you a good bath. Wash that stink from you… You’ll be just fine to tumble.” “Never, Wen!” In anger and frustration, she kicked out hard to free herself. Her booted foot connected with his shin. He grunted in pain but didn’t let go, so she tore at his face with her fingernails, leaving a long red weal down his cheek. He let out a bellow of pain and released her. “Fever take you, witch’s spawn!” he yelled as she turned and ran. Rhiannon dodged low branches and skirted bushes, her boots slamming hard against the ground. Her cap flew off in her flight and, with a rustle, all the sasley leaves she’d gathered scattered to the forest floor. No time to worry over that now, Wen was fast on her heels. Her booted feet flew over the forest floor. “Rhiannon, we might as well get it over with, love.” Sweet Goddess! She could hear the sound of his exerted breathing not far behind although she dared not look back. She turned right in an attempt to lose him, but her feet slipped on some wet leaves. She scrambled on her hands and knees for moment before righting herself. Thay’s cottage was somewhere near here. A surge of hope quickened her pace as she neared his hovel. “Rhiiiiannon, where are you, my sweet?” His singsong entreaty, interwoven with cold laughter, echoed through the forest. Too close, she thought, way too close. She dove behind the huge trunk of a tree and hunkered down. Her quick movement startled a group of bush doves into an explosion of feathers and coos as they took to wing. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs and concentrated on steadying her breathing and not screaming with fear. Thay’s cottage lay just off to the right. Silence. Wen’s footfalls crunched through dead leaves, growing nearer and nearer. Rhiannon closed her eyes and waited for Wen’s rough hand to grasp her shoulder. “Wen, are you looking for Rhiannon?” called Thay. “Aye.” “What are you wantin’ with her, boy?” When Wen spoke next, he sounded like a celestial messenger, his tone sweet and innocent. “I’m looking for my dear foster-sister because my mother wishes me to fetch her home for meat and vegetable stew.” What lies! She couldn’t remember the last time Ada had invited her for a meal. No food. No safety. Plenty of hard work. That’s all life in Ada’s home offered. Although, ironically, the only time she felt safe from Wen’s hands was under Ada’s watchful eyes. Ada didn’t care what happened to her indentured foster-daughter, but she did worry her son would break village law by getting Rhiannon with child and endanger his chances of making a good marriage. Rhiannon pitied his future wife, whoever the poor girl would be. She peeked through the leaves. The door to Thay’s hovel stood open and Thay had propped himself on his one leg against the frame, picking his teeth with a twig. His crutches leaned against the doorjamb. “I saw her run off that way.” Thay waved one long arm in the opposite direction from where she was hiding. Rhiannon heard Wen’s rapidly departing footsteps. She fell back against the tree in relief. That was one more time she’d managed to elude Wen, but it was an increasingly difficult task. This time he’d followed her deep into the woods, stalking her, watching through the brambles and bushes for the perfect time to spring. A shiver ran down her spine. Thay motioned her over, letting her know it was safe. She went to him. “One day he’s going to catch on to our tricks,” he said. “Come on in, Rhiannon. Come in and sit down.” She sank down into a chair by the small trestle table in the middle of the one-room cottage. He braced his crutches in the crooks of his arms and went to sit in a chair by the hearth. “So the fish oil isn’t putting Wen off?” he asked. She held her arms out to him in a plaintive gesture. “Do I not smell foul, Thay? How can you even stand to sit here with me? How could Wen even stand to get close to me?” “The oil you rub on yourself is definitely off-putting, my girl,” Thay agreed. He gave a gap-toothed smile. “Why do you think I’m sitting all the way over here?” “Then why is Wen still pursuing me?” she asked, exasperated. She was at the end of her list of ideas for deterring him. “Because while you may have destroyed Wen’s sense of smell, he can still see, my girl, and you’re beautiful. Every bit as pretty as your mother, Venna.” She knew she was not beautiful. Thay looked at her through eyes distorted by affection. If she said as much, he would argue with her, so she humored him. “It was a curse for my mother and now for me.” “It’s a curse for you because of Wen, girl. Your mother had a bigger curse than beauty laid upon her.” “Aye, it’s the truth—Pashian healing magic and a defiance of all those who would tell her she couldn’t use it.” Pashia was one of two countries whose inhabitants—called the magic-blooded—were born to magic, tiny Doughton being the other, although that geographical distinction hardly mattered now. Magic was rampant these days. It had begun to occur several years ago. People who’d never shown any magic proclivities before were now popping up with abilities they’d not had at birth. People who’d never had any magical proclivity at all had suddenly been able levitate things, cast spells, read people’s minds. It had been absolute chaos for the first several years. Although the use of magic was officially sanctioned by the ruling powers of Galland, practicing it here in the rural countryside was a fast way to get burned alive. Venna had found that out. The backward Galladians clung to their stubborn superstitions and fears. As a part-blood Pashian whose skills had been enhanced by the Dawn of magic, Rhiannon felt her new abilities keenly. Just last week, she’d spontaneously healed an injured bird. She’d wanted the fragile thing to live so very much. Whether the power had come from somewhere deep within her or through her, she wasn’t sure. She’d seen the life of the bird laid out before her—a shining pattern of vitality with several broken strands—and she’d known just what to do to mend those severed links. Of their own volition, her hands had grown warm and tingled and her vision had clouded. Rhiannon had lost consciousness and when she recovered, the bird’s wing had been healed, leaving her feeling shaky and ill. She’d told no one about her wild magic, not even Thay. Rhiannon did not have the strength her mother had possessed. She would not sacrifice herself to those in Galland who feared those unlike themselves. “She had the heart of a lioness and so do you.” Thay nodded once. “You’ll find a way to keep Wen’s paws from you. I’d lay coin on it.” Rhiannon laughed and glanced around his hovel. The sun glinted in from a hole in one of the wattle-and-daub walls. “You don’t have the coin to gamble.” Thay glanced around and scratched his head. “True.” “Just one more year and I will be free of Ada. My contract of indenture will be over.” Thay rose and took a jug from a corner of the hovel. “Would you like some chafflower ale? It will strengthen your spirit.” He took the cork from the jug and the sweet smell of it wafted toward her. “No, forgive me for turning away your hospitality, but I’ve tasted that quaff before and it will strengthen more than my spirit.” She made a face at the jug before continuing. “Thay, would you mind if I stay here until the sun sinks?” In the dark it would be easier for her to hide from Wen, should the need arise. “Of course you can, girl. Sit there and calm yourself afore the fire.” He paused and took a drink from the jug. Sadness clouded his calf-brown eyes. “You know I would have taken you in when your mama was killed—” “There’s no need to discuss this yet again, Thay. You could barely feed yourself, let alone a child. I don’t blame you for my situation.” She stood and laid a comforting hand on his bony elbow. “You have been a real friend to me and you were to my mother too. I remember well you bargained for my life the day they came for Venna.” He sighed. Abruptly, he rose and went to a tiny cupboard and returned with something in his hand. “Rhiannon, I’ve a gift for you.” “A gift?” “Aye, it may help you if there comes a time when you need it against Wen.” He opened his hand and in it lay a long-knife. Etched into the soft leather sheath was a crescent moon cradling a sunburst, edged in silver and gold—the sovereign emblem of Galland. She took it from him and unsheathed it. The blade glinted silver and dangerously sharp in the half-light. “Thay, it’s beautiful. I can’t take this from you. It’s far too fine to cut herbs with.” “You have to, my girl. I saved for it long time, and it took me a whole ’nother long time to find a Galladian knight to buy it from.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it’s not for cutting herbs, my girl. It’s for your protection.” “Thank you, Thay,” she whispered. A tear of gratitude welled up, rolled over the rim of her eye and traveled down her dust-smeared cheek. * * * * * Tristan Miryan, Lord of Hallyn and Prince-Successor of Galland, looked down at the short, squat woman with the straw-colored hair. He could see her mind working, wondering what he wished of her, wondering if she should fear him. He watched her mask her obvious concern with a smile as she ushered him into her cottage with the sweep of one chubby arm. “It is an honor to invite you into our humble home.” He stepped within, his gaze roving over the sparse wood furniture, cook fire with cauldron and the spinning wheel in the far corner of the room. The woman stepped into his gaze. “I’m Ada. I hold the contract of indenture on Rhiannon, the young woman you are inquiring about.” Curiosity shone in the woman’s dull black eyes, but she would not see it satisfied. Tristan didn’t plan to offer his name and he’d removed all his emblems upon both his horse and his blade sheathings to keep himself anonymous. “Is it true Rhiannon’s mother was named Venna?” “Yes, my lord. Venna was executed as a witch years ago here in Arden Village.” A jolt of sweet, pure anger had him fisting one of his hands in its gauntlet. The creaking sound of leather under duress filled the stale air of the cottage. Ada glanced down at his hand with wide eyes and Tristan fought to relax. No sense in scaring the woman, at least, not unless it was necessary. “Venna was not a witch,” he stated. “And do I need to remind you that magic is not forbidden, nor punishable by death in Galland?” “It was a long time ago Venna was put to death, my lord, before the Council of Rule made magic a lawful thing.” He couldn’t help the impatient breath that whistled past his lips. They probably would’ve killed her regardless of the law. Fear of magic permeated the Galladian countryside. “She was a Pashian healer, not a witch. I assume Venna’s daughter was her apprentice?” Ada frowned. “You knew Venna? You must have been very young when she parted company with you. Venna’s daughter, Rhiannon, was but a babe in arms when Venna came to Arden Village. Rhiannon is now twenty and two years.” She squinted up at him. “You cannot be much older than thirty—” “Never mind my age. Does Rhiannon show signs of the magic-blood?” Ada shrugged. “A witch’s blood runs ever true, my lord. Can’t stop the evil. After all—” The sound of squeaking leather filled the cottage once more, causing Ada to break off her statement, her gaze flicking to his gauntleted hands. Tristan drew a steady breath. “Venna was not a witch.” “Forgive me, my lord.” She swallowed. “Rhiannon,” she began again. “She is very good at treating maladies, those of humans and animals. But unlike her mother, Rhiannon uses herbs and not magic. Rhiannon’s not near so evil as her mum. Er…did I say evil?” She gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t mean that, my lord. She makes many sweet smelling hair cleansers, lotions and soaps. Although” —Ada frowned— “I don’t think she uses them much on herself. I’ve beaten her within an inch of herself to get her to bathe, but nothing breaks that one. We just keep her out a lot and make her sleep in the far corner of the cottage—” Tristan shifted his weight and tried not to strangle the woman who’d just admitted to beating Venna and Margan’s daughter. “Has the girl come into full possession of her gifts yet? Has she skill with magic?” “She’s never showed any signs of it. But I’d lay coin the Dawn of magic touched her, not to mention she’s the progeny of a witch, my lord. I’m sure the knowledge runs naturally through her veins.” He reached out and grabbed her by her upper arm. Even through the glove, he could feel the fleshy give of her arm. “Venna was not a witch.” He enunciated every syllable, as though he was speaking to the village idiot. Indeed, he probably was. Ada shivered. “Aye, my lord. She wasn’t a witch.” He released her. “I wish to buy the girl’s contract from you. I will give you more than enough money to compensate you for her loss.” He held out a leather pouch that clinked heavy with coin. Ada’s stared at the pouch and her eyes narrowed. He watched her gaze move from his sleek black boots to his black riding cloak, his expensive trews and buttery soft leather jerkin to his dark hair drawn up and tied at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. Greed flickered across her face. Ah, so that was how it would be. She wet her lips and flashed a toothy grin before speaking again. “Well, my lord, she has been quite a help since I took her in after her mother died. She helps with the animals and the spinning and the cleaning and the—” His eyes narrowed and hers widened in response. She paused before continuing. “She’s just like the daughter I never had.” Tristan felt the weight of that lie. The menacing sound of the squeaking leather gauntlet filled the air once more. “The sack of coin it is, then, my lord,” she finished. “That’s wise. Where is she?” “Oh, you will have to come back in the morning. She’s not here right now. I sent her into the forests to find some herbs.” He turned on his heel and started for the door. “I’ll be here at daybreak. You will get your money then.” He closed the door behind him. * * * * * When Rhiannon left Thay’s hovel, she peeked out the door to be sure Wen was not skulking about in wait for her. Only when she was sure the woods were clear did she venture out. The Great Forest was silent except for the gentle sounds of the insects in the tall grasses and the long, lonesome call of a night bird. “Are you goin’ straight home, girl?” Thay peered out the door behind her. Rhiannon could detect the first subtle effects of the chafflower ale in her friend. While drunkenness produced anger and cruelty in some men, it created only somberness and quiet in Thay. She thought it was odd how drink seemed to magnify only certain parts of a man’s personality, leaving the others to the shade. “Aye, I’m going home straightaway, just as soon as I collect the sasely leaves Wen made me drop. I need them to make a tincture.” Rhiannon smiled, for she knew what Thay would say next. It was his standard warning. “All right, but beware of the brazen Fairen folk that hide in the shadows under the trees. They’ll enchant you and keep you forever in their lair under the mountains.” His eyes grew wide and he nodded vigorously. “I will, Thay. Sleep well, my friend.” She gave Thay one last smile and walked into the deepening gloom. The lengthening shadows had given way to darkness. But the sister moons glowed bright in a cloud-free sky, limning the tree branches in their pale silver light. The vibrant wood flowers had furled their petals for the night and fresh dew glistened on their slumbering heads. She watched a tiny, iridescent winged pixie settle down on the head of an ever-blooming tulip and smiled. There was so much beauty in this magically touched world. She looked up to the sky where the moons hung silver bright and drew a deep breath. The forest smelled of all things green and growing. Rhiannon rounded the corner where she’d slipped in the wet leaves while fleeing Wen. Almost without thought, her hand went to the long-knife she’d tucked into the belt at her waist. Normally, as a healer, she had too much respect for life to ever harm another living thing, but she’d be able to use it against Wen if the need arose. She had no doubt of that. She’d have to hide Thay’s gift so that Wen or Ada didn’t find, sell it and keep the profit. On her left, she could hear a stream babbling to itself in the new moonlight. She wouldn’t be able to find her herb dagger in the bushes until morning, she supposed. Her cap and the sasely leaves lay scattered about nearby, though. Her herb satchel was also on the ground. The small satchel was the only thing she had been able to retain from her mother. It was just a piece of woven leather folded over to make a pouch on a string, but Rhiannon didn’t care. It was the most valuable thing in the world to her. She knelt and gathered the leaves, crawling around on her hands and knees until she had them all. She stuffed them into her herb satchel and stood up. As she rose, she brushed her head on a low-hanging branch. When she attempted to step away, she came to the painful realization that her hair was entangled in the tiny twigs. She stood and tried to disentangle herself, effectively wiping every bit of dust and cinder from the strands with her fingers. As she labored, Thay’s words came back to her…beware of the brazen Fairen folk. They’ll enchant you and keep you forever in their lair. An owl hooted somewhere far off and made her jump. She gave a small laugh. “You’re being silly,” she whispered to herself. It was true that since the Dawn of magic, there were things lurking in the forest that could hurt her. None were known to dwell nearby, but there were stories of gryphons and dragons having staked out territories in Galland. “Goddess!” she swore as she tried to untangle her hair. She wished she’d shorn it all off. The only reason she never had was because her mother had loved it so much. Venna used brush out before bedtime and croon to her about how pretty it was. Rhiannon kept it well hidden under a cap at all times these days. Loose, it presented an attractive lure—and much too easy a handhold—to Wen. In the distance she heard a strange sound, which grew louder and nearer. It was a loud scraping, huffing, snorting sort of noise, the likes of which she had never heard. A dragon? Sudden fear rooted her feet in place, as the hideous sounds grew louder in her ears. Suddenly, a huge black monster plunged between the bushes and careened straight toward her. Her feet uprooted themselves and she whirled and ran in the opposite direction as fast as she was able, not caring how much pain it caused to rip her hair away from the tree’s grip. * * * * * Tristan guided his horse through the forest. He halted his mount when he heard the sudden scramble of an animal through the bushes. Then all fell silent, save for the gentle sounds of the darkened forest and the stream not far away. His gaze was caught by lengths of white-gold thread that hung in the tree before him. They blazed there like some charmed gift from the now banished daytime. He dismounted and went to them, realizing that it was not thread that shimmered there, but rather lengths of luminous hair. They looked like fallen strands of the white-hot sun. He freed them from the tree and let them lay across his palm. They felt like silk against his roughened hands. Wymand, an old Pashian mage who lived at Castle Hallyn, had told him he would find strands of sunlight on this journey. Wymand had said that when he found them, he’d be close to finding the young woman, Rhiannon. Tristan shook his head in amazement. Wymand was sometimes cryptic, but he was never wrong. With reverence, Tristan spread his fingers and let the strands float away on the breeze. Chapter Two “Rhiannon, wake up.” Someone shook her shoulder. That was strange. Ada was never so gentle. Rhiannon assumed she must dreaming and tried to let a deeper sleep catch her once again. “Rhiannon!” Her head snapped back with the force of the shake this time. Yes, that was the Ada she knew. She opened her eyes. Two plump, reddened faces floated in front of her. She blinked and the two merged into one. “Rhiannon, get up! We don’t want our nice visitor to think yer lazy,” Ada hissed into her ear. “Visitor?” Rhiannon came wide awake. “But it’s still dark outside.” She had a bad feeling about this. This could not possibly bode well. Visitors coming before dawn, like they had for her mother. She sat up on her pallet. “Ada, I’m not a witch. Please, tell them I’m not a witch. I mean no harm. I am merely a healer and nothing more. I abhor the magic-blood that runs through my veins. If I could, I’d—” Movement close to the fire caught her gaze. Her eyes widened. A shape stepped from the shadows. Firelight kissed half his form, leaving the other half in darkness. It leant him an otherworldly appearance. Her hand went to the sheathed dagger Thay had given her. She’d not yet hidden it yet, but had secreted it in the sleeve of her nightdress for the night. The length of steel comforted her. “I’ve not come to burn you as a witch,” the dark apparition said in a deep baritone. Rhiannon shivered and swallowed hard. Her throat closed for a moment before she could force her vocal cords into action. “Then what have you come for, my lord?” The stranger stepped forward. She scrambled to her feet. In an effort to put some distance between herself and the man, she stepped back until she was against the wall behind her. “I’ve come for you,” came his ominous reply. It occurred to Rhiannon that the execution stake might be a preferable option to having anything to do with this man. Her initial urge was to run for the door, but Ada blocked her path. “Come closer, girl, and let me look at you,” the stranger commanded. Her feet were rooted in place. The helpless feeling of being a prisoner of the tree came flooding back. When she failed to move as requested, Ada gave her a helpful shove. She stumbled forward into the circle of firelight. Was there a flicker of dislike in the man’s eyes when he looked at Ada? No, it must have been her imagination. Deciding she had no choice, she stood still and allowed him to peruse her. She wore only her nightdress, making her feel exposed and vulnerable. He walked around her, looking her up and down. He wrinkled his nose. “Do you ever bathe?” he asked. Even though he didn’t touch her, the rumbling of his deep voice went through her. “Of course I do, my lord. I make soaps every day.” He reached out and knocked her sleeping cap from her head. The unkempt, tangled mass fell to her waist. “Clearly, the soaps never touch your scalp,” he responded with a sardonic twist to his mouth. Why would this man care how clean her hair was? Terror ripped through her. Was Ada to use her as a prostitute now? She’d rather die. “I beg my lord’s pardon,” she snapped in sarcasm. “I did not know of your arrival and therefore could not anoint my body with perfume.” Upon closer inspection, she could see how ruthless and jagged the stranger’s features were. They looked like they had been hewn from a chunk of stone. He wasn’t handsome at all, not in the classic sense, though his visage held a sort of raw appeal. His hair hung in dark brown tendrils around his face, loosened from a thin leather tie at his nape. They framed light blue eyes—eyes so light a blue, they were like a frozen lake with a dusting of snow. He didn’t answer her. He only reached out and cupped her chin in one large hand, inspecting her face. Fury clenched its fist in her stomach, even as a curious quickening lit her belly. Lust, curling in thin, odd, disturbing tendrils moved through her stomach, tickled her cunt. Never had she had such a reaction to a man before. Like she was some whore to be excited by the mere touch of a man. It angered her, yet she wanted this man to drag her to the back of the cottage, strip her and take her hard and fast. And she was a virgin! She pushed the odd reaction away, forced it to the back of her psyche and funneled her cold anger to the fore. “Have you come into your magic-blood yet, woman?” he asked. She remained silent, struggling to push a lie across her lips. That was odd. She’d never had a problem twisting the truth before this very moment. “Well?” he pressed. “Have you come into your magic yet?” “I-I hope I never fully realize the magic flowing through my veins,” she sputtered. There, it was not a lie at all. “Have you knowledge of healing with herbs?” he asked. “Aye, my mother taught me.” She saw a shadow flit through his eyes. He released her chin. “Enough,” he stated. From his pocket, he drew a sack that clinked heavy with coin. She watched with mounting anger as the man dropped it into Ada’s palm. “Are you buying me?” “In a manner of speaking, aye. I am buying out your contract of indenture. You will come with me now.” Anger trickled through her, drowning out the fear. She was sick of being commanded by others. Sick of having her future taken from her. It would end now. Rhiannon exploded with emotion before she could even think about what she was doing. Her hand flew to the sleeve of her nightdress and she pulled the dagger in one fluid motion, letting its sheathing fall to the floor. Then she brought it up fast with the most intense desire to plunge it into the stranger’s stomach. Before she could bring the blade up to strike, he had her wrist. He squeezed and the dagger fell to the floor. In one quick movement, he twisted her around so her back was against his chest. She gasped for a breath. It felt as if she were being pressed against a boulder. Ada raised her hand and brought it toward Rhiannon’s head, in position to crack her hard against the face. Rhiannon flinched in the stranger’s grip and squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of the impact. It was a feeling she was used to, the curling of her stomach muscles before the painful crack of an open hand or something harder against the side of her face. This time, it didn’t come. She opened her eyes. The stranger had Ada’s wrist in his powerful grip. “Touch her not,” he almost growled. “She’s mine now.” “Aye, my lord,” came Ada’s quavering answer. He dropped her wrist and she backed away, rubbing at it with a wary look in her eye. The stranger’s laughter filled the tiny cottage. Rhiannon shivered against him at the sound and he released her. He knelt and retrieved the dagger and its sheath from the floor. He hesitated for a moment, noting the emblem that graced the blade’s leather casing. He waved it at her, then sheathed it in his boot. “Go get yourself dressed and pack what you’d bring with you to your new home.” “I won’t go with you!” She turned and dashed for freedom. The blessed sound of early birds met her ears as she flung the door open. If she could get to the forest, she would be able to elude him. It was with the purest despair that she felt a meaty hand close around her shoulder and jerk her back. Her spirits crashed to her toes. Ada turned her around to face the dark lord. Ada spoke eagerly, “Would like me to cuff her yet, my lord? A good sound thrashin’ once in a while puts her in her place, you’ll see.” “No! I can handle a mite of a woman such as her without resorting to violence.” He came toward Rhiannon, hefted her over his shoulder in one easy movement and started toward the door. “You’ve just forfeited your opportunity to change clothing or pack. You’ll not go out of my sight now,” he said to Rhiannon as they left the cottage. Rhiannon glared at Ada from her perch. “Why?” “You were never worth even a cupful full of dog ’s piss to me till his lordship came ’round. And you can take that disgusting thing with you!” Ada tossed her the herb satchel, which Rhiannon caught, her eyes going wide. Ada turned, tossing a final glare over her shoulder, and slammed the door. The stranger set her down beside his horse. “Trust me, I mean you no harm.” She looked up at him in disbelief. “No harm? Trust?” she sputtered. “You come in and wake me from my slumber, you buy me? I regret to inform you of this, but I am not property! Yes, I’m an indentured servant, but that does not mean I have no rights. You do these things and then expect me to trust you?” He shrugged. “All right, don’t trust me, but you’re making all of this harder on yourself. In time, you will understand.” “In time, I will understand? No!” She tried to wrench away from him, but he caught her fast. The man held her face between his hands…hands so strong, she noted with unease, they could probably snap her neck in a trice. “What can I do to show my good faith? What can I do so you will go quietly?” he asked. “You can tell me who you are and why you’re taking me away.” For a fleeting moment, he bared his gleaming white teeth. “Why does it matter so? Do you wish to stay here with that ham-handed woman and her grimy son who does only the Father-of-All knows what to you?” She laughed. It sounded bitter to her ears. “You are a great lord, are you not? You have given yourself away with your educated Galladian and expensive dress. What could a fine lord as you possibly want with a dirty peasant like me? It could not be for anything good.” Her voice grew softer. “How do I know you won’t be worse than Wen? How do I know you don’t want to use me for some Underworld spawned g-game that you can’t play with a finer lady and then slit my throat for fun?” “Blood of the prophets,” he swore under his breath. “Woman, you must trust me now. I cannot tell you my name or why I bought you until we are far from this place. But truly, I mean you no harm.” She sniffed. “If you will not give me the answers I seek, then you do not receive my trust, my lord.” “So, you will continue to fight me then?” In reply, she steadied her gaze and turned her head slowly to spit in the dirt beside him. “Charming,” he muttered. Without removing his gaze from hers, he pulled a length of leather from his horse’s reins. He caught her wrists and wound the length around them. “I really did not want to have to use this, but if you refuse to cooperate, I have no choice, do I?” Rhiannon shrugged. She wasn’t stupid. He was far too strong for her to ever hope to defeat. However, her pride would not allow her to go along meekly with him either. “Neither do I have a choice but to fight you.” “All right, we are at an impasse. Shall we be going then?” She allowed him to lift her onto the top of his horse. He mounted behind her and took up the reins in his hands. “His name is Toren,” he whispered close to her ear. She would not give him the satisfaction of a response. He led the horse onto the serpentine path that led away from Arden Village. * * * * * The woman smelled horrible! Tristan had a headache within the first hour of the journey. He had a compulsion to plop her into the nearest cold stream and give her bar of soap, but she was far too skittish for him to remain while she bathed and he didn’t trust her not to run if she was left alone. Aye, he understood the purpose of the all-mighty stink. He’d lay coin she smeared fish oil on her skin and hair to keep that grimy letch Wen from her. She was Venna and Margan’s daughter all right, intelligent, resourceful and of strong-willed stock. When they were halfway to Hallyn, he reined up beside a small clump of trees and lifted her to the ground. He slid down beside her and began undoing her bonds. “Hold still, woman. I am freeing you because I don’t think you’d be silly enough to run from me now when you’re so far from home. Do not disappoint me. It’s far too great a distance for you go trotting back on foot.” She intertwined her fingers and stretched her lithe body upward. “My name is not woman, my lord. It is Rhiannon.” “And have you a paternal name, Rhiannon?” She raised her chin. “Not that I know of.” Tristan raised an eyebrow. So the girl knew nothing of her father…or so it seemed. “And tell me, Rhiannon, why is your speech is so very unlike that of your foster parents? You speak Galladian as an educated person.” “I can speak Pashian as well. My mother taught me.” “Ah, aye. Your mother was executed for being magic-blooded, wasn’t she? That is quite unfortunate. Tell me, as a rule they burn the daughters of accused witches. How did you escape the flame?” Rhiannon reached out and rubbed Toren’s satiny smooth muzzle. The horse gave a great whuffle of pleasure. She threw an uneasy glance at Tristan before answering. “My lord, I fear I do not wish to answer any more of your questions until you answer at least one of mine.” “All right, then, conversation time is over. First thing, Rhiannon. You are going to bathe. I can abide that smell no longer.” Her eyes widened. “I will not.” He reached into his saddlebag as he spoke and fished around for a chunk of soap. “You will. That fish oil, while clever, is far too much for my nose to handle. There’s a river just past that group of trees. I expect you to make use of the water in it.” She took a step backward, and balanced on the balls of her feet as if to run. “I am not undressing in front of you, my lord. I don’t care that you bought my contract. And I will not wash! You can beat me all you want—” He grasped her wrist to prevent her flight and lifted her. Screaming, kicking and flailing, he tossed her over his shoulder and headed to the river. She was getting a bath, even if he had to do it himself. Before he left the camp area, he grabbed a sack of extra clothes and a towel, one he’d kept for his own use, from his horse’s side and headed into the woods. Once there, he dropped the sack to river’s bank and waded into the water. She yelped at the cold temperature of her soon-to-be bath. When he set her on her feet in the waist-high water, she tried to bolt, but he was so much bigger and stronger than she was, it wasn’t hard to keep her in place. While she struggled, he tore and pulled at her clothes until she was bare as the day she was born and the garments floated downstream, gone forever. “How dare you!” she shrieked as he lathered her long hair and washed it thoroughly while her small hands alternately gripped him for balance and struck him ineffectually. He dunked her head to wash the soap from her hair. “You will be clean, my lady. My nose can abide the stink, no matter how carefully and cleverly manufactured, no longer.” He lathered his hands and slipped them down her body, over her breasts. He jolted, feeling the small, pert mounds with their hard little nipples between his fingers. His cock stiffened. Before now, he hadn’t been thinking of her in a sexual way. He’d only been doing his duty, not thinking of her as a woman. Now he realized his mistake. As he ran his hands down her torso, over her soft skin, the nip of her waist, her beautiful breasts, he felt all too well just how much of a woman she was. And he responded like a man. Rhiannon went still, her breathing heavy. Her nipples were rock hard. Tightly leashed desire sat in the expression of her face. Could it be she responded as a female to his touch? Or she was simply fearful he would rape her? “I will not harm you,” he murmured. “Oddly, I know that,” she whispered. He continued to bathe her, but now he slowed. He tried to make himself offer to step back, allow her to wash herself, but he could not. Her body invited exploration and he wanted to take that invitation. His hands worked over her body, lathered well with soap, washing away the grime and revealing the beauty beneath. In the moonlight, she was magnificent. The most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Tristan slipped between her thighs and washed her cunt too. Dragging his fingers over her heated, aroused flesh, he found her clit. Her fingers grasped his shoulders. “What are you doing to me?” Her voice was full of wonder. “It feels—” She broke off her sentence as he milked her swollen clit. Had she never had a man touch her this way? It seemed impossible. A woman in her position had usually been tumbled many times before she was married. It was the way of country life. Yet she seemed innocent. “This is how a man—a good one—touches a woman, Rhiannon.” “It’s—” Her knees went weak and she gasped. He stroked her a little harder, a bit faster, wanting to give her pleasure. She ground her cunt against his hand and Tristan almost came himself. Then she grabbed on to him and cried out as he stroked her to completion. The sweet sounds of her climax echoed through him. He could take it no longer. Tristan lifted her as soon as the waves of her orgasm had passed and laid her on the grass at the river’s bank. Then he forcibly spread her thighs and dropped his mouth to her delicious cunt with a groan of pure need. She cried out and struggled against him, trying to pry his mouth from her, but he held her down and feasted on her. He licked her clit over and over, nibbled on it, until she relaxed under him, her cries of distress becoming moans of pleasure. He sucked on her pretty pussy until she ground it against his lips, her hips working, and she came hard once more. Tristan licked up every bit of her come with pleasure, wanting more. Ah, what was it about this woman that had made him lose his famous control so badly? Nothing in the world could have kept him from touching her and it was only the tiniest thread of sanity now that kept him from lowering his trews and plunging his hard cock into her sweet, willing, perfect cunt. He ripped his face from her, turning away. This was wrong. Gods, but it was wrong! “Dry yourself. Dress,” he commanded tersely. “Return to camp and I will have dinner for you. I am leaving you alone now, but know this, if you run, you only hurt yourself. These woods are not as gentle as the one near Arden Village. Also know this, if you run, I will find you and I will be far more dangerous to you than any dragon or gryphon ever could be.” He rose and stalked away. * * * * * Still shaking from the incredible encounter in—and by—the river, she returned to camp. Rhiannon had taken her time, trying to sort out her confusing reactions to this odd man and why she’d given up to him like a two-bit whore after she’d tried so hard to keep herself from men her whole life. There was something different about this one. Something that turned her will to mush. She wanted him so badly. She had no defenses against him. But she still didn’t like the man. A delicious smell wafted toward her from the direction of Tristan’s fire. Completely seduced, she walked straight toward the appealing aroma. Tristan turned from the fire. The features of his face were set in hard lines of concentration. His jaw was tilted in an unforgiving manner and tendrils of his dark brown hair hung in his eyes. He looked every bit as forbidding as she’d first thought him. “All right?” he asked. He grunted and turned back around. “I am sorry about my lack of restraint.” She decided to ignore his comments. “Rabbit,” she said dreamily as she sat down by the fire. She watched him take a piece from the makeshift roasting joint and place it on a bit of flatbread with a covetous expression on her face. He handed the heaping crust of bread to her. She settled in, concentrating on nothing except her meal. After she was finished, she sat back, savoring the feeling of a full stomach. It was a sensation she did not feel often. She let her eyes drift closed. “Would you like to know who I am now?” Her eyes flew open. “I am Tristan Miryan, Lord of Hallyn and heir to the Protector’s throne of Galland.” “You are the Prince-Successor of Galland? You will take the lead of the Council of Rule when Protector Iestyn dies?” She scrambled to her feet. “I knew you were a lord. I thought perhaps a petty landholder. I never imagined you were one of the princes of Galland, let alone Prince-Successor. What do you want with me?” Ugh…she was going to get indigestion. “Calm yourself, Rhiannon. I told you I meant you no harm and that still stands. It is not my place to tell you why I’ve come for you.” “Not your place?” She’d tried to gut the heir to the throne of the Council of Rule! He could have her publicly hung before the light of morning! “My lord, with all due respect, it is your place to do whatever you please.” “Nay, not in this, Rhiannon. When we arrive at Hallyn, someone much more qualified than I will tell you why all this has happened.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “How did you know who I was and that I was a magic-blooded healer?” “I can’t answer that right now. Please, sit.” Rhiannon looked down at him, her hands fisting. What could he possibly want with her? “Why did you pay so much for me…an entire sack filled with coin?” “Do you not think you’re worth that?” he asked as he moved away. “Should I take you back?” She sank back down. The revelation was almost too much for her mind to handle. “There are many other places in the world I’d rather be than Ada’s cottage.” “Where?” She bit her lip and fell silent for a few moments before responding. “Well, I guess almost anywhere else would do.” “Would you mind a well-defended castle, complete with soft beds, warm fires and all the food your belly can hold?” “I suppose not. It sounds good.” She narrowed her eyes. “Too good.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I assure you it is true.” “You must forgive me, my lord. It is my nature to fight.” The corners of his mouth curved. “I noticed that.” “I would not have taken you for a prince, my lord.” “Really?” He looked taken aback. Had she wounded his ego? “Why not?” “Well, you are strong and well muscled where most nobility are soft and weak-limbed, and you have no effeminate bearing at all.” “Well, I’m glad of that.” “What will happen after you’ve gotten what you want from me?” He sighed. “Rhiannon, you are relentless. Know this, you shall never have to return to Arden Village again.” She looked down and away. “Do you want to go back?” “No, not to Ada and Wen, but I have a friend…Thay.” “Not a betrothed?” “Nay. A friend of mine whom I shall miss. You asked me earlier how it was that I escaped the stake. It was he who saved me. He hid me away when it happened.” “A good friend, then, to have saved you from the kiss of the flame.” He stroked his chin. “And why are you not married? By now, most peasant girls your age have two children and another in their belly.” “They wouldn’t consider wedding an indentured servant, especially one who looks like me. Anything else they might consider, I dissuade.” She gave him a wry smile. “By any means possible.” Except, apparently, this man. Defeat tasted bitter on her tongue, yet she craved more of his touch. “The fish-oil, aye. And very effective it must be.” Until now, the words went unspoken. “I do what I must to protect myself. There’s no one looking after me, but me.” Tristan leaned forward and poked a stick into the embers of the fire, sending tiny red sparks into the air. Aye, the woman had a keen mind and was a survivor. A warrior in the curvaceous package of a woman. He respected her already. He still wanted her, wanted her riding his cock this night—wanted the sweet taste of her again on his tongue. An uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally Rhiannon cleared her throat. “I have heard of you and your deeds in the war with Lotharia. I was sorry to hear of your wife’s horrible death these five years past, my lord.” Every muscle in his body stiffened. “Thank you.” “She died right before you returned, did she not?” “This is not a topic I wish to discuss.” He had not wished to sound harsh. But he could not help it. He did not speak of Ellia ever, not even with Gareth, who was closer to him than anyone. “I apologize.” Rhiannon fell silent and wrapped her arms around her knees and stared into the crackling embers. He stood and laid two blankets onto the ground. “There’s your blanket,” he said motioning to one. “I’m going to sleep now. Remember what I said about escaping, Rhiannon. Only fool would run into these woods alone and I know well you are not a fool.” “What’s to keep the beasts from coming to us?” He settled himself down on his blanket and closed his eyes. “The fire. Dragons don’t like fire unless they’re the ones breathing it. Gryphons don’t go after humans unless protecting their hatchlings or their lives are in peril. Get some rest. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.” Minutes later, Tristan heard Rhiannon settle herself down on the blanket near him. It was not long before her breathing deepened to sleep. Tristan was not so lucky. Having her so near him was distracting in some way that defied description. He could not still his thoughts about her long enough to allow sleep to catch him. Aye, she was as pretty a woman as he’d ever seen. But comely women were commonplace at Hallyn. There was something within her eyes that touched him. Perhaps it was merely that she was Margan’s daughter. Perhaps he saw him in her eyes. Perhaps it was her courage and strength of character. He didn’t know. Finally he went to sit at the fire to feed it branches. She lay near and he gazed down at her. She’d been through a lot in her short life and had endured drastic, probably terrifying, changes since the morning. Yet she’d shed no tears, had whimpered not once during the entire ordeal. Forgetting his attentions at the fire, he fell into watching her face in the flickering light. Chapter Three Rhiannon awoke and sat up. The fire had burned itself into ash and clouded sunlight glinted down from above. The sun had traveled midway up the sky, declaring late morning. Shouldn’t they be traveling by now? A gentle snore caught her ear. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes and spotted Tristan lying not far away. Rhiannon stood and walked to him. His face had been shaven clean in Lotharian fashion, but this morning dark stubble marred its smoothness. His long hair scattered on the ground in wild abandon—like a dark brown wren’s wing spread on the grass. The wind, disrespectful of his title, disheveled it further. She reached out to touch it, wondering if it was as silky as a wren’s wing too. Tristan stirred and she snatched her hand back. “My lord?” she whispered, giving him a gentle shake. A snore was her only response. She shook him harder. His eyes opened to slits. “The day ages. Do you not wish to be traveling?” He blinked owlishly at the sun, then pushed up into sitting position. His eyes raked her. Heat flared in them and she remembered the night before, how he’d touched her in the lake and then forced her thighs apart and his mouth on her cunt. How he’d made her feel. She shivered, her lips parting. His jaw set and he moved toward her, his big body reminding her of a cat ready to spring. “Take off your trousers now. Sit on that rock and spread your thighs.” “My lord?” “Do it,” he growled. His voice sounded low, gravelly with need. She shivered, her hands going to the waist of the pants she wore. She unbuttoned them and they dropped. He took in the lower half of her body. “Go,” he ordered. Rhiannon sat on the rock and spread her thighs as he’d requested. Her cunt was already swollen, already wanting his attention. He stood, staring at her. His cock tented his trews. Slowly, he walked to her. “Have you ever been fucked, sweet Rhiannon?” She blushed and shook her head. “Do not worry, I will keep you fit for marriage. A virgin, since you are, miraculously, one right now. But I do plan to do things to you, since you seem…amiable.” He pursed his lips. “You make me crazy with need for you. I do not know why.” He reached out and stroked her cunt. She shuddered with need. “Please.” Rubbing her clit, he lifted a brow. “Please? Please what?” “Touch me. Please.” He slipped a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle, and she nearly came. She’d never had anything inside her before. “You tell the truth,” he murmured. “I feel your maidenhead.” He thrust in and out. “A pity.” Then he removed his finger, knelt and fastened his mouth over her. His tongue quested, licking and laving until Rhiannon let her head fall back and she came. Pleasure burst through her and she cried it out to the treetops. When it was over, he set his head to her inner thigh. “I like to make you come, Rhiannon. I love the taste of you. I cannot keep myself from touching you. Please forgive me.” Her breath came in quick gasps. He sounded so guilty. She had no words to form a response. He rose, his motions jerky. “Dress. We ride.” Growing accustomed to his terse orders and strange, erotic ways, she did. On their journey, Rhiannon busied herself by examining the world as it existed away from Arden Village. This was the farthest from home she’d ever been. The deeper they traveled into the Galladian forests, the stranger it became. A shimmering crystal-like glitter floated on the breeze along with the pollen. Playing in and among the currents were many small pixies and dragonflies. It was difficult to tell one from the other from a distance, but when she drew closer to them, she could hear the gentle song the pixies’ wings made against the air. Many different kinds of flowers on long, green vines grew all over the path. Some of them moved and twisted as though sentient, the large blooms leaning toward them as they passed, as though listening for them. The magic around her found an answering thrum deep within her. It sang through her blood and mind. Rhiannon’s hands grew warm and her heart rate sped up. She took deep, measured breaths and tamped it down. Little by little, using the force of her will, she rejected it. The path before her blurred as dizziness took her and she listed to the side. Strong hands braced her back against a broad, male chest. “Rhiannon?” Tristan asked. His deep voice rumbled through her body. She drew a sharp breath and shook her head, bringing herself fully back to herself. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Fine. I’m fine.” Was her magic-blood so strong she couldn’t fight it? That was the first time it’d tried to lay her low. She hoped it wasn’t something that would be happening often. The thought that it might chilled her. Tristan started to say something but was cut off by a long, lonely call from the distance. “What was that?” she asked, peering into the thick forest. “There is a nest of gryphons not far away.” Rhiannon felt the blood drain from her face. “Gryphons?” “Don’t worry. They’ll leave us alone if we leave them alone.” “Are gryphons known to favor the flesh of man?” Rhiannon asked. “Only when there’s nothing else available.” She glanced around. Tristan chuckled. “I don’t find this funny,” she snapped. “More often than not, gryphons prefer sheep, the occasional cow. They are only dangerous if they’re provoked.” The ringing hiss of his sword being pulled from his scabbard filled the air. She turned to eye him. “Are you planning to provoke it?” Tristan chuckled again. They passed the forests without incident and then long, flat plains filled with vibrant flowers. Finally, a structure became visible on the horizon. Rhiannon squinted to see it better and gasped. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” asked Tristan. Rhiannon had never even seen a castle except for in her dreams, and this was not what she had imagined it to be. Hallyn’s imposing walls seemed to rise straight from the moat that surrounded it. Several powerful-looking towers buttressed its battlemented sides. A moat ran along the front of the castle and above it rose the cold stone barbican and the gaping maw of the portcullis. She was suddenly seized with the desire to fling herself from the horse and run screaming back the way she’d come, gryphons or no. Tristan grasped her shoulders with strong hands. “Steady, Rhiannon, that’s your new home.” “That’s not a home—it’s a cage. How can you live within those cold walls with nary a beam of light to warm you or bring you joy? Do you not miss the smell of the trees at nighttime or the feel of the soft ground beneath your feet rather than those cold stones?” She was accustomed to living close with nature, not so separated from it. How would she gather her herbs? “Do not judge so quickly. You will see it is not near as horrible as you fear.” Toren’s hooves clattered on the wooden drawbridge and she peered into the deep waters of the moat that flowed beneath them. When they were past the portcullis and within the outer bailey, she was agog. The inner bailey was bustling with activity. The clamor assaulted her eardrums. An old woman drew water from a well and knights in their shiny silver hauberks led their destriers. People bargained over the price of eggs and milk and servants rushed back and forth. People laughed and yelled to one another. Tristan stopped the steed in the middle of the melee, dismounted and lifted her down. She was acutely conscious of his huge hands almost encircling her waist. It made her feel…strange in a way she could not identify. It tightened the muscles of her body curiously, thrummed something low within her at the very heart of her womanhood. She backed away from him and bumped into the horse. A squat, amber-eyed woman with dark brown hair approached them. Tristan untied her satchel and handed it to Rhiannon. “Tilda, show the Lady Rhiannon to a clean chamber, please, and provide her with whatever she wishes. In my chamber, you will find a trunk filled with clothing. Have them brought to Lady Rhiannon’s chamber. They are to be hers now. I would like it if you would act as her maid. Would that be possible?” Rhiannon stared open-mouthed. Lady Rhiannon? Tilda’s cheeks flushed as her plump body bobbed in a curtsy. “At once, my lord.” Tilda motioned for Rhiannon to follow her, but Rhiannon stood in place, still pondering his words. She looked up at Tristan, who now talked with a young squire who had taken Toren’s reins. After a moment, she turned her back on him and followed Tilda, letting the bustle of the bailey swallow her. The chamber that Tilda brought her to was like nothing she’d ever seen. A little table stood by the hearth, displaying a set of carved pieces for a board game. Several high-backed chairs graced the edges of the room and a ponderous-looking wardrobe dominated one corner. The bed was the most impressive piece of furniture. She walked to it. It stood under a great canopy, with heavy curtains of wine colored taffeta. In awe, she tested the softness of the mattress with her palm. “It’s feather,” Tilda said. Rhiannon’s eyes strayed to the coverlet embroidered with small indigo angelflowers. The carved headboard displayed the same pattern. “Would your ladyship be wanting a bath, mayhaps, after her journey? You must feel grimy from the road.” Tilda indicated a large, stout tub at the end of the room that Rhiannon hadn’t even noticed. “Tilda, please, call me Rhiannon.” “I don’t think his lordship would be approving of such, my lady, forgive me. Now, are you wanting some water brought up?” Great Goddess, she could take another bath. It was so decadent. “Let me help you bring it up.” “Pardon me, my lady, but I’m not bringing the water up here myself. I get one of the boys to do it. Besides, the prince pays us well so we don’t mind the work. Nay, we’re grateful for it.” Tilda grinned, revealing a blackened tooth. So strange to be served. She smiled at her. “All right, then. Aye, I’d appreciate a bath.” Tilda enlisted several strong men to fill the tub in Rhiannon’s chamber. After they’d finished, the men returned with a heavy chest and placed it in the center of the chamber. Tilda turned before leaving. “Everything within is to be yours now. We’re to take your measurements on the morrow to have some new gowns made up. I’ll come by tomorrow morning and give you a tour of the castle. Sleep well, my lady.” Tilda shut the door behind her. It was a completely new experience for her to take a bath in water that had been heated by a fire. The warmest water she had ever bathed in was heated only by the sun and was tepid at best. She used the soap to wash every last bit of the traveling grime from her body and she reveled in the sight of the long skeins of clean and untangled white-blonde hair floating on the top of the water around her. When she stepped out to dry herself, her skin was burnished a soft peach color from all the scrubbing. Try as she might to squelch it, the bath had lifted her spirits. She felt as though she was a newborn babe starting life. She had no idea what this life would bring her, but it had to be better than Arden Village. She felt a foreign feeling beating inside her. It was something she almost couldn’t name. Hope. Tilda had left a soft gown for her and now she shrugged it over her head. Its fine material stroked her body like a gloved hand as she moved across the floor to the chest. She blew dust from the top of it and carefully flipped the rusty hasp. The cover opened with a whine. The trunk was packed to overflowing with gowns, chemises, slippers and a great hooded black pelisse. She laid a few of the articles out on the bed. Never in her life had she touched any materials as fine as these. Nothing but linen and coarse wool had ever lain in her hands. These gowns were made of such things as silk and brocade. At least, she thought they were. She had only heard of such fine fabrics. At the bottom of the chest, her hand found a mirror. She peered into it and saw herself clearly for the first time in over seven years. She sighed, for what she saw reflected there was not comely. Eyes set too far apart, lips so full they looked almost swollen and a nose too rabbit-like to be considered truly pretty. Her only redeeming quality was the color and shape of her eyes, which she had inherited from her mother. She picked up a strand of her hair and studied it by the firelight. It was such a contrast to the color of the prince’s hair. For a moment, she wondered how the tendrils of their hair would look entangled, light against dark. She wondered how his hair would feel brushed against her lips, against her breast. Rhiannon touched her cunt, hot now with the mere thought of him. How would his cock feel inside her, thrusting into her wet heat until she climaxed around his pistoning shaft? She broke off the thought with a sharp breath of surprise, her heart beating faster. Her cheeks burned with surprise and a pinch of shame. Those thoughts had come uninvited, intruding on her peacefulness. * * * * * In his own chamber, Tristan fingered the dagger Rhiannon had tried to gut him with. He frowned, noticing that his seal was carved upon the sheath. He threw it onto the table in front of him. Apparently he had the cotter Thay to thank for the message he’d received. Perhaps Venna had taken him into her confidence and told him about Cynan. Taking a sip from the cup in front of him, he eased back into a chair and considered this new bit of knowledge. “So, he has the prophesied woman at last. The one in whose hands lay all his dubious hopes and dreams of vengeance.” “Gareth.” Tristan greeted his best friend in a flat tone of voice. Gareth’s parents had died when he was young. King Karran, Tristan’s father, had taken Gareth in and fostered him alongside Tristan and his younger sister, Ceri. Toward the end of his life, Karran had turned Galland over to a governing structure that was not based solely on the sovereign rule of his bloodline. The Council of Rule governed in place of a single king, headed by the Protector of Galland. It was a title Tristan would one day inherit. Gareth was second in line. At one time, he and Gareth had been virtually the same in ideology and temperament. Since Ellia had died, they’d grown apart. It was his own fault, he knew. He simply wasn’t the same man he used to be. The loss of her had left a gaping hole in the center of him. Tristan took a long drink from the cup in front of him. Gareth would have plenty to say about Rhiannon’s presence at Hallyn. His friend walked over and poked his golden head into Tristan’s line of vision. “What? Do you, the great hero, the honorable knight, deny me the hospitality of even so much as a sip of wine?” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable. There was that word again, honor. Tristan gritted his teeth and motioned to the chair beside him. He had none, as evidenced by taking advantage of Rhiannon on the trip in. “Come. Sit. Drink.” “You speak so eloquently that I cannot refuse.” Tristan reached across the table and poured him some of the wine from the flagon. Handing it to him, he tried his best to state gently. “You of all people, Gareth, realize I am none of the things of which you speak.” “But have you not saved Venna and Margan’s daughter from life as a peasant? Have you not brought the woman here to—” “I have brought the woman here because she has a right to know her parentage. She has a right to know her history, and most of all, she has a right to realize the powerful magic running through her blood. She won’t be able to do that in the backward Galladian countryside.” “Don’t you mean that she has a right to exact revenge for you? She has a right to become a mere pawn in your game with Cynan Maelgwn. The game you’ve been playing with him ever since he murdered Margan and sent his own wife running off into the woods with a babe still practically at her breast. And now that you’ve found that babe grown up, you’ll have the revenge you’ve sought ever since that day, over twenty years ago.” Gareth took a slow sip of wine and studied Tristan with narrowed blue-green eyes over the rim of his cup. “You’ve an overdeveloped sense of vengeance, I fear.” Tristan sighed. How many times had they had a discussion like this? “Gareth, I did not bring the girl here to gain revenge for me. Margan was like a father to us both. Venna was a dear friend. I could not leave their daughter in Arden Village.” He pushed a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated breath. “The woman Rhiannon was indentured to beat her on regular basis. Here she will take her father’s name. I intend to dower her and marry her well to a man of her own choosing.” Tristan paused and grew quieter. “It’s true that, according to Wymand’s vision, she is destined to avenge her parent’s deaths. Wymand has seen Rhiannon give a tainted brew to Cynan and he has never been wrong before, but—” “Ah, there, you see! I knew that had to enter into your scheming somewhere. You can’t go after Cynan because of the Council of Rule’s edict. So you think you’ve found a way to get revenge on Cynan without violating it and losing everything.” He slammed a fist onto the table. “I will do everything in my power to see that Margan and Venna’s daughter comes to no harm. I will defend her from Cynan with my dying breath.” Gareth snorted. “Do you really think you have a say in how fate plays us, Tristan? All of Wymand’s predictions have come true thus far. Over five years ago, he told us Rhiannon was alive and she is.” Gareth took another sip of wine and sighed. “I have no quarrel with your taking her from Arden Village. I have no quarrel with your gifting her with her birthright. My quarrel is exposing her to the possibility of Wymand’s predictions turning true.” His voice grew quiet. “My quarrel is with you, who have grown so dark these past years, manipulating events to make them come true, even if you unknowingly do so.” Tristan sighed. Had Garth’s opinion of him slipped so much? “It is true I have no say in some of the stronger currents of fate, but I’m telling you now, unequivocally, I will keep Margan and Venna’s daughter safe.” Tristan grimaced. “And it may come down to that. She may indeed be the death of me. You have not yet met her. She is as fierce and as proud a girl as I’ve ever met, headstrong beyond all belief. You shall like her. I’m sure of it.” “What else would Margan and Venna’s daughter be but fierce and proud? Born of their blood and from their union of unbreakable love.” “Unbreakable?” Tristan scoffed. “In the end, it was broken, Gareth. Rhiannon knows how to mix poisons, just like Venna.” Gareth frowned. “Strange Venna would teach her after Cynan forced her to poison Margan.” “Aye.” “Fits with Wymand’s vision.” “Cynan will never have a chance to harm her, Gareth,” Tristan said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now leave off. You’re giving me a headache.” Gareth rose and set his cup on the table. “No, Cynan won’t. And neither will you, because I will be watching you. You may not endanger the girl in any way.” The words hung in the air between them. They both knew what he was referring to. “I know well your lack of control and I’m more than capable of protecting her from your lust.” Too late. Gareth went to the door, and then looked back at him. “But I’m not worried. I still believe you will find the honor you once had—the honor you had when Ellia was alive.” Gareth closed the door behind him. Tristan’s hand gripped the flagon’s handle at his friend’s words. An image of Ellia lying on her deathbed filled his mind. She’d been so frail, so vulnerable. Tristan ground the heel of his palm into his eye as if to banish her pale face, but it would not go. In his heart, he knew he’d always be haunted by those memories. As well he should be, he thought. After all, he was the one responsible for her death. Chapter Four The pale pink hands of dawn gently tugged Rhiannon from her slumber. She stretched and sighed contentedly. She’d finally fallen asleep the night before and had slept more deeply than she thought she had in all her life. Maybe she could become accustomed to comfort after all. Snuggling back into the pillows, she thought maybe she’d never get out of bed. “Good morning, my lady.” She turned her head to see Tilda bringing in a tray of food. “Good morning,” she replied absently as she slid from under the cover. She walked to the table, eyeing the thick slab of cold meat and dark brown bread drizzled with honey. While she ate, Tilda spread a few gowns on the coverlet for her perusal. Perhaps Tilda knew why she had been brought here. She finished her breakfast and rose to join her. “Tilda, I was hoping that perhaps you may know why his lordship has brought me to Hallyn. Has he said anything to you of me?” Tilda smoothed the gowns lying on the bed. “Well, my lady, I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. The prince told me you were the daughter of a poor, but honorable knight. He said your father had passed on and you had no one now. I think Prince Tristan feels he owes a debt to your father for some reason.” Tilda patted her arm. “Do not worry yourself, my lady. The prince is a good man. Though he can be intimidating, you’re in safe hands with him.” Rhiannon was disappointed but not surprised that Tilda knew nothing. But why had the prince lied about her origins? Now she was even more mystified. The serving woman turned and clasped her hands together with glee. “Now, which of these do you want to wear?” She looked down at the clothes on the bed. There were two chemises of light, almost transparent white and slippers made of kid. Several gowns lay softly there. One was a very dark blue, set with elaborate pearl beadwork. Several other finer gowns made from strange material also lay on the bed. The rich red gown was the most beautiful. Slowly, she reached down and ran her hand down its embroidered sleeve. She thought it must be made of silk because of its softness. She dared not touch them, let alone wear them. “Which one have you chosen?” Tilda asked. Her hand brushed the red gown again, but she drew it away. It was far too nice for the likes of her. She reached instead for the dark blue gown, drawn through with lace and tiny pearls. “This one.” Tilda helped her off with the chemise she had slept in. In the bright morning light, Rhiannon knew the serving woman would see the long, thin marks that decorated her back, chest and legs. The scars had been gifts from Ada over the years, administered by a lashing weapon she’d fashioned from peeled lengths of green wood. Tilda took a step backward and gasped at the sight. “Oh, my lady, I fear his lordship was mistaken when he called your father honorable.” She clucked her tongue as she slipped a clean chemise over Rhiannon’s head, followed by the gown. Tilda patted her shoulder. “Well, they’ll serve as reminders of your past, letting you know life will be sweeter from here on out, aye? And you’ll never earn more of them here at Hallyn.” Rhiannon had sensed that already. The prince would never lay a violent hand on her. “Aye, Tilda, I believe you.” The gown fit her body almost perfectly, showing off the slenderness of her waist and the pretty bulge of her breasts. Parts of her body that had never been anything but a nuisance to her before now felt the beginnings of femininity. She pulled on the pair of white kid slippers. Tilda helped her unwind her hair. She had bound it up the day before while it was still damp from her bath. Now it fell in soft golden white ringlets to her waist. Rhiannon combed it out while Tilda stood back to look at her. “My lady,” she gasped, “you are uncommonly beautiful.” Rhiannon smiled at Tilda’s kindness. She was obviously trying to make her feel better about the ugly scars. The dress was sewn tightly beneath the swell of her chest, forcing areas of her body out into the open that had never been displayed before. She glanced down and blushed. Tilda nodded sagely. “You’re a woman, Lady Rhiannon.” Because she’d spent so much of her life endeavoring to cover up her womanhood, she felt a little uncomfortable announcing it so suddenly to the world. For part of the morning, Rhiannon stayed in her chamber, but eventually the call of the outdoors proved too strong for her. The thought of meeting Tristan by chance was a deterrent, but she needed to feel fresh air on her skin. She found her way to the lower level of the keep in search of a door that led outside. As she made her way down a corridor, she glimpsed a woman sitting in a chamber. Her face was in shadow, but the way she sat seemed so…familiar. A little past the doorway, she caught a passing servant. “Whose chamber is that?” she asked, pointing the half open door. “Oh, the Lady Merion sleeps there,” the girl replied. “She’s a wee bit daft in the head, I’m afraid.” “Thank you,” Rhiannon answered and watched the girl hurry away. With one last glance at the chamber door, she turned and continued down the corridor. By late morning, she found herself in the outer bailey, following a stone battlement wall that had been licked by time, wind and rain to a rich gray color. She ran her fingers along it, reveling in its gritty strength and savoring the sensation of the sun warming her skin. She rounded a corner and found herself face to face with a strange, wizened old man who was as wispy as a cobweb. He stood looking up at her, twisting his long beard with a finger and squinting. “You be the girl, Rhiannon?” She nodded. He grunted and spat heartily upon the ground. “You’re smaller than what I thought you’d be, but you’ll do for the task. In my visions, I have seen you complete it.” He stared at her for a moment with a penetrating gaze. His eyes shone a remarkable glowing violet. “Don’t let the strength of your magic daunt you, girl. You are a daughter of the old ways. You are the daughter of the Pashian, Venna, and a healer in your own right. Stand proud against your obstacles.” As he spoke, a shiver of cold, like an icy finger, ran the length of her spine. “Even the ones you construct yourself,” he finished softly. With his cryptic message delivered, he turned and walked into a shadowed stone passageway. Rhiannon started after him. “Wait, who are you? Do you know why I’m here?” The old man turned. “Aye, I know why you’re here.” He took two steps backward and melded with the shadows. Rhiannon hurried after him, but he was gone, disappeared into the darkness. Another shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it away. Gradually, her feelings of foreboding melted into mere bewilderment. Had she wandered somehow into a part of the castle where they kept all the addled brains? Rhiannon turned slowly and continued her walk, trying to recapture the peace she had felt before and failing. Eventually, she came upon a long, rectangular yard enclosed on three sides by tall, sloping walls. There was a man there in full hauberk and helm. She guessed she must be in the tiltyard. Tilda had spoken of it earlier. Silently, she climbed a crumbling staircase and sat, with the intention of watching the knight. He gripped a long and powerful-looking lance and brandished a large shield bearing Hallyn’s symbol, the crescent moon cradling a sunburst. He galloped to the end of the field where she sat. The chestnut horse beneath him pranced and tossed its mane. Digging his heels into the animal’s sides, he took off at a flat out run for a mannequin covered with a hauberk and shield at the other end of the yard. He drove his spear through the target, making her wince with the violence of it. She visualized what it would do to a human chest and shuddered. “Let’s see how well you do against me,” came a deep and smooth voice she recognized. Rhiannon watched Tristan walk Toren out of a shadowed corner. He was dressed the same way as the other man, but without a helm. Toren glistened like black velvet beneath him. “I don’t think I’ll have any difficulties with that,” the other man said confidently, his voice muffled by the heavy helm. “If you best me, Gareth, it will be the first time.” “Isn’t there a first time for everything?” Holding lance and shield steady, Tristan walked Toren to one end of the tiltyard, directly opposite from where Rhiannon sat. The man called Gareth traveled to the other end. Toren pawed the ground and tossed his magnificent head in anticipation of the duel. Tristan raised his shield into the air. After that signal was given, the men charged. Hooves thundered and clumps of already bedraggled grass flew into the air. Rhiannon’s heart pounded against her ribcage, the image of the stranger’s lance slicing through the metal target as if were nothing more than a loaf of soft baked bread prominent in her mind. Her eyes adhered themselves to Tristan’s face, hardened in concentration. His dark brown hair fell loose around his shoulders, giving him a savage appearance. Tristan wore no helm and she understood well that Gareth could do him real harm. Concerned, Rhiannon stood. Tristan looked up and stared. Rhiannon dug her fingernails into her palms so hard she was sure she drew blood. Why was the fool looking at her? He should be attending to the project at hand or he would get his brains dashed out. She watched in horror as Tristan took the full brunt of Gareth’s lance against his shield. A loud crack of Gareth’s spear splitting filled the air. Tristan tottered dangerously upon Toren’s back for moment before toppling to the ground in a pile of clanging mail. Rhiannon winced. “Dear Goddess,” she breathed. She made her way down the stairs and ran into the tiltyard. Gareth had dismounted and was kneeling by Tristan by the time she reached him. “My lord, are you all right?” she asked, kneeling beside him. Tristan groaned. He stared up at her and blinked. “Rhiannon?” “Aye.” She frowned. “Are you seeing things unclearly? That’s not a good sign.” Her initial feeling of fear gave way to sharp annoyance. He could have killed himself. She glanced at the other man, who’d removed his helm. His blue eyes were wide and staring at her from a classically handsome face. She would wager all the castle women gave him more than one look. “I’m Gareth,” he said finally. “My name is Rhiannon, my lord,” she greeted him with a short, requisite curtsy. She turned her attention back to Tristan. “You were arrogant to assume you would not need your helm,” she scolded. Tristan remained silent. That was truly odd. Maybe he had an injury to his head. Frowning, she searched his head for wounds, but found no obvious ones. Next, she carefully divested him of his hauberk with Gareth’s aid and felt around his chest. Her pressing elicited a howl of pain. She rocked back on her heels. “Congratulations, you’ve probably got a bruising inside your chest upon your ribs, perhaps even a break.” “Not a break. I’ve had those before. They hurt worse than this.” “Whichever, you’ve a need to come to my chambers for treatment.” “I’m fine,” Tristan growled. “You’re not. When I first came to you, it was clear you couldn’t even see straight.” She stared at him, immovable. “I know I’m not as fine as a castle physician, but still I am a healer, so heed my words.” Tristan only grimaced in response. “My Lord Gareth, can you help me to lift him?” she asked. “I can walk by myself!” Tristan roared, fixing them both with a glare. Rhiannon was undaunted by his outburst. “Good, because you’re much too heavy to carry.” “Carry where? I’m fine, Rhiannon.” “No,” Gareth said. “You’re injured. You’d better accompany the lady, Tristan.” Tristan sighed. “All right! I’ll go anywhere if it means I’ll be away from you, Gareth! When are you going back home anyway?” “Ah. Not quite yet.” Gareth glanced at Rhiannon. “There is far too much going on here for me to take my leave now.” Tristan got himself to Rhiannon’s chamber and sat down on a chair. She pulled off his tunic and tossed it aside. A large bruise already bloomed over his ribcage. She ran her fingers over it lightly, trying her very best to conceal her reaction to his broad, solidly muscled chest. There was not an ounce of softness anywhere on the man. Good Goddess, but the man did strange things to her body without so much as laying a hand on her person. Made her heart beat fast. Made her flush. Made her breath hitch as she imagined taking her time to explore his chest for purposes other than healing. She turned away and made fists. Other strange things were happening as well. Her hands were tingling and growing warm. She would not allow her magic dominion over her. Tristan’s wounds were not life-threatening. She could heal him just fine the traditional way. Ignoring the state of her hands and the growing pressure in her mind, she asked Tilda to fetch a pot with a hook, some water, mortar and pestle and a ladle. Then she went to her herb satchel and pulled out a handful of leaves. “Where is your castle physician?” she asked him. “I assume you have one.” Tristan scowled. “I sent him away.” “Sent him away? Why?” “The fool tried to make me drink cow piss.” She broke up some herb and pursed her lips. “Why no magical healer, my lord?” she asked slowly. “You are the Prince of Galland. Surely you can afford one.” “Magical healing remains a very rare skill, Rhiannon, especially here in Galland. In Pashia, even Lotharia and Bah’ra, it is more common, but not here in the backwaters. You have some skill in this area, though, don’t you?” Her hands stilled their work. “My mother did.” “Your mother healed magically for Arden Village, didn’t she?” “Aye. All the way up to the day they burned her at the stake.” Tilda came in and left the requested implements. Rhiannon worked in silence, preparing the salve she would put over Tristan’s wound. The quicker she salved him, the faster he would heal. “Was I brought here to be your castle’s herbalist?” she asked. “I am a very diligent worker, my lord, and my mother taught me much about the art of healing.” “No, Rhiannon, that is not why I’ve brought you here.” “I can read and write too, my lord. Perhaps—” “Did your mother teach you that too?” “Aye, my lord. They’re pretty tricks, but I’ve never had need of them.” He watched her turn and stir something in the pot hanging over the fire. The gown kissed her slim form, revealing the hollows and curves of her body that had been hidden by the men’s clothing she’d worn before. With her hair untangled, and in that gown, Rhiannon was radiantly beautiful. Her blue eyes were made even bluer. Her skin was luminous, a silky soft peach cream. Her hair hung in softly curling white-gold tendrils all the way down to her waist and a soft dusting of freckles graced her pert nose. Rhiannon walked over to him, holding a bowl in one hand. She bent down to place the bowl on the table. As she did, the front of her slightly too-large gown fell open, revealing the edge of a thin white scar she had on her breast. Tristan took her arm and drew her to him. “What is that? Is that a scar, Rhiannon?” When he’d bathed her in the river, they’d escaped his notice. He’d known that she’d been beaten, but the sight of that mark upon her sweet skin incited him to near fury. It looked as though it had been made by the powerful stroke of a lashing weapon. He released her, realizing that he had frightened her by his intense scrutiny. “Aye, it’s a scar, my lord.” She tried to smile and indicated his wound, now a dark purple slash across his ribcage. “See, we’re much alike, you and I.” “Why did you not salve yourself when you received it?” “Ada wouldn’t allow it, my lord. She always said the wounds were meant to be punishments and that I could not help them to heal any cleaner than the universe meant. It would not have helped anyway. The lashes were always too deep to heal without scarring.” Every muscle in Tristan’s body tensed. He’d enjoy getting his hands on Ada and Wen again sometime and paying them back for what they’d put her through. Aye, that was definitely on his list of things to do. “It’s all right, my lord. I have become accustomed to seeing them on myself. I believe that living with Ada and Wen has made me stronger. In an odd way, I’m grateful to them. Now let me apply this to your chest.” Tristan sniffed at the bowl suspiciously. “And what are going to use on me?” “It’s freyflower paste. It will sink into your wound and help it to heal.” Rhiannon looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I should just let it heal of its own accord, which would take about thrice the time, in order to teach you a lesson.” Tristan blinked. “Teach me a lesson?” “Aye, you weren’t even watching where you were going down there in the tiltyard.” “Rhiannon, I never would have fallen were it not for seeing you.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “You. You distracted me.” “Do not blame your lack of skill on me.” “Lack of skill?” Rhiannon huffed out a breath, marched over to him and slapped the paste onto the affected area. She instantly stilled, looking stricken. “Are you all right?” Tristan put his hand over hers. Her hand was hot, burning. “Rhiannon? Are you all right?” She moved her other hand to his chest and closed her eyes. Her breath came shallow and her chest rose and fell rapidly. A flush crept up her neck to her face. “Do you—do you wish to be healed of this wound?” she asked through gritted teeth. Tristan frowned. What in the name of the Father-of-All was going on? “I accept,” he answered. She laid her hands to him and his wound grew very hot, nearly unbearable. Then his flesh and her hands both cooled. She removed her hands and stared down at them. Her face drained of its color. His chest felt completely healed. He moved experimentally. It was completely healed. The mark was gone. “Rhiannon,” he said gently. She looked up at him with a mixture of fear and sorrow in her eyes. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. She sounded so bereft. He reached out and pulled her toward him. She came willingly, fitting into the curve of his body as though she’d been made for it. He stroked her hair. “I’m going to make sure you’re safe, Rhiannon. I swear it,” he murmured. “No one here will punish you because of your magic. You have my word.” She shifted and looked up at him, still with that stunned look in her eyes. He twined a hand to the nape of her neck and compelled her mouth to his. Chapter Five His mint-scented breath caressed her lips and nostrils, sending a jolt of reaction down her spine. She was stunned for a moment, allowing his lips to gently taste hers. His touch seemed to draw all the strength out of her, leaving her limp and wholly unable to defend herself. She closed her eyes, letting her fear of the magic that had flowed through her leak out and be replaced by pleasurable astonishment. She’d never been kissed before. His arms braced her against him. The heat of his body bled through her gown and into her skin. His thumb rubbed back and forth at the small of her back in a way that lulled and excited her at the same time. His other large hand cupped her nape. Tristan parted her lips and his tongue slipped within to touch hers. Her body stiffened, quickened…wanted. “I want to fuck you, Rhiannon.,” he whispered against her lips. “The urge is nearly unbearable.” He slipped his hand under her skirts, touched her cunt. She whimpered, pushed her pussy against his hand. Rhiannon wanted that too. “I could lift your skirts now, take you here.” He moved his hand back and forth against her, rubbing her clit. “Right on this table, fast and hard,” he growled. Her body tensed to orgasm, every fiber of her flooded with lust. “Do it,” she murmured. He hesitated. “No, already this is wrong. I have…I have wronged you with this.” Guilt saturated his voice. She bared her breast, pushing it over the bodice of her dress. “Tristan, I am throwing myself at you. Please, I have never felt this before. I need you. I need your body to sate mine.” He growled, latching his mouth over her breast. His hot lips closed over it, tongue laving her nipple. He forced her backward, two fingers spearing into her cunt, not far enough to break her maidenhead but enough to give her incredible pleasure. They hit the table with the healing implements, knocking everything to the floor with a clatter. He fucked her gently with his fingers, pinning her against the wall. In and out, over and over, like how she wanted his cock, but she wanted his cock deeper, harder, faster. His tongue licked and his teeth nipped her nipple until she broke with a climax, clawing at him. He lifted his head and kissed her as he ground his palm against her clit, extending her orgasm. Tears burst from her eyes. It was good, so good…but she needed more from him. When the waves of her climax eased, she bit his lower lip until she tasted blood. He jerked away, yelping. “I hate that I beg for you and you deny me. I hate that I want you. I hate you.” She turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind her. Once out in the corridor, she leaned against the wall and took in a few deep breaths. She was…overwhelmed. By both her magic and Tristan. Were both destined to be uncontrollable forces? She rested her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to get a handle on the moment. “Rhiannon? Are you all right?” She opened her eyes to find Gareth staring at her with a worried expression on his face. “I came to see how Tristan fared,” he continued. “He’s fine.” She let out a slightly crazed sounding laugh. “He’s healed.” “How are you?” She pasted a smile on her face. “I’m—” “not fine,” Gareth finished for her. “Care for a walk in the open air? I was headed for the top of the tower.” Open air. “Aye, I’d be happy to accompany you.” Rhiannon allowed Gareth to lead her up the winding stone stairs at the end of the corridor and out a door at the top. Lost to her thoughts, she sat down on a ledge and stared out into the distance. A breeze bathed her cheeks, she noted dully. “Rhiannon?” Gareth’s voice teased her out of her thoughts. Rousing herself from her daze, she looked up at him. “Pardon me, did you say something?” “I asked whether or not you thought the view beautiful.” She blinked and gazed around her. The sun lit the sky and swathed the countryside in shining brightness. “It’s beyond beautiful.” “Aye, it is one of the best views from the castle, especially nice at daybreak and just before the twilight hour.” In the distance, she saw the tops of jagged mountains stabbing at the clouds. Other than those mountains, only the lush carpet of grass, fern and tree met her view. “Do all the forests belong to Hallyn?” She longed to be out in them right now, picking herbs, working, relieving her mind from the confusing mess of thoughts that crowded her head. “Nay,” he replied, waving his hand toward the west. “The woods off in that direction belong to Lord Cynan’s property Warwide.” “Do you share the forests, then, since you’re neighbors?” “It used to be so, but many years ago there was an incident, and from then on, Hallyn and Warwide have feuded.” Gareth raised his hand and pointed west, toward the hills. “My own castle and lands lie in that direction. I live at Swansea. It is much smaller than Hallyn, but it suits me quite well.” Rhiannon looked at him closely for the first time. He was markedly different from Tristan. They both shared the same powerfully muscled chest and arms, but Gareth’s face could be called truly handsome. His hair shone almost as light as her own. His eyes were a penetrating blue and sparkling bright, with a light quality his darker, brooding friend did not possess. Looking into his eyes, she felt something was wrong, off with his relationship with Tristan. She tilted her head. “Why do you come here?” “To keep my friend in line,” he answered with a smile. “Does your friend need someone to keep him in line?” She looked away from him. Perhaps she needed someone to keep her in line as well. He laughed. “Aye, most definitely.” She smiled faintly. Gareth tipped his face toward the sun. “I love Tristan as well as I would my own brother, but he’s lacking in self control and in honor. Of course,” Gareth dropped his head and held her gaze with his own— “you know he will pursue you.” He already had, but not as much as she would’ve liked. This man misunderstood her. He didn’t know the whore that dwelt inside her, hungering for Tristan’s touch. Suddenly, her anger flared white hot within her. It could have hewn rock from the distant mountain. She’d spent the last seven years of her life fighting against a man’s hands and thought she had learned every trick there was, but she had no defenses against the tactics the prince used. He made her wish for him to touch her. “My friend has a difficult time controlling himself around comely women. He has never mastered the art of gentlemanly restraint.” Rhiannon remained quiet, inwardly seething. Gareth likely mistook her sudden silence and her blush for maidenly shame instead of a flush born of fury. He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes. “I brought you up here so you could recover yourself in private. Would you like to spend the remainder of the day with me, to avoid Tristan?” She didn’t know what she wanted. She drew an unsteady breath. “Would you like to learn how to ride a horse?” Her gaze shot to his. She would love to know the secret of how to manage one of those huge beasts. “If you have the time and patience to teach me.” A short while later, Rhiannon found herself perched upon a gray dappled gelding called Taliesin. She had selected him because of his eyes, which were dark, pensively shaded and somehow almost tragic. She’d felt an instant kinship to the beast. Gareth rode a white stallion named Bran. She watched the horse toss his mane with a proud flourish and flick his tail into the air so that the fall of it spread handsomely down his backside. Together they rode down the drawbridge and into the world beyond the castle walls. Gareth spent most of the day teaching Rhiannon the intricacies of horsemanship. Eventually, when she was able to control Taliesin on her own, Gareth led her into the woods. Although she knew Gareth would object to her galloping the horse so soon, she spurred her mount and let the wind blow through her hair. She loved the free feeling of the breeze’s caress and the sensation of being one with the beast beneath her. When Gareth caught up to her, he took her reins in hand. His eyes went wide and his jaw slackened. “You’re so beautiful right now with your face flushed from pleasure and your eyes so bright, I can’t even rebuke you.” He released her reins. “You are a natural born horsewoman, Rhiannon, but please take care.” “I will, Lord Gareth.” “Taliesin is mine, Rhiannon, and I would like very much to give him to you. That way, you’ll be able to go riding whenever you please.” The smile faded from her lips and Rhiannon was suddenly wary. What was going on? What would she have to do that would cause everyone to be so kind to her? She was not naive. She knew that nothing came for free in the world. “Nay, Gareth, I couldn’t possibly accept such a generous gift.” “I insist.” “So do I! Gareth, why have I been brought here? Can you tell me, please? I’m sure his lordship does not often make a habit of rescuing poor peasant girls and inexplicably begin treating them as if they were nobility. Why are you being so kind to me?” Gareth sighed wearily. “Rhiannon, when the time is right, all will be revealed and you shall understand, I promise. In the meantime, you must simply trust me that everything is well and you’ve no need to feel ashamed that you come from a peasant village.” “I don’t feel ashamed,” she said, surprised he would even suggest such a thing. “Good, then you’ll take the horse.” Before she could refuse, Gareth spurred Bran and raced up the path. Soon he came to a clearing and dismounted. Rhiannon charged up the path after him and sucked in a breath at the beauty of the place where he had chosen to stop. Beyond the clearing was a seemingly endless expanse of forest. Leaves hung everywhere on the slender, bowing branches of the trees. Now and then one would fall, almost glittering as the wind tossed it through the air to the ground. The trees almost seemed to beckon her. She slid off Taliesin and went toward them. “There will be many plants to gather here,” she said absently, distracted by the possibilities. After a full day of gathering, Taliesin’s bags were filled by the time they neared the keep in the darkening gloom. Rhiannon’s nostrils were heavy with the smell of rain. The skies above promised a nourishing spring drenching. “Tristan approaches.” Gareth raised an arm and pointed in the direction of the drawbridge. “Undoubtedly, he’s concerned I’ve let something happen to you.” Rhiannon could see a rider thundering toward them on a hulking black horse. As he neared them, she could not tell exactly where Toren’s flank ended and Tristan’s black surcoat began. They moved in unison, in rippling and fluid motions as if horse and rider were one beast. He approached, prancing around Taliesin and making him nervous. As he eyed her carefully, her mouth went dry and her palms began to sweat. That same low, feathery feeling began in her stomach. Why was she so unnerved by his presence? He took Taliesin’s reins in his hand while he surveyed her mussed hair, and pollen and dirt streaked gown, cheeks and hands. Somewhere far off, the first peal of thunder cracked. “What have you been doing all this time?” He glared at Gareth for a moment, but his eyes went back to hers. “Gathering plants, that’s all. We traveled all through these woods today,” Rhiannon answered. Tristan turned and fixed Gareth with a steely gaze. “So, you brought Rhiannon to Cynan’s lands, then, did you?” Gareth cleared his throat. “We may have ventured onto his land unintentionally. It happened before I realized.” Tristan glared at him for a moment before responding. “I think we can both agree that is a bad idea. Can we not?” His voice held an edge of steel. “We can,” agreed Gareth. “You were lucky.” “Aye, we were.” “What is this that lies between you and your neighbor?” Rhiannon asked. “Why do I sense it has something to do with me?” Both men went silent. “I’m tired of the secrets,” she said. Goddess, so tired. “Cynan,” began Tristan slowly, “has done many bad things to many people.” “Why don’t you hold your neighbor accountable for his crimes, then?” she asked. “The Council of Rule implemented an edict to cease the warring between the princedoms, Rhiannon,” answered Gareth slowly. “Any prince who breaks it loses all his holdings and titles. Tristan has more to lose than any of us since he is the prince-successor to the Protector’s seat of the council. What Cynan has done…it doesn’t all concern you directly.” She gaped. “Doesn’t all concern me directly? Then what does concern me?” More silence. She ripped Taliesin’s reins from Tristan’s grasp. Fat drops of rain splashed down at the same time “Don’t worry, my lord. Gareth kept your property safe and sound today.” She whirled Taliesin around toward the keep. A slow smile spread across Gareth’s face as they watched her retreat. “I don’t think she likes you.” Tristan just grunted in reply. He watched as the fierce wind undid the hair knotted at her nape like a lover’s urgent hand. “She’s a woman after your own heart because of it too, isn’t she, Gareth?” “For more reasons than just that,” he murmured under his breath. Tristan heard the note of desire clearly in his voice. Tristan turned Toren to face Gareth. “What is the meaning of leading her straight into Cynan’s lands? Why endanger her so carelessly as that?” “The border crept up on us before I realized where we had wandered.” “You mean you crept up on the border unawares because you were too busy gazing at Rhiannon.” Gareth only smiled. “I know you, Gareth. Ever since you were twelve and climbed up onto the roof of the stables to paint that voluptuous serving girl’s portrait and—” “I had a better view from up there as she passed back and forth through the courtyard,” Gareth replied. “--and you fell off and broke your arm.” “I only did that so Elen would give me a kiss for my efforts.” Toren snorted and threw his head while Tristan weighed his response. “Yes, and eventually she kissed us both, one right after the other. “ He and Gareth had shared many woman. “And you fell in love with her. That’s what I’m talking about. I know you. You do not think clearly when you are besotted.” “And you, Tristan, you never are besotted.” Tristan leveled a penetrating gaze at him. “I was once. One time, long ago, I loved.” “Forgive me, I know. I remember Ellia well. I also remember your reluctance. You were so angry when you discovered your father was going to force you into that marriage.” Tristan sighed in remembrance. Ellia had been none other than Cynan’s daughter by his first wife. “Ellia was nothing like her father. She was beautiful and brave. She must have taken after her mother.” Gareth twisted his lip wryly. “Aye, the poor, pitiful woman. Isn’t it a coincidence that she took that stumble down the stairs the very same day Cynan saw Venna for the first time?” Tristan snapped Toren’s reins impatiently. “I have no time for such reminiscing.” Ellia and Venna were two of the most painful subjects he could imagine, and Gareth wanted to talk of them in tandem. “I just wanted to point out that lust and anger seem to be the only two emotions you ever feel now, Tristan. One day you’re going to be struck senseless with the wanting of a woman. A woman you love as much as, perhaps even more than you loved Ellia, and it will make you insane fighting against it. You will fight against it because you’ll be afraid.” “Afraid?” Tristan scoffed. “You’re afraid to love again.” Tristan laughed. “What nonsense, Gareth. You’ve the tongue of an old widow sitting at her spinning wheel today. What is the matter with you?” Gareth nodded sagely. “Mark me, it will happen.” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Making predictions, are we? Just like Wymand.” “Just watch your lust around Rhiannon, Tristan. She’s been here not even one full day and you’ve already tried to compromise her. What will happen tomorrow?” The rain began to fall harder, soaking their clothing. Happily, Tristan realized that thanks to the rain, he would be spared from having to address Gareth’s indirect query about his intentions toward Rhiannon. He’d already compromised her. He would compromise again too. And again. And again. Even now his fingers itched to touch her, his tongue remembered the flavor of her sweet cunt. “We’d best go in or she’ll be treating us both for fever.” Tristan headed Toren back toward the keep. He reached the courtyard and handed the reins to the boy. Tristan turned to enter the keep and came face to face with Wymand. “When will you give her to me for instruction?” “When she’s ready.” “When will you reveal the secrets her mother held? When will you bring her to Merion?” “Are you so eager to see life spilt upon the ground, old friend?” Tristan said. “I’ve been waiting a very long time for this, and so have you. She looks deceptively delicate, but I sense her strength. She can handle the knowledge.” “It is true she is strong.” “Aye.” Tristan stared straight ahead and narrowed his eyes. “We’ve waited many years, another week or so matters little.” Wymand spat at the ground. “You hedge. You stall for time. Why? I can already sense your admiration for the girl. You are growing…fond of her. That is dangerous. I have tried, but I am unable to see past the image of the girl giving the tea to Cynan. I do not know if she will survive what the future holds for her. ‘Tis best if you do not become attached.” Tristan was silent. Wymand talked about Margan’s daughter as if her life was inconsequential. It angered him. Finally he spoke. “No matter what you say, I will do all I can to see your prophecy does not come to pass. I will bring her to you and Merion when I choose.” His tone was hard. There was a rustle of robes and Tristan knew that Wymand had taken his leave. Chapter Six Tristan sat straight up in bed, sweat sheening his chest and arms. He took a draught of air into his strained lungs. Dragging himself out from beneath the coverings, he went to sit on the chair by the window. He pushed a hand through his hair. His dream had returned, the one that had haunted him for so many years of his life. Tristan closed his eyes and attempted to remember it in detail. He stood at the edge of a vast, blue ocean. The cry of the birds overhead filled his ears and the smell of salt water teased his nostrils. Always, he looked different when he was here, with sandy hair and light amber eyes. On his forearm was a tattoo done in black, a great dragon whose tail wrapped around his wrist. There was a woman standing beside him. She wore a long, white ceremonial robe. The hood completely shaded her face from his view. How he longed to rip away the coverings that hid her! As if granting his wish, a wind came up and blew back the hood of her robe. He saw the rope of coral that wrapped her throat and the jewels that glittered at her ears. She turned to look up at him with a face made of love. Tristan drew a ragged breath and opened his eyes. Before, the woman’s face had always been shadowed. This night was the first time he’d seen her, known who it was, who it had always been from the first time he’d had the dream when he was naught but a child. Rhiannon. He stood and paced the chamber. How could that possibly be? He’d been having that dream since before she was even born! He needed time to think about this, to uncover what it meant. Why had she been haunting him for nearly his whole life? * * * * * Gareth walked around the edge of the lake toward Rhiannon, pausing to look over the water before making his presence known. The lake that lay near the keep was still, reflecting a sky the color of stone. A slight breeze blew, making the water reeds dance and the pussywillows bob. The smell of mud and damp weeds painted the air. Rhiannon sat in a shadow that was slowly consuming the moss-encrusted rock to her right. Gareth watched as she drew the woolen shawl around her shoulders. The hem of her blue gown trailed in the water, but she seemed unaware of it, lost to her thoughts. He drew very near to her and watched as she leaned over to watch a green-backed beetle that busily made his way along the shore beside her. Her hair cascaded down her back in ripples of the finest gold. Rhiannon looked up and greeted Gareth with a smile. Gareth indicated the small insect. “There is so much beauty in nature, do you not think?” He looked at her, holding her gaze with his for a heartbeat, then settled himself beside her on the grass. Above them, a bird called. Rhiannon leaned back, plucked a fern leaf from behind her and studied it. “Soon, ’twill be Ter Lugonos,” she commented idly. “The prince entertains the ways of the Goddess and it is a holiday of Pashia. Do they light a fire to celebrate it here at Hallyn?” Gareth smiled. “He does, but we have never had a Ter Lugonos fire. I’m sure Tristan will allow you to celebrate the Goddess’s day anyway you choose, however.” “I don’t need a bonfire. Just the woods.” She looked up at him and smiled so brilliantly he nearly lost his breath. “I believe power resides in nature. Spirits are more likely to be found in the forests and oak groves rather than inside the fancy churches of Galland’s Father-of-All.” “Your beliefs mirror Tristan’s and his sister’s.” “The prince has a sister?” “Aye, he didn’t mention her? Her name is Ceri. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon. Her time is no doubt being squandered by Wymand in tutelage.” Gareth realized too late that he had mentioned the old seer’s name. Gareth watched Rhiannon consider his slip. She toyed with the fern. “Who is Wymand and why does he squander Ceri’s time?” Great Father-of-All, Tristan would soon have his head on a platter for his mistakes. “He is a seer.” He cleared his throat. “A Pashian seer. He helped my uncle to power many years ago. He also helped my uncle come to the decision to give the rule of Galland over to the council. Princess Ceri became magic-imbued as a result of the Dawn of magic. Wymand often stays at Hallyn, helping her to control and enhance them. She will be his successor, a seer in her own right, one day.” “I believe I met Wymand the other day. Is he uncommonly strange, with violet eyes and masses of white hair?” Gareth stiffened beside her. “Aye.” “He told me that I was smaller than he thought I’d be, but that it didn’t matter because I would complete the task. Was that something he saw in my future?” Gareth fell into a short silence, deciding what to say next. When he finally did speak, he tried to make his tone light. “That’s silly, Rhiannon, of course not. Wymand is an eccentric old man who believes he sees things in the future, but rarely do they ever come to pass. What you heard the other day was merely the rantings of a crazy elderly man.” Gareth cleared his throat and then fell into a fierce examination of one of his fingernails. “Really,” she murmured skeptically. An uncomfortable silence ensued. Gareth searched for something to say to draw her away from the subject of Wymand and prophecies. He studied her face, so pretty with the dappled sunlight over it. Before he knew it, he’d leaned in and kissed her. Surprised, Rhiannon kissed him back. His lips were not as urgent as Tristan’s, but her body quickened the same. Her breath came fast and her nipples tightened. Gareth pushed her back into the grass and slanted his mouth over hers. No, he wasn’t Tristan, and yet, her body responded to his. She found him attractive, to be sure, had from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. Maybe it was good he was not Tristan. Tristan was not the man for her. Gareth could be. “Gareth,” she murmured against his lips. “You surprise me.” She could feel the press of his cock on her leg. He was aroused. So was she. “I surprise myself. Forgive me for being so forward.” She smiled against his mouth. “Believe me, you don’t know the meaning of the word forward.” Not compared to Tristan. She took his hand and put it over her breast. “I accept your advances.” He made a low sound in his throat and caressed her breast until the nipple peaked. Through the material of her dress, he teased it. Her head fell back on a low moan and he kissed his way down her throat, raising gooseflesh over her. “It’s true,” he whispered against her skin. “You likely have been with many men, raised in the country as you have been. I’ve known that from the start. Perhaps I only wanted to protect you from Tristan’s advances to keep you for myself.” He hand eased up her thigh, under her skirt. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” These days she felt wrong saying yes to that question. She still had her maidenhead. She’d never had a cock inside her, but she longed for Tristan’s so very much. Would accept it in a heartbeat. How could she say she was virgin? She didn’t answer. She only placed her hand over Gareth’s and moved it further toward her cunt. “Touch me. Make me come, Gareth.” He shuddered against her. “I want you, Rhiannon. I feel for you. I could…love you. Will you accept my courtship? I must know before we take this further.” She hesitated. Tristan had said he planned to keep her maidenhead intact so he could marry her off. All the while, he planned to perform erotic acts with her, denying her his cock. It was cruel what Tristan meant to do to her. He was cruel, no matter how much she might want him. Gareth was an honorable man who would make a good husband. She could come to love him, to have that same white hot lust for him as she had for Tristan. Already her cunt wept for Gareth, yearned for the stroke of his hand, the lash of his tongue. “I will,” she whispered. Pleasure that had nothing to do with his touch suffused her. With two words, she had taken control from Tristan and set her own path. Damn Tristan to hell! Damn him! She would fuck Gareth here and now just to spite him. “Please, please, touch me, Gareth. Make love to me here. My body aches to feel your cock within me.” Impatiently, he thrust her skirts up and torn her panties off. Eyes feasting on the sight of her bared cunt, his fingers fumbled the button and snaps of his trews. “Are you certain?” “Do you intend to court me? Ask Tristan for my hand in marriage?” He looked at her with undeniable emotion on his face. “I do.” She spread her thighs wider. “Then I am yours.” Gareth reached forward and pulled her bodice free. Her breasts spilled out to be kissed first by the air and sunlight, then by Gareth. He moved down her body, pressing against the ground, and spread her thighs, latching his mouth to her cunt. His blond head bobbed between her thighs and ecstasy filled her at the sight. She let her head fall back on a moan as he sucked her clit between his lips, her breasts stabbing into the sky, nipples pert and hard. Gareth worked her pussy with his mouth and hands until she shuddered and came, long and hard. “Gareth!” She raised her head to find the sun blotted out by Tristan’s huge frame. His voice thundered. “You warned me to be careful around Rhiannon? And I find you here in the bushes like this?” Roughly, Tristan grabbed Gareth by his collar and pulled him up. Rhiannon scrambled to right her clothing. “You’d better watch yourself, friend.” Tristan thundered. Rhiannon scrambled backward. Tristan was truly frightening in his rage. But Gareth stood toe-to-toe with him, hands fisted. “I have honorable intentions toward her, friend. She has accepted my courtship. We are fully within our rights.” “You will marry Rhiannon?” Tristan laughed, a harsh sound. “I control her marriagability and I deny it.” He pushed Gareth backward, whirled and caught Rhiannon by the arm. “Get your hands off me!” she screamed at him. Gareth caught his other arm and Tristan whirled, punching his friend in the face. Rhiannon screamed as Gareth sprawled to the ground and lay unmoving. Tristan turned to her. “You are mine, Rhiannon. Mine!” “Never!” she screamed at him. “Never yours, Tristan! You’re a beast and I won’t have you!” Tristan laughed. “We’ll see about that.” He lifted her, slinging her over his shoulder and stalked back to the keep. Everyone stared at them as she fought, kicked and screamed at their lord, but no one dared stopped his stalk toward his chamber. Once within, he slammed the door with his foot, set her down and threw the lock. “I can’t believe you punched Gareth. He’s your friend!” He glared at her, his eyes wild. His voice was a low growl. “He touched you.” “I am his by my choice! I don’t want you, Tristan.” What a lie. Even now her body responded to him. “We’ll see about that.” He grabbed her and forced her to the bed. He yanked at the cord binding the drapes across his bed. The velvet swathe of fabric fell as he forced her onto the mattress. “Put your wrists together.” “Will you rape me?” He smiled. “Never, sweetness. I’m just finally doing what you’ve wanted me to do since that night at the river. I’m going to fuck you senseless.” Damn her own body for wanting it. Her cunt drenched at his words, spoken low. Her voice trembled when she answered. “No.” “You’ll be begging for it soon enough.” He grabbed her wrists, yanked them over her head, lashed them with the rope and tied the other end to the headboard. Then he reached down with both hands and ripped her dress open to the waist. His gaze ate up her bared breasts. Her nipples tightened under the slow perusal. “Gareth would never do this to me,” she whispered in accusation. His gaze rose to her face. His lips parted in a cocky, cold, knowing smile. “No, he wouldn’t. Pity for you, since I know this is making you crazy with lust.” Still holding her gaze, he ripped away the skirt of her gown, leaving her bared from the waist down. “Even now your sweet cunt creams for me, doesn’t it?” She bit her lower lip, coloring. “You are the devil.” He forced her thighs apart and pushed two fingers inside her, up to her maidenhead. She moaned at the stretch of her muscles. “If I am the devil and you are mine, what does that make you? The devil’s woman?” He thrust once, hard, tearing her maidenhead. There was a brief burst of pain that made her cry out. Then he pulled out and thrust again and again, rocking her body on the bed. Hard and fast and deep. Yes, oh, yes. That’s what she wanted from him. “Now you are not marriageable to anyone. Now you are mine,” he growled as he thrust into her. “Now I can fuck you and it does not matter. And I will fuck you, over and over, my sweetness. I will keep you lashed to this bed all night, take you when I please. You will have no say in what I do to your body.” “I can still marry Gareth,” she panted. “He thinks I am no longer a virgin and he cares not.” “Gareth and I have shared women, Rhiannon. Did you know? Many times we have taken them together.” His voice turned silky. “How would you like that? To be taken, fucked, by two men at the same time?” “Please,” her voice slurred. “Stop.” The thought excited her. It was wrong, but the fantasy of it drove her near to coming. He unbuttoned his pants with the hand not working her cunt and pulled out his cock. It was long, wide….huge, like the rest of him. He stroked it from tip to base, staring down at his fingers disappearing into her pussy and reappearing. “Two cocks for you to touch, to kiss. Two cocks taking turns in your pretty little cunt.” His voice was strained. “Gareth and I have done it often.” She shuddered. “Tristan, please…” “Please what? Say it, Rhiannon. Tell me you want me to fuck you. I want to hear the words.” “Please, fuck me, Tristan.” She pulled at the bonds at her wrists. “I need to feel your cock.” He pulled away from her. Leaning down over her, he took first one nipple, then the other into his mouth. He laved each with care, nibbling at her until she wanted to scream. “I want to punish you.” She moved her hips and whimpered. “No, please. To punish me is to punish yourself.” He grabbed something off the table near the bed. It was a long and studded with jewels—the fat handle of a letter opener. He slid the handle inside her so she could feel the ridges and the jewels against her sensitive cunt. Tristan did not touch her aching clit, which would have made her come. Instead, he kept her on the brink of a climax, thrusting the handle in and out her. “So pretty,” he slurred as if drunk. “I wish Gareth could see this. The way your lips grip the handle as I slide it in and out. How your pretty cunt eats it up inch by inch.” He stroked his cock. Rhiannon moved her hips, shamelessly fucking the handle. She was crazed and would take anything he offered. “Make me come, my lord. Please.” Growling, he tossed the letter opener to the floor, came down on top of her. The thick, smooth head of his cock breached her entrance and slid inside, stretching her muscles until she screamed in pleasure. He pushed into her until he reached her womb, base-deep. Rhiannon instantly climaxed on his shaft. The muscles of her cunt pulsed around his width and length. She cried out and he covered her mouth with his, eating up all her sounds. At the same time, he fucked her hard and rough. His cock slammed inside her over and over and the savage slap of flesh on flesh filled the air. Her climax went on and on until she felt the rush of his come inside her. He bellowed her name to the walls of the room and then rolled off her, panting. “Dear Gods, Rhiannon. You make me insane.” She worked her wrists against the rope, her body still tingling with the aftermath. “Free me.” He raised his head, slipped his hand to her cunt, where his come spilled from her. Slowly, he rubbed her clit until she panted, moaned and came again. “No, my sweet. This night you are mine.” He kept her that way, tied and at his mercy. Sometimes he took her while she was on her knees, pounding into her from behind, his finger stroking her clit between her thighs from the front. Sometimes he bathed her and feasted on her pussy, making her climax again and again. By the middle of the night, she had come too many times to count and her body ached with the abuse he’d inflicted on it. Tristan had put his mark on her, indelibly. Finally, he released her wrists, put a blanket over her fatigued body and tucked her against him. “Sleep, sweetness. Sleep now. His voice lulled her to sleep and she dreamed… She stood at the edge of an unending blue ocean. The sun shone bright overhead and the cry of the seabirds filled the air. A long white cloak swathed her and she wore small earrings that moved in the wind. She touched her throat and rolled a long coral necklace between her fingers. Beside her stood a tall man with light hair and amber eyes. Though she did not recognize him, she knew him. Knew his soul’s imprint upon her own. On his forearm a tattooed dragon writhed. Its tail wrapped around his wrist. A wind came up and blew back the hood of her cloak. She looked up at him.… She awoke with a gasp and sat up. The dream rushed back into her consciousness. She shook her head. Goddess, it had been so real, and the man in the dream had seemed so familiar. Tristan slept deeply beside her. Who had been the man in the dream? She frowned. Could it have been him? Could it have been this strange, dark, exciting man who made her half hate and half love him? Disturbed, she lay back down. No, it couldn’t be. Chapter Seven The summons to Morlais came the next morning. The morning after Tristan had so thoroughly debauched Rhiannon that she could be no good for any man but himself. Even though he had no intention of taking her to wife. Self-loathing and guilt gnawed at him so badly that when he entered the stable to ready his horse for the trip to Morlais, he welcomed Gareth’s punch. He took it full in the face. He staggered back from the impact and was not at all surprised to see Gareth looking at him with satisfaction. “You kept her in your chamber all night,” said Gareth. Tristan endured the pain exploding in his jaw. He held his mouth and smiled crookedly. Finally he felt able to speak. “Aye.” A muscle worked in Gareth’s jaw. “That’s all you have to say, Tristan?” Tristan wiped blood from his mouth and stared at his friend without replying. “Blood of the Father-of-All, Tristan! I know you will not take her to wife, but only to bed. I believe she deserves more than that, Tristan. Her honor is compromised here at Hallyn and you are the compromiser. I want to marry her and will take her undowered. We will live at Swansea and she will have a good life.” Tristan paused for a moment, wondering if he could spend the rest of his days knowing Rhiannon as his friend’s wife. Just the sight of his head betwixt her slim thighs had been enough to drive him insane. “Have you discussed this with her?” Gareth ran a hand through his hair. “No. But I will not play this game with you. We both know it matters not how she feels about it because we both know she is in danger here. I see the lust in your eyes when you gaze upon her and it is only that, dear friend, only lust and never love which I see burning there.” Tristan’s mind raced. He didn’t know how to defend himself against the onslaught of emotions that battered at him. Love? He did feel love for Rhiannon. That was the problem. He loved her but was not good enough for her. Not even close. He was not good enough for any woman, especially not for Rhiannon. “Gareth, you should know that I’ve already taken her. Last night. I tied her to my bed and made her beg for my cock. I fucked her many times.” “I knew it. You heartless bastard!” Gareth brought his fist down fast toward Tristan, but Tristan reached out to catch it before his face took another pounding that morning. “No more, Gareth. I don’t want to fight you,” he said wearily and sat down on a nearby step. “Tristan, listen to what I am saying to you. I love Rhiannon. I want to marry her, despite the fact that you’ve taken her. You don’t love her. That much is clear. She may feel some faint stirrings of passion for you, but we both know she feels no love for you either. I’ve witnessed countless exchanges between the two of you and know this to be true. She’d be better off, happier, married to me.” Gareth sat down with a thump beside him. Tristan emitted a bitter-sounding laugh and touched his jaw gingerly. His friend was right, he thought. Rhiannon would be better off with Gareth. “You think you know me so well. You think I could not feel anything more than lust for a woman after Ellia.” “I think you’re too dark for Rhiannon. I am the better man for her. I will be good to her.” Rhiannon deserved Gareth. After all she’d been through, she deserved a man like him. A man who’d care for her needs and emotions as only Gareth could. Someone as honorable as he. A man far different from himself. Yet, he could not give her up. Not yet. “As her guardian,”—he winced at the word. Some guardian he’d turned out to be—“I control her suit. I am not ready to let her go.” “You unbelievable bastard.” The silence lengthened and expanded before Tristan spoke again. The words came haltingly from his lips. “But I will consider your offer for her hand, Gareth. I will talk with her about it. But if she doesn’t want you, do not expect me to force her. In the meantime, if she desires it, I propose we share her.” “No.” Gareth shook his head. “No, I don’t want to share her. I love her, I—” “We’ve shared many women over the years, Gareth. This is no different.” But it was. They both knew it. “In time, I may be able to give her up. Right now I cannot. We share her, or I will tie her to my bed for the next week, tease her to begging every single night and fuck her every second of the day. You will never see her. You will never touch her. Believe me,” he growled. “At the moment I’m feeling far more generous than you can imagine. Share her with me while I consider your suit. It’s that or nothing.” “You fucking bastard.” He ground his teeth, hands fisting. “I take what I can get of her for now. To save her from you, I will agree. But in the end, she will be mine, Tristan.” He turned and left. He hoped Gareth spoke the truth. He hoped Rhiannon would be Gareth’s in the end. She deserved Gareth, not him. * * * * * Rhiannon opened her eyes in their room at Morlais to find Tristan standing at the window. Her body tingled still from the way he’d tumbled her the night before. Things had been tense on the ride in between him and Gareth. As soon as they’d reached Castle Morlais and found their room for the night, Tristan had raised her skirt, lowered his trews and taken her like an animal bent over the bed. While she’d clawed the blankets in front of her, he’d fondled her breasts, stroked her clit and said dirty things to her. She’d come three times. She was his slave, utterly. The devil’s woman, oh yes, it was true. And a traitorous part of her loved it. Now she lay naked in his bed, staring at his back, wishing for his cock again. Tristan glanced at her. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” Tristan turned back to look out the window. He went visibly rigid. “Cynan,” he rasped. “The Prince of Warwide has come after all, insolently late, to let us all know he cares naught.” He pointed a finger at her as he strode to the door. “Stay here. Do not leave. If you leave this room, I will tie you to my bed. Again.” As soon as Tristan had left, Rhiannon hurried over to the window and looked out. A man sat on a horse with his entourage—all dressed in his colors, black and silver—fanned behind him. A solid fall of white hair cascaded down his shoulders. His skin was a pale chalky color that complemented his hair. The effect made him seem as though he was fading out of reality itself—a specter caught between this world and the next. The man, she supposed he must be Cynan, Prince of Warwide, looked up at her for a moment, his eyes fixing directly on her face. A shiver went through her. His eyes cemented him in reality, to be sure. They were hard and glittering black, like two tiny black sea pearls stuck onto a man made of snow and ice. His size made him painfully real as well. He was tall and thickly muscled. Every line of his body was rigid and bespoke ruthlessness and arrogance. Beside him rode a man who appeared even larger than Cynan. His poor horse was bowed under his excessive weight. His head bobbed to Cynan’s orders, looking upon him almost reverently. Tristan didn’t come back for another hour. When he did return, it was only to lead her to another chamber down the hall from his and give her instructions to stay there. Apparently, she would be barred from all further official discussions, but her presence in the weaving room would be welcomed. She was absolutely overjoyed to hear it. * * * * * Cynan Maelgwn, the fifth Prince of Warwide, strode into the council chamber and took his place among the other lords. The sight of the prince who sat opposite him brought the familiar taste of bitter hatred up from his stomach and into his throat. Cynan watched as his enemy turned and fixed him with his cool blue eyes. It galled him that he and this man had once shared his beloved daughter, Ellia. She’d been the only person besides Venna whom he’d ever cared anything about. And Prince Tristan had destroyed her as surely as he sat there and breathed. And how he wished Tristan wasn’t breathing. His second wife, Venna, been young, impoverished and under the protection of Tristan’s father, King Karran, when he’d first seen her. She’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Ellia’s mother had taken a fall down the stairs not long after and died from her injuries. Because he’d taken Venna to wife so quickly afterward, many had believed he’d murdered her…even Ellia. Cynan grimaced at the memory. That suspicious look in his daughter’s eyes had wounded him deeply. When Ellia had come of age, he’d married her to Tristan. At the time, he’d thought it a good strategic alliance. Little had he realized the dark venom hidden within the prince’s heart. He’d left her alone for years while he went off to war to fight. Ellia had not been strong, Tristan should have known she would not fare well on her own. Tristan had held the power then…but not now. Nay, Cynan controlled the strings that made the puppet dance now. He narrowed his eyes at Tristan. “The truth of the matter is that this rogue sorcery wielder’s magic grows.” Iestyn slammed a fist onto the table to emphasize his words. “According to the council’s Pashian advisors, he has found a way to siphon off the magic now that is just starting to find stability after the Dawn of magic. They say whoever this man is, he wields a dark power and is hording it for reasons they cannot ascertain.” One of the men shook his head. “But I thought The Dawn of magic only imbued magic in those people who possessed certain understandings, people who would use the power of their magic in benevolent ways. How did this person become imbued?” Tristan answered. “The universe is nothing if not balanced, Loren. Along with the light, there are smatterings of darkness. The person is a part of the darkness.” Or perhaps more than balance, the universe was justice. Cynan listened with half an ear and leaned back in his chair to study Tristan. The young prince had such a hard time controlling his emotions. They always lay so close to the surface, so easy to manipulate. His hot bloodedness would be the end of him one day, and how much he wanted to see that. Perhaps, Cynan mused, he could use that seething emotional angst to make him violate the council’s edict against violence between the princedoms. He’d love to see Tristan become poor as a cotter. Cynan could not attack Hallyn outright, of course. That would mean his own demise, but to manipulate Tristan into somehow violating the edict…aye. Definite possibilities there. But it would be near impossible. Tristan had more to lose than any of them. “The reasons I called all of you together are twofold,” continued Iestyn. “First, we need a system of surveillance across the land. Anything magically untoward needs to be reported to us. We do not seek to return to a mentality of fear surrounding magic. Father-of-All knows we already combat such attitudes in the countryside. We do, however, need to find this sorcerer or sorceress and stop him or her before it is too late. We also need to draw up a set of laws now that the rampant magic of the land seems to be settling down. So that when we do find this individual, we can lay those laws at his or her feet.” Gareth leaned forward, entwining his fingers on the table in front of him. “We can do what you ask, Iestyn, but the odds of finding such a person in this vast country are nigh insupportable.” “Regardless, if what Iestyn says is true, we need to find the perpetrator and soon, or we risk the safety of our people,” Tristan replied. Cynan scoffed, a short snorting sound. “Did Wymand see that in our future, young Dragon?” Tristan whirled on him, snarling. “You don’t need a seer to know the fate that threatens us. But then, what do you care? You’d be just as content to pander your loyalty to a dark sorcerer. Perhaps you are he.” Silence dominated the room for a moment. Finally Cynan spoke, his voice low, and quavering almost imperceptibly. “Do not throw accusations, Dragon.” His hand reached out to touch a bough of lavender that one of the ladies had put there for decoration. “Ah, lavender, so pretty. But not near as lovely as a lily, don’t you agree?” The allusion would not be lost on Tristan. Tristan reached out fast as lightning to gather Cynan’s surcoat in his fist. In the same moment, Gareth reached out to still his hand. “Do you really think he’s worth it, Tristan?” Gareth rasped. “Yes, Dragon, mustn’t raise a hand against me. Ellia would not have liked you manhandling her father,” Cynan replied. “Your daughter despised you, Cynan,” Tristan spat. “She would have welcomed any action I took against you.” “Perhaps that’s true.” Cynan smiled. “It is a pity there is that annoying edict so you cannot.” A little reminder to the council would not hurt. Iestyn stood, toppling his chair back, and yanked Cynan forward by the front of his intricately embroidered surcoat. “You will not instigate violence at the council table.” He turned and speared Tristan with a glare. “We are here to unite Galland’s princedoms, not divide them in conflict.” He pierced Cynan with a cold, dark gaze. “Understand?” Cynan nodded his head slowly, his lips curling into a sneer. “Yes, Protector Iestyn.” “Remember this, Cynan, if I ever have a solid reason to doubt your loyalty to me or to Galland, you’ll find yourself swinging from my gallows faster than you can say forgive me.” Iestyn released him. Cynan’s eyes never left Tristan’s face as he straightened his surcoat. “And you.” Iestyn turned and pointed a finger at Tristan, “You need to control your emotions. At that rate, you’ll lose Hallyn and everything else before the year is out.” Cynan smiled. * * * * * Time passed with surefooted slowness. The days ran into each other and blended together until Rhiannon thought she would lose her mind with the boredom of castle life. Tristan had instructed her to stay within her room or in the immediate vicinity but had refused to tell her why. With her solitary wanderings in the castle effectively curtailed, she didn’t have much to do. The evenings were horrid because that was the time her thoughts normally turned melancholy. She missed Tristan keenly, more than she ever would have thought was possible. She even missed Gareth always treating her as though she was a helpless female. Rhiannon grabbed her shawl, wound it around her shoulders and left her prison behind. As though she were a child fascinated by her surroundings, she roamed the halls with one hand held out before her, touching chairs, tables, dusty brocaded drapes and candle sconces. She could never quite get over how much better the nobility lived when compared with the peasantry. She ascended a flight of stairs and came out a door at the top. It opened with a groan, and she discovered with pleasure that it led out onto the battlements. Stepping outside, she drew a draught of much needed fresh air, though the sight she glimpsed before her had her expelling it in a whoosh. Not far from her stood the strange man Tristan had named Prince Cynan. Rhiannon regarded him from a distance with morbid curiosity, the way she might have studied a poisonous snake or some kind of hairy spider. She realized with a certain amount of disgust that even the very air around him smelled somehow corrupt. A curious combination of mustiness and sweet-sourness reached her nostrils, as though he was decomposing before her very eyes. She turned around with the intention of going back the way she’d come. “Good afternoon,” he greeted her. Damn. Rhiannon paused and turned. She gave a little curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lord.” He cocked his head at her. “Nice weather, don’t you agree?” She glanced up at the blue sky. “Very nice.” “Did you come in with a princedom?” “Yes. I arrived with Hallyn.” He face grew turbulent for a heartbeat—causing Rhiannon to take a step back—and then returned to normal. He smiled a terrifying smile that he likely thought was friendly. “Ah, yes, the Dragon. Much lies between him and me. My daughter, for one thing.” “Your daughter?” “Aye, the Dragon killed her.” Rhiannon opened her mouth, then closed it. “I really—ah—should be going now.” “What’s your name, my sweet?” “Really, I must be—” The door creaked open behind her. “It really is time you were going now.” She felt Tristan’s strong hand close on her upper arm. He dragged her to the door. She let herself be drawn away. “Oh,” Cynan sounded disappointed. “Dragon, why do you take my new playmate away from me so soon?” Tristan ignored him and pulled Rhiannon through the door behind him. She looked up, seeing that his light blue eyes were smoldering with fury. “You killed that thing’s daughter? I don’t believe it! You’re evil, it’s true, but not that evil.” Tristan’s grip on her arm tightened until she winced. He eased it immediately. “Cease to speak of it,” he ordered. She wrenched her arm away from his grasp. “I can walk on my own, thank you.” “Then walk back to your chamber and don’t ever let me catch you talking to him again.” His voice quavered low and tightly controlled. “Tell me why. I am so weary of secrets.” “Because that man is dangerous and sick in his mind and I don’t want you anywhere within his reach. I don’t want him to hurt you.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “When I saw you standing so close to his evilness, it shot white-hot fury through me. I will not allow Cynan hurt anyone else I car—” He broke his sentence off and looked stricken. Rhiannon went very still. Had he nearly said cared? He pointed down the stairs. “Back to your chamber. Don’t leave it again.” He turned on his heel and strode away. “We depart on the morrow,” he threw over his shoulder. * * * * * That last night, Gareth knocked on her door. She allowed him in, genuinely happy to see him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you often here at Morlais,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I truly regret it. My duties have kept me busier than I would have liked. How is Tristan treating you?” She pursed her lips together. “Do you know we have lain together, Gareth? Tristan and I?” He nodded, his eyes flaring hot. “Many times, Gareth.” Her voice shook. “I cannot deny him. I don’t understand why. I—” “It’s all right, Rhiannon. Sex is only sex. It is not emotion. Do you love him or only lust for him?” She licked her lips, considering her answer. Dear Goddess, she didn’t know. She wanted to feel nothing for him, though. She met his eyes. “Lust.” Maybe saying it could make it true. Gareth smiled. “Then you are only following your body’s urges. How bad is that?” She looked away. “Bad. Do you not still intend to court me then?” He pulled her close, his mouth descending on hers. “I want you still, Rhiannon. I love you.” Oh, how she wished she could tell him she loved him back. In time, she would grow to love him. How could she not? He was handsome, intelligent, kind, honorable. “I want to marry you.” That was no lie. He pulled her gown over her head. Respectfully, not like Tristan. Tristan would have ripped it off. She stood in her chemise. “Will you make love to me now?” she murmured against his lips. Make love, not fuck. Nothing so vulgar. Not with Gareth. It all should have been good, arousing. And her body responded to the slow slide of Gareth’s hands over her back, breasts, buttocks and, finally, between her thighs. But not like how it responded to Tristan’s rough handling, his rough words. Ah, Goddess! What was wrong with her? A knock sounded at the door. Tristan. She would know the hard rap of his knock anywhere. When Gareth pulled away to answer it, she yanked him back. “No, let him go. I want you, Gareth. No interruptions.” He smiled against her lips. “Those words are the sweetest I’ve ever heard. And so you shall have me, sweet Rhiannon.” Still, he pulled away from her and opened the door. Tristan entered, his eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring as he took her in standing there in only her light chemise. Her nipples hardened at his mere glance, showing clearly through the material. “Tristan,” she said tersely. What had Gareth been thinking, opening the door to him now? She remembered only too well what had happened the first time he’d caught them together. He said nothing. Behind him, Gareth closed and bolted the door. “She is beautiful, is she not?” Tristan asked Gareth. Gareth came to stand near her. Her confused glance bounced between them. “Even prettier nude.” He drew the chemise over her head. “What going on?” she asked, swallowing hard. Tristan approached her and her cunt noticed. Her nipples noticed. He cupped her face. “We’re sharing you. For now, anyway.” “Have I no say in this?” Her breathing quickened. He dropped his hands and twisted her nipple gently until her pussy creamed. He laughed and it sounded arrogant. “You will enjoy it, sweetness. I promise.” Gareth drew her from his friend’s arms and kissed her. His tongue skated in to tangle with hers, even as his hand delved between her thighs. Two fingers parted her folds and speared deep within, finding the evidence of her excitement. “On the bed, Rhiannon. Part your thighs,” he murmured against her lips. She took a step back and lay down, parting her legs as he requested. Fully clothed, both men stared down at her. Tristan leaned forward and spread her pussy lips, forcing her aroused clit from its hood. “It is truly beautiful, no?” Gareth reached down and stroked it, making her shiver and moan. “Incredible.” As Gareth caressed her clit, Tristan speared two fingers deep inside her cunt. “Her pussy is incredible too. So soft, like hot velvet around your cock. You see how her juices coat my fingers when they pull out?” He finger-fucked her slowly while Gareth watched. Rhiannon shivered and moved on the bed, her nipples aching and her pussy yearning. Her hands closed around her breasts, teasing her nipples. Gareth leaned down and sucked her clit between his lips while Tristan moved his fingers in and out of her. Her climax came fast and hard. Tristan moved to her head, kissing her savagely as he pinned her wrists to the mattress. She could hear the sound of clothing being shed and soon Gareth was on her other side, running his heated hands over her, delving between her thighs to pet her sopping wet pussy, teasing her nipples with his fingers and tongue. All the while, Tristan kissed her deeply, his tongue spearing in and possessing every inch of her mouth. In tandem, as though they’d done this a hundred times before, they each speared a finger into her cunt and thrust, making her writhe on the bed in pleasure. Her mind was clouded with it. They could do as they wished to her and she would not stop them. “Flip her,” came Tristan’s labored voice. She wished he’d shed his clothing already. “I’ll get the oil.” Gareth eased her to her stomach and ran his hands down her back. Kissing down her spine, he murmured, “I have wanted you for so long, Rhiannon. So long.” She barely made out the words, so lost was she to the feel of their hands roaming her body. Tristan parted her thighs and poured warm oil over her buttocks. She started in surprise as it ran over her anus, over her cunt. Four hands massaged it in, skimmed her clit and stroked it until she nearly came again. Her hands fisted in the blankets in front of her. Gareth slid a finger into her ass and she moaned shamelessly, enjoying the stimulation of nerves that had never been touched that way before. At the same time, Tristan fucked her cunt with some long, fat object. She dug her knees into the mattress and thrust her hips up, taking all they had to offer her and wanting still more. “So pretty,” Gareth praised her as she went insane with lust. Sliding his hands around her front between her thighs, he rubbed her clit, slick with the oil. He milked it, and she came again, thrashing on the bed, her muscles pulsing around the object Tristan fucked her with. “That’s it, that’s our girl,” Tristan murmured. “So eager, so sweet.” He moved the object to her ass and pushed it in. It hurt a little, but she was so excited, the pain only accentuated the pleasure, made it more defined. Her muscles, slowly, little by little, gave to the penetration of the well-oiled cylinder until her ass was completely stretched. “There you go, sweetness,” Tristan crooned. “Ready to take my cock there now.” His words had taken on the slurred quality they got when he was truly excited. He pulled it free. Gareth took her into his arms, kissing her as he petted her all over. Her fingers grasped his cock and stroked, making him groan. While they were thus occupied, Tristan shed his clothing. Thank the Goddess. Gareth rolled onto his back and pulled her up to straddle him. She ran her hands down his chest, exploring every inch of his fine chest as he guided his cock inside her. The wide head breached her cunt and her head fell back in ecstasy. Tristan was there to kiss her and catch all her moans and sighs. He fondled her breasts as Gareth thrust deep inside her. Then Tristan moved to her back and set the head of his cock to her ass. She stiffened, but he stroked her shoulder. “You are excited enough for this, sweetness. Your muscles will stretch enough to take me.” She relaxed, trusting Tristan. Gareth pulled her down and kissed her, thrusting into her cunt as Tristan slowly entered her from behind, stretching her muscles until she thought she’d scream. Finally, they were both in and she was so filled with them both she could barely breathe. The pleasure was indescribable. Her body overwhelmed with stimulation, she didn’t know where Gareth began and Tristan ended. It was just pleasure, pure and simple. They both began to thrust and she lost her mind. Pleasure burst over her so intense, it stole her voice. It went on and on as they both fucked her. Their hard bodies sandwiched hers. Gareth kissed her, murmured things she could not understand in her ear and finally tensed and came. He held her as Tristan took her from behind and also finally exploded with a grunt of satisfaction. All of them separated and she lay, limp from the assault of pleasure on her body. As she lay sated, they kissed her all over. Gareth curled up beside her and she noticed vaguely that they’d ordered a bath. Once it was filled, he picked her up and lowered her into it. The hot, scented water woke her from the pleasure-drunk state she’d been in and she appreciated the slide of their hands over her body as they washed her. She gazed at Tristan. It was like the first time, in the river. “Why? Why do this?” “Two men at once? Me and Gareth?” he asked. She nodded. Gareth teased her nipple through the soap. “Because we both want you, Rhiannon. Tristan controls your suit and will not allow me access to you any other way.” Her jaw locked. “Again I am a possession, Tristan? To do with as you wish?” He cupped her chin and directed her gaze to his. “Tell me you do not enjoy this, sweetness. Tell me true.“ She jerked her face away and stared into the water. “I gave Gareth until morning to make love to you with me.” He slipped his hand between her thighs under the water and stroked her well-loved clit. “Objections?” She closed her eyes. “You know how I am to your touch, Tristan. I am helpless.” She opened her eyes and flicked a glance to Gareth. “To yours as well.” “Good,” Gareth answered. “Then let us have this night. This night is a neutral zone between myself and Tristan.” He looked at Tristan. “Only this night.” They took her from the bath and slipped her into bed. Then they, too, bathed. Soon all three of them were in the large bed, Rhiannon warm and comfortable between them. She found herself with her arms around Tristan, despite herself. She slept. * * * * * Pleasure poured through her, waking her lazily from her sleep. Between her spread thighs, Tristan feasted, his dark head bobbing in time to his licks. She gasped, coming fully awake. At her head, Gareth pinned her wrists above her with one large hand. With the other, he fondled her breasts. “We couldn’t wait until morning,” he murmured. He gently twisted her nipple. Between her legs, Tristan sucked her clit between his lips and gently nibbled. With an agonized groan, she came sharply against his exploring tongue. As she climaxed, he held her legs apart and down, licking her all over. Pulling her wrists from Gareth’s grasp, she turned on her stomach and pushed him onto his back. Gripping his cock in one hand and stroking, she kissed all over his strong chest. “I want to taste you, Gareth.” He groaned and let his head fall back to the pillows as her mouth closed over the crown of his shaft. She allowed her tongue to lave him all over, exploring every inch of him, all the while fondling his balls. Behind her, Tristan pulled her to her knees and dragged his fingers over the heated flesh of her cunt. He spread her thighs and pressed his cock inside her. She gasped around Gareth’s length as his shaft hilted inside her. Tristan held her by her hips and fucked her slowly. She fought to retain her hold around Gareth’s cock for a while until she learned to use his thrusts to her advantage. Using Tristan’s momentum, her lips slid up and down Gareth’s cock. When Tristan’s thrusts grew harder and faster, so did her mouth strokes. Tristan reached around and stroked her clit as he took her, pressing down to give her the friction she needed to explode. Pleasure poured through her and she whimpered around Gareth’s shaft, struggling not to lose her hold. Gareth’s body tensed and he came, yelling her name and flooding her mouth with his come. As soon as his climax ended, Tristan pulled free of her cunt and turned her to face him. He pressed the head of his cock to her mouth. “Suck it,” he ordered hoarsely. She slipped it into her mouth, tasting herself faintly on it. Tristan was not restrained, as Gareth had been. He gripped her hair and thrust his cock between her lips, fucking her mouth until he also came down her throat, giving a hoarse shout. Several times during the night, she awoke with one or the other them thrusting between her thighs. Once she awoke as Tristan fingered her to climax or with Gareth taking her from behind, softly and slowly bringing her to orgasm. Rhiannon came more times than she thought possible. By morning, she was exhausted, sated beyond belief and aching everywhere. Someone touched her cheek and she opened her eyes to find Tristan staring down at her with such love in his eyes she had to blink. He stroked her cheek, kissed her forehead tenderly and closed his eyes to sleep. In the morning, he was gone. Only Gareth remained in the bed. Rhiannon decided it had to have been a dream. She also decided that would be the last time she allowed Tristan to touch her. He would break her heart if she allowed him access to her body any longer and he treated it so cavalierly. Her will would have to be of steel. She would resist him. Gareth drew her close and she went, tucking herself against him as to protect herself. * * * * * The next evening, when she entered Hallyn’s great hall, her hair flowing over her shoulders like the first rays of dawn, a hush fell over the people seated at the trestle tables. Tristan watched her entry from the dais. He didn’t know if her exceptional beauty caused their reaction or if they suspected who she was. After all, he had ridden off especially to fetch her, not trusting the task to anyone else. She’d arrived a bedraggled peasant woman who carried herself as regally as any princess and now she truly looked like one. He knew much gossip was mouthed about her. “Rhiannon,” Tristan said, rising as she approached. “Dragon,” she replied, looking away from him. She settled herself into an open place beside Gareth, plucked a spiced apple from in front of her and set it onto her trencher. She sat rigidly, her spine straight and her face carefully masked. Perhaps she was galled he’d nigh ignored her on their trip back from Morlais. He’d been deep in thought, about his dream, about the strange notions of caring he felt for Rhiannon, about her role in Wymand’s prophecy and, not least, about the rogue magic-imbued sorcerer and Cynan. Gareth placed a comforting hand on hers. “Are you all right, Rhiannon?” A flare of jealousy arched through Tristan at Gareth’s touch on her. Did he always have to find a way to lay his hands on her? The previous night had been one of pure pleasure, yet there had been a bitterness in having to share her with Gareth. He and Gareth had done it often enough, but with Rhiannon it was different. Gareth claimed to love her and he…well…he had feelings for her. Tristan had to admit that much. Last night had been fun for all three of them, but it would never happen again. Rhiannon was not a woman to be shared. Tristan had decided that. He suspected Gareth would agree. “I’m fine.” She turned her attentions to her apple, though she picked at it, which was unlike her. Beside him, his sister, Ceri, plucked a bit of meat from his plate. She shot him a jealous sidelong look. Ceri smiled at Rhiannon. “I fear the prince is not very courteous, as he has neglected to introduce us. I’m Tristan’s sister, Ceri.” Rhiannon smiled. “My lady. I have looked forward to meeting you. I’m Rhiannon.” “You know, you and Gareth make a striking couple. Do they not, Tristan?” Gareth smiled widely. Tristan grunted. “I know how much you enjoy matchmaking, Ceri, but let’s allow Rhiannon some time to accustom herself to castle life before we go marrying her off, shall we?” The words were spoken sweetly, but he made sure there was a noticeable growl beneath them. Better she was warned off now from such pursuits. A minstrel sidled up to the table. He struck a chord and began to sing a ballad in a pure, sweet tenor. “Sweet lady, where do you fly? Away to escape your husband’s eye? Away to seek deep cover? Away to avoid thoughts of your lover?” The lute strings clanged discordantly as Tristan stilled them. He grabbed the minstrel’s tunic and pulled him down close to his face, whispering low and furiously. “Perhaps that table over there would like some music. Remember, I instructed all the minstrels not to play those ballads.” He released the minstrel to skitter away. He realized he would have to tell Rhiannon about her parentage soon or she’d find it out on her own. He picked up his goblet and glanced at Rhiannon. “Are you not a music lover, Tristan?” she asked. “Not tonight.” He put a hand to his head. “I have the beginnings of a headache.” She turned to Gareth. “And the Lady Merion, does she not dine with everyone else?” Tristan promptly choked on his wine, sending him into a coughing fit. Ceri pounded him on his back. Gareth covered her hand with his. “The Lady Merion prefers to eat in her chambers.” Ceri gently cleared her throat. “Perhaps it’s time, brother,” she suggested. “Time for what?” Rhiannon asked. Tristan held a meaningful gaze with Gareth. Rhiannon sighed impatiently. “My lord, if this has something to do with why I’m here, please don’t shield me. Really, it’s been over two fortnights. Do tell me so that I can do whatever it is you brought me here to do and then get on with the rest of my life.” Tristan suddenly felt much older than his thirty and four years. What if revealing this information did cause her to do what Wymand thought she’d been brought here to do? And what if afterward she would not be able to get on with the rest of her life because she had lost it to Cynan? “Tristan,” Ceri prodded. “Oh, sweet Vallon!” Tristan roared and stood, holding his hand out to her. “Come with me, Rhiannon. I had hoped—” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I hoped. Just come with me.” Rhiannon looked to Gareth with unasked questions in her eyes. “Go with him, Rhiannon,” he said gently. “It’s past time you learned of your birthright.” She rose, almost stumbling over the bench she sat on, and took the prince’s hand. “Birthright?” “You’ll know soon enough,” Tristan answered. She followed Tristan out of the great hall and down the serpentine curves of the castle’s corridors. Candlelight flickered wanly against the walls from iron sconces. In the bowels of the castle, tallow drizzled down the walls and pooled on the floor. They descended a staircase and Rhiannon found herself in the same part of the keep she’d been in with Tilda so long ago. Instantly, she recognized the door of Lady Merion. To still her trembling hands, she gripped a fold of her gown so tightly her knuckles went a bloodless white. Tristan paused outside the door for a moment and pushed a hand through his hair. He looked at Rhiannon mutely. She tore her bewildered gaze away from the closed door to rest on his face. He pushed the door open and led her through. A vast amount of candles lit the chamber, filling it with an otherworldly light. They flickered, guttered and cast moving shadows over the stone walls. Rhiannon made out the shape of a woman, whom she recognized as Lady Merion, sitting by the window. Beside her, another shape sat. As she neared on trembling legs she saw that the other shape was the wizened old man, the seer, Wymand. Tristan hung back. The old man rose and beckoned to her. “So, you’ve come finally.” The last word was spoken with an undisguised glare at Tristan. “I knew you would. Come, greet your kinswoman.” Rhiannon stopped, paralyzed by his words. Lady Merion turned her head to look at her. “Mother. You’re not dead,” Rhiannon breathed. Chapter Eight Rhiannon wavered for a moment on legs that felt as though they were made of silk and stared into the face of Venna. Then the world faded to black as her knees gave out and she dropped to the cold stone floor. When her eyes opened again, she saw not Venna’s face, but the Dragon’s. He cradled her in his arms. Her head didn’t hurt. Perhaps he’d caught her when she collapsed. “Did I dream it?” she asked, looking into his face. She shook her head and struggled to sit up. “I didn’t. I know I didn’t. Where is she?” The lady stepped into her line of vision, knelt and laid a soft hand to her cheek. “Rhiannon, I’m not Venna, child. I am Merion, your grandmother.” Rhiannon stilled and studied her face, slowly realizing that it had to be true. Merion looked so like her mother, it sent a chills coursing through her body. Upon closer scrutiny, she saw there were many subtle differences. Merion’s eyes were the wrong shade of blue, her lips too full. Her face was round, not heart-shaped as Venna’s had been. Merion continued, “Your mother died a long time ago and I have been waiting to tell you why. Would you like me to tell you your mother’s story?” Rhiannon nodded mutely. Merion took Rhiannon’s hands in hers, and her eyes focused not on Rhiannon’s face, but on something beyond it. “Your mother was forced to marry a cruel man, child.” Merion’s eyes darkened. “Prince Cynan of Warwide.” Rendered mute, she shook her head. It couldn’t be. “But her heart was not Cynan’s. It belonged to another and had for a very long time. That other man was named Margan and he was your father. He was naught but a poor knight in the service to King Karran.” Rhiannon’s gaze flew to Tristan. “I was but a boy of twelve years when they fell in love,” Tristan said. “Margan was like a father to me, since mine was so detached and gone so often.” Her grandmother continued, “Venna kept seeing Margan after she’d married Cynan. After several years, Venna bore you and Cynan assumed you were his. Eventually, he discovered Venna’s unfaithfulness and deduced you were Margan’s daughter. He flew into a rage because, in his own twisted way, he loved Venna.” A tear meandered its way down Rhiannon’s cheek. “Cynan thought it would be too easy to just kill Margan outright,” Merion continued. “So he devised a much more diabolical way to get revenge. He captured what he knew was closest to Venna’s heart, closer than even Margan.” Somehow Rhiannon knew. “Me,” she whispered. Merion nodded. “You. He locked you away and vowed that he would throw you to your death from the highest tower and make Venna gather your infant body from the stones beneath if she did not do as he bade. Venna knew all too well that he was serious and would have given her own life to save yours. But it wasn’t her life that Cynan desired—it was Margan’s.” Rhiannon bolted from Tristan’s arms and stood. She knew what had happened. She’d heard her mother cry out in the dead of night, gripped by recurring nightmares. Now it all made sense. Her words came out in a rush from her tightly constricted throat. “She killed him! My mother killed my father because Cynan made her do it. He forced her to mix a poison and feed it to him, a poison from the bulb of the rain lily. That’s it, isn’t it?” Merion’s wild eyes glistened and her voice rose to a high and wavering octave. “Venna mixed a brew for him. He drank it, trusting her. He died knowing his love had killed him, knowing it was Venna’s hand that had mixed the potion.” Wymand continued where Merion had left off. “As soon as Venna was able to retrieve you, she fled Warwide with only the clothes on her back. That was something Cynan never expected her to do. She traded the easy life of the nobility for the toil of the peasantry. She went as far as she could and settled in Arden Village. She was safe for several years, but Cynan combed the countryside searching for her. When he learned she was in Arden Village, he roused the peasants against her.” Rhiannon felt herself pale. “Cynan was responsible for my mother’s death?” “Nay, child,” said Wymand. “Not directly. He only planted a few words in certain ears. He knew the fears of the peasantry would do the rest.” She shuddered. “He was right.” “Cynan thought they burned you too, as I did,” continued Wymand. “Then one night, five years ago, I saw you in my dreams. You were with a tall man with fawn-colored hair.” “Thay.” Tristan broke in. “We searched all of Galland and the surrounding villages for you but found nothing.” “Aye.” Wymand spat onto the floor. “Tristan came back doubting my abilities as a seer.” Rhiannon bit her lower lip. “How did you—” “You’ve Thay to thank for getting you away from Arden Village,” Tristan answered. “When he bought the dagger from one of my knights, he told him to deliver a message to me.” “I knew it would be your hand and your hand alone that would stop Cynan’s evilness and avenge your parents’ deaths,” Wymand continued. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Wymand, I believe she should be allowed to digest the information she’s been given before we force any more on her,” Tristan said. She shook her head. “No! I need to understand. I want to know it all. Do not try to coddle me as your friend does. I am not a fragile doll to be broken.” She turned to look at Wymand, expectant of an answer. A grin broke through the darkness of his features. “She’ll do, aye?” he said to Tristan, before turning back to her. “You’ve the fire I thought you’d have, fire enough to burn Cynan. In my dreams, I have seen you serve him a brew much like the one Venna fed Margan.” Rhiannon took a step backward. “You mean you’ve seen me murder? You mean I am meant to kill Cynan?” Even though her blood boiled with anger at what this man had done to her and the people she loved, even though her mind screamed for vengeance, the thought of killing daunted her. She was a healer. She valued life above all things. Killing Cynan would not bring her mother back to her, nor would it ever allow her to know her father. It would not reverse time and make everything right. “I can’t do such a thing.” “And no one wants you to,” stated Tristan in a firm voice. Merion drew an outraged breath. “She must!” Wymand shushed the old woman, then turned back to Rhiannon. “You will. For I have seen it. You’ll be doing a service to the world.” Anger flashed down her spine. “Don’t tell me what I will do. I hold my future in my hands.” Wymand shook his head. “No, I have seen it. Rhiannon, daughter of Venna, you will serve Cynan the tainted brew. There is no escaping your fate. You’re bonded to it. You cannot escape yours any more than your mother could have escaped hers.” “You ’re wrong,” she said breathlessly. Why did the walls suddenly seem so close? “Remember, girl, if you attempt to avoid the pain you are meant to suffer in this life, ’twill only mean you’ll suffer it twicefold in the next. Better to get it over with. You will get to Vallon all the more quickly.” She whirled around, needing air, needing to get away from this man’s words that had a strange sense of truth around them. She moved toward the door with lightning speed. “Remember, girl, it is not in your own best interest to seek to avoid your fate,” Wymand’s voice echoed after her. * * * * * A knight named Arvin stood outside the door, his eyes piercing the dark corridor beyond Lady Merion’s doorway. He pressed his ear against the door, eagerly soaking up every word uttered. Now he had the last piece of the puzzle he’d been trying to construct ever since he’d delivered the odd message from the peasant, Thay. His mind turned over, anxiously searching out ways to profit from it. He heard quick footsteps approaching the door from the opposite side and moved out of the way just in time to avoid having his nose broken. Quickly, he backed into the shadows and watched the witch bolt. He smiled to himself. Knowledge was nice, but secrets were power. * * * * * Rhiannon followed the corridor’s seemingly endless labyrinth. She climbed and descended stairs, went in and out of doors, turned innumerable corners. Her slippers almost caused her to slip and fall more than once. Desperately, she would find herself grasping the wall, her fingers searching for purchase in the crumbling stone. Soon she was hopelessly lost in the bowels of the castle and sure she would remain lost forever. Many years from now they would find her whitened bones picked clean by rats. But then, of course, she thought bitterly, she would find her way. The seer had told she’d find her way right to Warwide’s front gates. She would find her way to the life of a murderess and there was naught she could do about it but surrender to her fate. She mounted more stairs and realized she knew exactly where she was, on the lower floor, not far from the kitchens. She sighed. Of course she wouldn’t starve to death in the bowels of the castle. She had a prophecy to fulfill. She made her way to the top of the tower where she had once gone with Gareth and sat down on the ledge. Rhiannon wondered why it was that she didn’t feel an overwhelming need to avenge her parents’ deaths. Perhaps it was because she’d never known her father and had accepted her mother’s death long ago. Perhaps it was because she felt the heavy futility of revenge. The careless wind blew a leaf into her lap and she toyed with it. Strangely, she felt akin to that leaf. Her whole life she’d been subjected to forces that snatched decisions from her hands and this was yet another one. She set her jaw. No prophecy could make her murder. She had no desire to exact revenge and so she wouldn’t take it. If it caused her to suffer redoubled in her next life, then she would pay the price. She heard the tower door open and she felt the Dragon’s presence. She did not even have to raise her gaze to verify. “She truly is daft, isn’t she?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Merion?” Rhiannon nodded. Silence met her query and she knew she had her answer. “Regardless of any prophecy,” she stated firmly, “I vow I will never go to Warwide. I will never take Cynan’s life,” she challenged. “I’m glad to hear you say it.” She looked up him. “Are you really? You must want revenge on Cynan for what he’s done and you cannot take it because of the council’s edict.” He shrugged. “All true. However, revenge against Cynan is not worth any risk to your safety. I don’t want you within a hundred leagues of him.” Rhiannon ducked her head and toyed with her skirt. * * * * * Tristan looked down at her. The moonlight shimmered over her light hair and milky skin. Consolation was not a thing he was good at. He’d proved that before. Gareth would have the words to comfort. He did not. Still, he wanted to try. “That gown you wear was hers,” he said, sitting down beside her. Rhiannon fingered the sleeve of her gown. “Now I have a little more of her than just the herb satchel,” she said softly. Her eyes darkened. “If it weren’t for Cynan, my mother would be here still. I would not have grown up avoiding Wen’s hands. Things would be so different.” When she lifted her face to him, her eyes shone bright with tears. She dashed them away. Tristan reached out and caught a tear she’d missed on the back of his hand. He let it slide down the length of a finger and dangle on the tip. Then it gathered weight, slipped off and splashed to the stones between them. She reached out and caught his hand, then raised his palm to her mouth and kissed it tenderly. She murmured into his hand, raising her gaze to hold his. “What was he like, this Margan?” Wanting her laid him open like the sharpest of swords. Didn’t she realize she played with fire when she touched her soft lips to him and looked at him like that? Ah, Gods, how could he deny it? She’d moved into his heart and set up a home. There was naught he could do about it. Gently, he took his hand from her before he did something he’d regret. “He was brave and noble,” he answered. “He was fearless in battle. He liked feasts, music and dancing. He loved your mother above all else and refused to leave her alone to a cruel lord she didn’t love, even if it meant he might die to protect her. He had hair the same color as yours and you share his tenacity.” “I wish I could’ve known him.” “There was a small manor and plot of land to the west of here. Cynan burned it to the ground. Nothing of value remains there, though the land is yours. You could build on it.” “It is of no consequence. I’ve lived until now with nothing, and if I continue on the rest of my life that way, it will not matter.” She spoke earnestly, with a matter-of-fact tone. She was not looking for sympathy—that much was clear. Without words, Tristan drew her into the comfort of his arms. The embrace began innocently enough, an effort to console and that was all. But he could feel the hollows and curves of her body inviting him to explore. He longed to touch her lips, her throat, her breasts and all the other, more secret places. He could not touch this woman without wanting her. All he wanted to do in this world was touch her, give her pleasure, taste her cunt on his lips, move in the deep velvet recesses of her body. Be one with her. “Forgive me, Rhiannon.” At the same time he moved to brush his lips against her collarbone. His voice shook. “You affect me. Why is it that it seems as though we are blended and one somehow?” he murmured into her throat. “Why can I never resist you or control myself around you?” * * * * * All her fine sentiments about never again giving her body to him, lest he damage her heart, dissolved with his first touch. No, she had no defenses against his man. She was laid wide open. He ran his lips along her throat and buried his nose in the hollow between her collarbones, inhaling her scent. Rhiannon sighed and closed her eyes at the feel of his lips brushing and kissing along her skin. He was different tonight, tender…loving. Tristan raised his head, and she glimpsed raw longing in his eyes before he lowered his mouth to hers and took her mouth in a sweet kiss. One hand went to her nape as he angled her head and slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue feathering against her lips, asking for entry. She parted her lips and he tasted her deeply. A flare of sexual heat burned through her so hard and fast it nearly bowed her spine. “I want to make love to you now, Rhiannon.” Make love to you . Not fuck. No coarse words poured from his lips. Make love. It heated her blood, her body and her mind as they had never been heated before. “Please, Tristan, yes.” Tears pricked her eyes. “I want that from you so very much.” Her voice shook with emotion and need. He freed one breast from the bodice of her gown. It shone smooth and silvery in the gentle light of the moon. He hummed approvingly. She nearly felt beautiful in his eyes. He caressed the nipple gently, and then lowered his mouth to it, laving it with mesmerizing thoroughness with his tongue. It hardened into a perfect peach-colored pearl under his ministrations. Rhiannon made a low sound in her throat. Her cunt felt hot suddenly and wanting. Every nerve in her body had come to glorious life at the very first touch of him. “I care for you,” He whispered. “Rhiannon, I-I think I—” “It’s all right, I understand,” she whispered. “I tried so hard not to care for you too, but…” Tears stung her eyes. “For as many times as you have fucked me, I want you to make love to me. Make love to me now, Tristan.” He found her mouth and kissed her hard and deep. Then, abruptly, Tristan broke away. He stood, turning his back to her. “No, this is wrong.” He bore himself to the door and out of it. Stunned, she stared at the closed door for long moments. Then she pulled her gown around her and tipped her face up, the air bathing her skin where Tristan had only just caressed her. She had offered herself to him completely and would have allowed him anything if he had asked, but he’d rejected her. Aye, she could let him touch her body when he wanted and reject it when he chose. She could let him treat her as an object to use when he saw fit and then forget, but at what price? All her pride? Her very being? Rhiannon examined her restless heart and faced what she saw there. And then she knew with certainty that she couldn’t do that. She could never let him take her body and then forget her. Nor could she allow him treat her as an object to be disregarded at a whim. It would destroy her. It would obliterate her. Because what she saw in that careful examination of her heart changed everything. She loved him. Chapter Nine Tristan slammed the chamber door shut and paced his room like an angry lion. By the Father-of-All’s eyes, what was wrong with him? Was he becoming honorable? Like his friend? He had never left a woman while he was this rigid with wanting. He’d never cared to think past the fucking. Hell, how many times had he fucked Rhiannon? He’d taken her every way it was possible to take a woman. He’d claimed her body to the molecule. But he backed away tonight because…why? Because he’d truly fully felt the emotion he carried for her? If any other woman had responded as Rhiannon had, she would be warming his bed by now. And he had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. The still-aroused state of his lower body and his shaking hands could attest to his desire. He’d known if he stayed even a moment longer there with her, she’d be between his sheets right this very minute. A knock on his door roused him from his brood. He threw it open, hoping it was Rhiannon. He would not be so honorable this time. Damn his emotions. Wymand stood there instead. Tristan stepped aside, allowing the seer to cross the threshold and walk into the circle of firelight. Wymand’s gaze flicked down to the bulging section of Tristan’s trews. He looked around the chamber. “Have I interrupted something?” “No.” “Hmm… Well, maybe your arousal has something to do with the reason I have come here. I would like to discuss Rhiannon—” Tristan raised a hand to stop his words and then lowered it. He did not wish to talk of this now. “Wymand, I have no plans concerning Rhiannon’s role in the prophecy other than to keep it from coming true.” Wymand went silent, eyeing him speculatively. He stroked his chin with a gnarled hand. “I meant plans concerning the development of her magic. It flows strong and wild within her. It is erratic now, unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. She needs to be given over to my tutelage. The prophecy,”said the seer, shrugging and smiling confidently, “that will take care of itself.” Tristan ran a hand through his hair. “I think she still is not ready for it. She will fight you. She denies the magic within her.” Storms burst forth in Wymand’s eyes. “So she denies. Denial will not negate. Denial will not control. Why do you coddle the woman? She is not weak.” “Take her, then. Teach her.” Tristan roared. “I wish you luck of it.” Wymand went silent, studying him for long moments before finally speaking. “Bed her as often as you need to and have done with it, Tristan. Your frustration is a palpable thing. Make love to the girl, but do not allow yourself to become bespelled by her. Ease your mind, ease your body with hers, and then get out of the way and let the future take hold.” Wymand turned on his heel and walked out the door with his long white robes swirling behind him. Tristan walked to the window and threw the shutters open, letting the cool air rush into the chamber. He gripped the ledge and stared down into the courtyard. Bed her as often as you need to and have done with it. The refrain beat against his mind. * * * * * Rhiannon looked warily at Wymand, who sat across from her in the small chamber. A fire burned low in the hearth and dried herbs hung from the wooden rafters lining the ceiling of the room. Ceri sat near her. She leaned forward and took Rhiannon’s hands in hers. “Do not fear Wymand, Rhiannon. He has a frightful countenance, it’s true, but he means no harm.” Wymand banged his walking stick on the wooden floor. “She needs no comfort, Ceri,” he scolded. Ceri released her hands and leaned back in her chair. Wymand stood and walked toward her. “You’ve got strong magic in you. The Dawn of magic has magnified your Pashian blood and you’ve suffered the same plight as your people, how to manage it so it doesn’t manage you.” She ducked her head. Her magic had done nothing but manage her so far. Wymand banged his walking stick again. “Don’t you look away from me, girl!” Her gaze snapped back to his. He scowled at her. “A more stubborn witch I never met,” he muttered. She flinched at the word witch. Did he have to use that word? “Ah ha! And there’s your first problem. You’re scared of what you are. Scared of how other people’s fears might harm you. Leftover baggage from your mother’s death is all that is. Close your eyes, girl.” She glared up at him. He banged his stick again. “Close your eyes!” Rhiannon let her eyes drift closed. She heard Wymand pull up a chair beside her. “Now, I don’t want you drifting off to sleep, but I do want you to relax.” Rhiannon suppressed a snort of laughter. As though either were possible. Ceri took her hand in hers and Rhiannon started. Gently, Ceri stroked the back of her hand with a gentle finger. “Relax, Rhiannon,” she crooned. Rhiannon settled back into the chair with a sigh. Was Ceri using magic on her now? Against all she would have presumed, she was starting to feel relaxed. “Relax,” said Wymand in a velvety voice she never would’ve believed could issue from his throat. “Let your magic find you. Let it rise up. Don’t push at it. Don’t push it down or away. Just let it come.” Rhiannon’s palms grew warm and she bit her bottom lip. “That’s it, girl. Let it come,” murmured Wymand. The familiar feeling of her magic warming her, tingling through her, rose from the depths of her body. Her palms grew hot, nearly unbearably so. She fidgeted and fisted her hands. “Tell yourself they’re cooler, girl. They’re your palms. It’s your magic. Make it so.” She concentrated on her palms, telling herself they were cooler. Little by little, they grew less warm. As she focused on her palms, her magic rose higher and higher. Pinpoints of light began on the backs of her eyelids. Her breathing hitched. “Calm yourself and see what you truly are,” said Wymand. The light splintered and morphed into streams of different colors. Suddenly she stood on a grassy plain. She felt her body, calm and still in the chair, and yet she was not there. Eyes wide, Rhiannon pivoted slowly, feeling the grass beneath her bare feet. A breeze bathed her cheeks and colored light swirled around her, casting itself from the forest that surrounded her. The light danced, caressing her cheeks, holding her in a gentle hug. From the tree line in front of her stepped a white and gold gryphon. Its body was of a lion, and its head and front legs were of an eagle. Its wings were outspread and one of them was bent at an impossible angle—broken. Love, not fear, ruled Rhiannon as she walked toward the beast. She recognized that the magic inherent in the beast mirrored her own. They were of the same family, born of the same world. Her magic was as powerful and beautiful as this beast. Her bare feet sank into the grass as she walked to stand in front of the creature. She reached up and the gryphon nuzzled her palm. His beak felt smooth against her skin. She worked her way around to the beast’s wing, running her fingers through his soft fur and grazing the feathers of his wing. Rhiannon laid her hands on him. As her palms warmed, golden light emanated from them, spreading over his wing. She found the broken threads she needed to mend and did so. Her palms flared hot and then cooled. She stood back and watched the gryphon bow his head toward her. Then he flapped two healthy wings and took off. A feather jarred loose from his action drifted down and brushed her cheek. With a jolt, she slammed back into her body. She gasped, her eyes opening. “Dear Goddess.” Wymand squinted his violet eyes at her. “You walked the realm of dream, didn’t you, girl?” She guessed that’s what she’d done. She nodded. “I healed a-a gryphon.” “The mystical creatures come to the realm of dream to be healed of their wounds. You truly did heal a gryphon, Rhiannon,” said Ceri. “The Goddess has sent you the experience she thought you needed, girl. Don’t discount the gift,” said Wymand. Still shaken, she could only shake her head. “I won’t.” Wymand stood. “Good. Every morning. This time. Here. See you tomorrow.” Wymand turned and took his leave in a swirl of his cloak, his walking stick thumping the floor with every step. * * * * * “There is a man who calls himself a knight of Hallyn here to see you. His name is Arvin and he says he has something you’d be most interested to hear about a woman named Rhiannon, daughter of Venna and Margan.” Cynan almost spilled the contents of his flagon. It had been a long time since he had heard those names. “Bring him in.” The servant turned and hurried away. Cynan surveyed his great hall. The few people who still resided at Warwide sat at a long trestle table running the length of the room. Wall sconces hung at regular intervals on the walls, bathing the room in light. Food littered the floor, mixed with the rushes and dogs scavenged and fought over the leavings. The knight entered at the far end and Cynan watched him pick his way past his drunken guests and snarling dogs toward the dais. Cynan popped an imported Pirian olive into his mouth and narrowed his eyes as he chewed. Those names still held power over him. If this man had nothing truly valuable to impart, Cynan would kill him just for bringing them into his mind on such a pleasant evening. The man went down on one knee. “Arvin of Hallyn, my lord.” “Get up and state your business. You’ve already been introduced.” He popped another olive into his mouth. Arvin straightened, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “I have information about Rhiannon, daughter of Ven—” Cynan raised a hand, instantly ceasing the flow of his words. “Do not say her name again.” He lowered his hand. “The people of whom you speak have long since been food for worms.” A slender man next to Cynan began sniggering wildly. Cynan raised his hand and made an impatient gesture. The man’s laughter fell silent. Cynan rolled his eyes wearily. “Just tell me what you’ve come to say. Then I’ll decide if you should live or not.” “Y-yes, sir. But first, there is a small matter.” Cynan’s gaze flicked to the pheasant in the middle of the table. “What? You desire food? Go ahead. Sit. Enjoy.” “N-no, my lord. I don’t require food.” His gaze flicked to Cynan’s money pouch, hanging from his belt. “Oh, you want gold. What a surprise.” Cynan reached over and pulled some flesh from the baked pheasant and stuffed it in his mouth. “It’s yours if your information is useful,” Cynan said around the mouthful. “My news has to do with the woman Rhiannon. Do you know she lives yet?” “Impossible. She was burned at the stake along with her mother years ago.” “Nay, only Venna felt the kiss of the flame. The daughter escaped that fate through the help of another. She lives still and is at Hallyn this very moment.” Cynan’s mind raced. The little bastard shrew lived? Abruptly, he moved, his arm arcing out to sweep the trenchers of food and the filled flagons to the floor. Cynan slammed his fist down onto the table. “I do not believe you!” He reached out with one powerful arm, caught the collar of the knight’s tunic, and drew his face inches from his own. Arvin swallowed hard. Cynan heard the gulp. Cynan whispered hoarsely, “A knight of Hallyn would not offer such information to me. This is a taunt dreamed up by the Dragon because he is bound by the council not to bring his armies down upon me. He means to tease me instead.” Arvin spoke quickly. “No, my lord. I have my own reasons for coming here. I wish to form a-a profitable union with you. I could go back to Hallyn and work to discover more. You give me gold and I’ll give you information.” Cynan narrowed his eyes. “What more do you know?” “I-I know the Pashian seer Wymand has foretold a future, my lord. Rhiannon is fate-bonded to kill you with a brew like that Venna fed Margan.” Cynan laughed and released the man. “I’ll bet the Dragon just loves that.” Arvin sat down on the bench. His face had gone an interesting shade of white. “He doesn’t. He cares for the woman, doesn’t want to see you harm her.” Cynan let out a short, loud burst of laughter that startled Arvin. “Who helped the girl escape the burning? Who told the Dragon of her existence in Arden Village?” “A cotter by the name of Thay did both, my lord. I can tell you nothing other than his name, and that apparently he means much to the girl.” “Means much to her, you say,” Cynan paused, contemplating the information the knight had given him. “Perhaps a visit to Arden Village is in order,” he said to himself. “Have you anything else of use to share with me?” “Nay, my lord. That is all.” Cynan yanked his purse from his belt and tossed it to Arvin. “Go back to Hallyn. Bring me information. I don’t care how you do it so long as you don’t get caught. You do that and there’ll be much more gold in it for you. Go now.” Cynan sucked his teeth as he watched Arvin bow and practically run out of the great room. “Hubert!” His hulking servant appeared. “Follow that knight who just left the keep. Kill him in the woods and dump his body.” “Yes, my lord.” He turned to leave. “Oh, and bring the money pouch back to me.” “Of course, my lord.” He lumbered off to do his bidding. Cynan stood and went to his chambers. Once there, he stood in the center of the room and called his magic. It came up from the depths of him like a thick froth, bubbling and seething. The Dawn of magic had given power to so many who’d never had it before. Cynan’s gift was especially powerful—the ability to draw in other magics and subvert them, use them to influence the emotions of others. Concentrating on the world around him, Cynan consumed and pulled. He could not take much all at once, only a little every day, and the release of it drained him, seemed to suck his very life away. But it was worth it. Gathering the power, he mixed it dark with his own emotions and sent it out—straight to Tristan and Rhiannon. A little spell of emotional chaos should make things amusing. It would taint their next encounter, accentuate and enhance their fears and desires. It was not much, just one small way he could complicate their lives. Too bad he couldn’t watch. Little by little, he would pull Tristan and Rhiannon down. Little by little, Cynan planned to destroy them altogether…and the council would never know. * * * * * Rhiannon leaned against the rough bark of the willow tree and looked up into its graceful boughs. She had gone far into the woods, needing the seclusion and solace the trees offered. A tendril of hair tickled her nose and she brushed it away. She’d met with Wymand every day for the last week and slowly Rhiannon had been coming to terms with her magic. She’d learned to call it when she needed it and control it when it came unbidden. She’d learned about moving objects with her mind, which she could not do yet, and about manipulating reality through the Universal Fabric. She’d learned about seeing the future and the past and learned more about dream walking, something she seemed to have a natural propensity toward. She still had much to learn, but she was starting to understand that her magic was a part of her. A beautiful and powerful part to be embraced, not shunned. Her hands lay lightly on the ground on either side of her. She could feel the power of the earth pulsing beneath her fingertips. She closed her eyes and concentrated, willing her being into the tree. She wanted to meld with it and become one. Rain would fall against her bark, snow would drift against her, but she would care not. She would have the steady hardness of the ancient trunk to brace her and the grounding of twisting roots to anchor her. Nothing would budge her—nothing would break her…not even a prophecy she could not escape. “Lady Rhiannon.” Rhiannon’s eyes popped open to find Ceri looking down at her. “Ceri, please, sit.” A smile of genuine pleasure crossed her lips. Ceri sat, letting the branches above them dapple her with sunlight. “Does it disconcert you to be called ‘lady’?” Ceri asked. “You do have noble blood in your veins.” “Albeit bastard blood.” “Oh, Rhiannon, never call yourself so. The love your mother and father shared for each other makes you true. A legitimate child of the heart, if not in the eyes of tradition.” Ceri leaned over and pulled a leaf from Rhiannon’s hair. “You’ve been shaped independent and self-sufficient by your life, where a lesser woman would have cowered and become meek. You’ve a strong heart and a will all your own, and yet I sense uncertainty and fear in you.” Rhiannon sighed. She wished she could hide her feelings better, but she was also grateful for someone she could share her heart with. “I feel a weight upon my shoulders, Ceri. Before, I was just a woman trying to live out her own meaningless existence. Now, I am the only hope so many seem to have in exacting revenge.” Ceri huffed out a breath. “You speak of Merion. Pay no attention to what she says. It’s unfortunate that she’s been driven mad by the demise of Venna, but she shouldn’t put such a weight on her granddaughter’s shoulders.” Rhiannon only ducked her head in response. She still had feelings to sort out where her newfound kin was concerned. “And Tristan…well, he thinks you’re far too dear to endanger.” Rhiannon’s heart lurched into her mouth. Too dear to endanger. Ceri continued, “After all, you are the daughter of two people he cared very deeply for.” Rhiannon’s face fell. “You must realize that I’ve never known Wymand to be wrong about a prediction.” “I have not the capabilities nor the desire to kill. I am a healer, Ceri.” “Do not fear the future. Fate has a way of finding us, no matter how fast or far we try to run from it.” “I have always thought of the future as a sort of maze, that the future is constantly reconstructing itself and its ultimate outcomes are contingent upon the choices we make. If I decide not to kill Cynan, then I don’t understand how that future will come about.” “It is true what you say, Rhiannon. The future is a lot of interlocking choices strung together. However, some futures are so locked, so fixed, that Wymand can see them. For example, the future that Wymand sees for you is dependent upon many other inevitable events happening to you and to those around you—events that cannot be changed. Rhiannon, you can try, but I doubt you’ll be able to avoid what Wymand has seen. Accept it. Go the direction your life flows in.” Rhiannon shuddered. “You sound as if you think it is a good thing.” Ceri shrugged. “Things are as they are. It is fruitless to fight the inevitable.” They sat in silence for a few moments while Rhiannon considered her words. “How is it that you are so wise?” Ceri laughed. It was a sound Rhiannon imagined was akin to falling stars. “I do not think I’m wise, but sometimes I can feel what other people’s thoughts and feelings are. Wymand has taught me to be confident and not to be afraid of who I am. For a very long time, I was also fearful of my abilities.” Ceri paused for a moment. “Perhaps in this way, I feel kindred to your mother and to you. Because of my skills, I might also have been accused of witchcraft if I’d grown up in the Galladian countryside and then had been imbued by the Dawn.” “Do you know how my father died, Ceri? How did the poison affect his body?” Ceri looked at her. “It made your father go to sleep and slip into death. It was quite painless for him, Rhiannon, if not for your mother.” Silence ensued. Rhiannon picked at the hem of her gown. “Why didn’t my mother apply to King Karran for aid instead of fleeing to Arden Village?” “She came to Hallyn before going to the countryside, and my father tried to convince her to stay, but she refused. Your mother was very brave and noble. I remember Tristan telling me how distraught she was. He said she kept repeating the name of a plant that could’ve acted as an antidote to the rain lily’s poison.” “In truth? “Aye, a plant called the…” Ceri paused trying to remember, “the black pansy. She said it grows only in cooler climates, far away in the country of Symour.” Tears stung Rhiannon’s eyes. “How she must’ve wished she had access to it. How devastated she must have been.” Ceri leaned over and enveloped Rhiannon in her arms. “I know you are also a believer in the Goddess,” Ceri said softly. “Trust the path she has set down for you, Rhiannon. All will happen as it ought.” Together they sat in amicable silence until Ceri rose. “Tristan is blind and stubborn. He loves you.” Before Ceri left, she looked down at Rhiannon. “But take care you do not wound Gareth’s heart.” With that, she took her leave in a flutter of silk and sweet scent. Her final comment confused Rhiannon, but she did not have the strength to wonder about it. Instead she watched Ceri disappear into the woods like an ethereal Fairen woman. In search of calm, she sank back against the trunk of the tree, closed her eyes, relaxed and concentrated on the boughs of the tree swinging above her. She sensed the leaves, the bushes, grass and flowers around her with her eyes closed. Then she sensed herself, each finger, each limb in succession, tensing her muscles and releasing them. She felt her own power, her own energy rising and pulsing through her body. Mentally, she forced it out and up to join with the magical energies of the plants that she sensed around her. She was strong and steady, connected to the natural world. The wind began to whisper in her ear. It seemed to murmur her mother’s name over and over. It played with her hair and made the leaves dance on the branches above her, and lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of Arden Village and the time before she had come to Hallyn. Rhiannon dreamt of the other time that she had felt much as she did now, trapped and with no way out. Chapter Ten Tristan led Toren through the dense undergrowth near the old creek bed where Ceri had told him he would find Rhiannon. The evening approached on soft-footed shadows. A flash of blue caught his eye and he turned Toren toward it. Rhiannon was as motionless as the tree she leaned against. Tristan could barely make out the steady rise and fall of her chest. It was as though she were a part of the woods. If it had not been for the bright blue of her gown, he would have led Toren right past her. He dismounted and walked to her quietly, not wishing to wake her yet. He gazed down at her, his body tightening with desire. The gown hugged her small waist and flared over her hips. It caressed her breasts in a pleasing way, displaying their alluring curves. He longed to reach down and feel them against his palms. Her wide mouth was parted in dreamy slumber and her hair cascaded down her body in falls of sunlit fire. He swore under his breath. She was his. If he wanted to, he could kneel now and make her believe she was his in every sense of the word. He’d been a fool not take her sweet body when she’d offered before. It was a mistake he meant to remedy now. Tristan knelt and kissed the expanse of her exposed throat. Rhiannon roused in her sleep but didn’t wake. He trailed his lips over her collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste her. Father-of-All, she tempted him. She tasted so sweet and wild. He tugged on the neckline of her gown and laid a kiss to the swell of one breast. Rhiannon came awake with a gasp. Her eyes opened, yet seemed unseeing, as though she were still dreaming. Anguish twisted her face and she breathed, “No…Wen.” The desire left him a rush. He went to crush her to him, to kiss her into reality and reassure her that he wasn’t that cad from her past, but she twisted away from him and bounded to her feet, lithe as a cat. He grabbed her wrist. “Rhiannon, you dream.” She cuffed him hard up against the side of his head. It was not soft. Her muscles were trained from the experience of defending herself. Momentarily stunned, Tristan fell back against the tree and watched as Rhiannon darted into the foliage. He shook his head, and leapt to his feet. He had to find her and subdue her. In her sleep-created delusion, she could seriously hurt herself or lose herself in Cynan’s lands that lay near. * * * * * Branches scraped at her face and tugged at her skirts. A vicious thorn bush grabbed the gentle material and there was a sound of tearing cloth. She had to get away from him. Her slippers pounded on the forest floor. Why was she wearing these foolish slippers and not her sturdy buskins? Why did she wear these heavy skirts that impeded her flight? The thoughts came weak and dull. Wen pursued her, as so many times he had before. She had to escape. Tears clouded her vision, making it difficult to fight her way through the thick brush. In the end, it was the silkiness of her slippers that made her miss her step. She slipped and fell over a log in her path, falling forward and landing on her chest. Pain took her breath. She’d fallen against a bush that sprouted tiny new spring blooms. Now they lay spread out in all directions around her. In shock, she lay barely aware of her sprawl. Gingerly, she flipped herself over onto her back and drew the gentle air into her lungs. She looked up into the darkening sky and closed her eyes, waiting for Wen’s grasp to enclose her. Strong arms closed around her and mint-scented breath teased her nostrils. “Wen…” she said breathlessly. She paused exhausted for a moment and then began to struggle in his grasp. “Rhiannon! I am not Wen! It’s me…Tristan.” He pinned her arms to her sides with a strength Wen had never possessed. Slowly, her eyes came into focus. The fog confusing her mind evaporated. Tristan? She was in Tristan’s arms? Was that better or worse? She untangled her limbs from his and pushed at his chest, which felt more like a solid wall of muscle. He held her fast. “Hold still, you’ve been stabbed by the thorns of the bush you fell into.” Tristan reached down and drew his finger across the plump of one rounded breast and brought it up for her to see. She looked down at herself. Her entire chest was smeared with blood. As she saw it, the cuts began to sting. She swatted his hands away. “I’m fine, I can tend myself.” He pinned her arms down at her sides. “Stop! Allow me to wipe the blood away,” he commanded. With infinite care, Tristan used the edge of his surcoat to clean her up as best he could. Then he held her to him and stroked his hand through her hair. His mouth found hers, but her lips did not respond to his. “Don’t touch me,” she warned. “When you touch me, all my resolve fades away. My body rules my mind. Touch me not.” His mouth hovered above hers. “That’s good. Give in to it. Give in to me,” he murmured and kissed her again. “No.” Rhiannon sought out one of his nipples beneath his tunic and pinched it hard between her fingernails. When he reacted, she wrenched away from him. There was no trick she did not know. No grip she could not free herself from. She had learned well. “I’m not yours,” she repeated, backing away from him. She put her hands to her chest. “You proved that to me by acting as if you cared and then rejecting me, rejecting the emotion I felt for you. No, I am not yours. And if I must flee Hallyn and take my chances in the world to feel that I am mine, then so be it.” Tristan rose and took several steps toward her. “Rhiannon, you were not so combative before.” “I wanted you then, it’s true. But that was before I fully realized—” She stumbled over her words, not wanting to reveal too much. She steadied herself and raised her eyes to his. “I think I understand things much more clearly now.” He moved toward her again, but Rhiannon held up a warning hand. He could not touch her again lest he destroy with his caress the strong resolve she had within her. “I am a possession to you, such as any item which you have purchased. I do not have the strength to occupy your bed and remain only a meaningless pawn to you.” “Meaningless pawn?” Tristan closed the distance between them in two powerful strides. He reached out and gathered her against him. “Rhiannon, you desire me as much I desire you. I feel certain I could convince you to allow me anything. If I wanted again to tie you to my bed and play dark and erotic pleasures over your body, I would. If I wanted to lay you down upon the grass and spread your legs right here, I could.” His voice was a purr against her ear. “Do you understand, Rhiannon? You are mine. Mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to pleasure.” He emphasized his point by twining one of his fingers into a ringlet of her hair and lowering his mouth to hers. His arms wrapped possessively around her waist as he drew her close against his body. His tongue traced her lips and slowly she opened her mouth to receive him. When his tongue touched hers, she rubbed against it playfully. Tristan relaxed against her. With difficulty, she fought against the tides of desire that threatened to drown her. She knew that this was the perfect time and opportunity to gain her freedom. Deftly, she caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit. It was with triumph that she tasted his blood on her tongue. He yelled in fury and let her loose. “So arrogant,” she yelled. “Don’t presume anything about me.” She whirled and took off into the forest. This time when she ran, she knew it was from Tristan. This time she would run until she was out of his life forever. Rhiannon had long since lost her slippers and a portion of her gown by the time she heard Toren’s hooves pounding past the trees behind her. She could not think of that now, though, for she had to concentrate on outrunning a horse. She hiked up her skirts as high as they would go and keenly regretted her decision not to take Taliesin into the woods with her this day. He came up from behind her, reached down, wound his arm around her waist and easily swept her up into the saddle. He pinned her to his chest, effectively precluding any remaining hope she might have had of escape. Rhiannon dared not move as Toren’s hooves hammered out a frightening pace beneath them. Tristan guided Toren to the right and headed back toward Hallyn at breakneck speed. When they entered the courtyard at Hallyn and headed for the stable, Rhiannon glimpsed Gareth sitting in the early moonlight. She knew how she looked…barefoot and her gown in tatters. By the light of the full moon, she deduced Gareth had noticed because he pushed to his feet and followed them. Gareth stood in the doorway while Tristan slid off Toren’s back, bringing Rhiannon along with him. She stood by the stable wall while Tristan fussed with the horse. There wasn’t a stable boy in sight. Rhiannon glanced down at her shredded dress. Blood speckled and smeared her skin, along with long scratches and bruises. Goddess, but what had been wrong with her to act that way? It had almost been as though she’d been bespelled. “Rhiannon?” Gareth asked. “What happened? Are you all right?” Rhiannon glanced at him, then at Tristan. “I-I’m fine, Gareth,” she managed to push past trembling lips. “Tristan, what did you do?” Gareth asked. His voice came out ragged with emotion. “If you hurt her, I swear to the Father-of-All—” Tristan glanced at Rhiannon and back at Gareth. “It is not as it appears.” He went back to unloading his saddlebag as though nothing was amiss. He wanted no confusing words from his friend’s lips. The truth of what had happened was written clearly on Rhiannon’s face. Enraged, Gareth flew at Tristan, pummeling him as hard as he could until Tristan fell backward against the stable wall under the onslaught. Tristan turned to defend himself. “Stop it!” came Rhiannon’s agonized cry. “Gareth, stop!” Gareth and Tristan stilled and regarded her. “I said I’m fine, Gareth, please believe me. I need nothing more than hot bath and good night’s sleep.” “What happened to you?” asked Gareth. She looked at herself. “I did this to myself, Gareth. I can blame no other.” Tristan tried to move past him and Gareth slammed him back against the wall. “Despite her words, I want to make sure Rhiannon is safe from you.” “Do you really believe I would do her harm, Gareth?” asked Tristan. “Aye. Perhaps. The darkness within you grows. You are not the same person I knew growing up and you continue to change. I have watched you go through woman after woman, only to leave them sobbing afterward for the loss of you. I do not trust you with Rhiannon.” “I can take of myself, Gareth,” answered Rhiannon icily. “I do not require you to fight my battles for me.” Tristan pushed past Gareth, shooting him a dark look. “Rhiannon, we have unfinished business. Come with me.” Anger rolled off him in palpable waves. However, unlike Gareth, Rhiannon did trust Tristan insofar as she believed he would never take her forcefully or injure her physically. And they did have unfinished business. She stared at him, hesitating for a few moments, then finally walked to him. “I agree.” Servants stepped aside with wondering eyes to let their enraged master pass. Rhiannon trailed in his wake as he barked orders at them to bring warm water for the tub in his room and hot food and drink. He stormed into his chamber and she followed and sat down on a chair that flanked the fire. Soon, servants arrived carrying hot water that they poured into his huge tub. They laid toweling and a fresh gown for her on his bed and spread a warm meal out on the table. When they’d left, Tristan walked toward her and her whole body tensed, anticipating his hands on her. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited, but her fears were never realized. She felt his hand on her cheek, and slowly she opened her eyes to peer up at him. “A man can only stand so much before he breaks and I’ve broken. Allow me to pleasure you. Let us ease our bodies, sate ourselves with each other. I sense you are as frustrated as I.” He motioned toward the bed. Her eyes moved to the bed. She hated her hungry heart. It so desperately wanted his love but feared being ripped to shreds by his dark ruthlessness at the same time. She wondered if she should go with him to the bed, take what pleasure she could from him, take what love he would give her and be happy with that. But later, when he looked at her with unfeeling eyes, eyes that had forgotten her, eyes that looked upon other women instead of her, would she be able to remember making love with him this night with gladness in her heart? She closed her eyes and turned her head away. “You-you frighten me,” she breathed. “Rhiannon.” He dropped to his knees before her. “Why?” “You first. Why did you leave that night, on top of the tower?” “I…” He glanced away. “I have come to care deeply for you. I am frightened of you because of it, Rhiannon.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “What is there to be afraid of?” He raised his gaze to her and she witnessed such terror and pain it took her breath away momentarily. “Everything, sweetness. There is the loss of you to my dishonor, to my lack of care. Like how I lost my first wife. To lose you would be to lose everything. You deserve better than me. You—” She stopped his words with her mouth. Groaning with need, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to the bed. Tearing at her already battered skirts, he bared her from the waist down and then freed his cock. He spread her thighs and thrust inside her. Once he was in, she felt completed. Filled by him, she was home. Tears streamed down her cheeks and caught on their tongues as he kissed her. His cock tunneled in and out of her cunt as he pulled at the rest of her clothing, baring her breasts to his mouth and hands. “My sweetness,” he murmured against her lips. “There is no heaven better than being inside you.” He pressed her down onto the bed and hooked her legs over his thighs. Then reached down and stroked her clit with his thumb as his shaft speared in and out of her. Rhiannon grabbed fistfuls of blankets and bore down against his stroking thumb and pistoning cock as she came hard and long. He lowered himself over her and stared into her eyes, slowly thrusting into her. He brought her to climax a second time, this one long and slow. When she cried, he kissed her and consumed all her sighs and moans. He made love to her until the early morning hours. And when she woke, she found he’d covered her with a blanket. But he was gone and the bath water was long cold. Chapter Eleven “Rhiannon.” She turned at the warm touch of Gareth’s hand on her shoulder from where she’d been leaning against the wall and staring out the window. She spent a lot of her days in the private solar, where no one would bother her. Of course, Gareth and Tristan both knew where to find her when they wanted. Perhaps she should have found a better place to hide. But she was happier to see Gareth than she was Tristan at the moment. She smiled. “Hello, Gareth.” Worry marked his face. “Are you all right? Truly? In the stables—” She touched his mouth, happy it wasn’t his friend’s. “I’m fine. There is much that lies between myself and Tristan. I was…emotional and so was he. He wanted something from me I didn’t want to give, so I ran from him.” Tristan’s face tightened. “And in his chamber, did you give him what he sought?” “Does it bother you so much, Gareth? You shared me with him. Is your memory so short? Yes, he had me. He always has me. I have no will against him. How can you pursue me the way you do?” Her voice had grown ragged and uneven. “Aren’t you jealous of the relationship I have with him? I’m like his whore, his—” “Peace, Rhiannon.” His arms came around her and tightened. “I will always want you. You could lie with the entire castle guard and I would still want you. Stop this.” His mouth found hers and she tasted tears, realizing they were hers. “I want you now,” he whispered against her lips. She sighed, feeling her body responding to him, to his kindness and goodness. To everything that Tristan never openly displayed. Why oh why couldn’t she love this man with every fiber of her being? Why couldn’t Tristan fade in comparison to Gareth, instead of the other way around? She allowed herself to melt into and take what he was giving—a blessed respite from her thoughts. He pulled her skirts up and found her cunt warm and willing, as it always seemed to be for Tristan and Gareth both. His fingers pushed inside her slit and thrust until her honey flowed and her clit came awake. He turned, pushing her against a nearby table and tossing everything on top of it to the floor. Gently, he rested her there and started to undo the buttons of her bodice so that her breasts fell out and into his hands. As he licked and suckled each nipple in turn, her cunt throbbed more and more, needing him to fill her. To fuck her. “Gareth, please.” Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his trews. His fingers closed over hers and together they worked them free. She drew his cock from his pants and stroked it from base to tip, making his head fall back and a guttural groan escape him. Then he was inside her, hands on her waist, her buttocks resting on the very edge of the table, and he was thrusting inside her with an aggression she’d never thought Gareth would have. Her cunt closed like a hungry mouth around his pistoning length, eating up every long, wide inch he fed her. His mouth found hers and he slid his tongue in to mate as he slammed into her. “To make that beautiful cunt climax, you have to stroke her clit.” Gareth missed a stroke and Rhiannon gasped, her eyes coming open to find Tristan standing close by. His eyes glittered with hard lust and his lips were set in a grim line. Gareth went motionless, his cock buried to the root inside her. “I know how to make her come.” Tristan touched her cheek, the obsidian granite of his eyes going tender for a moment. He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “She has the sweetest pussy, don’t you think, Gareth?” “Hot, tight silk.” “Yes, I want her always, in all ways. She’s the only woman I think I could spend my life fucking forever. Her and only her.” “I exist,” she panted. “I’m here. Don’t talk about me like I’m not.” “Oh, love, we know you’re here,” Tristan’s voice purred out of him like a rock crushed to powder. It made her shiver. His hand trailed down to fondle her breasts. “The scent of you fills my senses. The sight of you being fucked by Gareth, your long legs on either side of him as he thrusts inside your hot, willing cunt. All of it makes my cock hard, makes me want to take you for myself.” Gareth stiffened. “You won’t.” She was not a bone to be fought over by dogs. Her lips pressed together, ready to let loose a string of things they both needed to hear. But then Tristan dropped his hand down further, gathered her cream and smoothed it over her clit. And stroked. And stroked. She shivered and her cunt pulsed around Gareth’s cock. “Peace, the both of you,” Tristan purred. He rubbed her clit with the pad of his finger as he spoke, making her bite her lower lip and toss her head. “That’s right, it feels good, doesn’t it, Rhiannon? You like how I touch you.” Gareth began fucking her again while Tristan caressed her between her thighs. The combination of sensations, having both their gazes on her, was more than she could bear. “Come for us,” whispered Tristan. “Take the pleasure we’re offering you.” She did, long and hard. Ecstasy filled her up, stole her thoughts, almost made her scream. The muscles of her cunt milked Gareth’s cock and he came too, in a hard, hot stream inside her. As soon as Gareth had finished and waves of her own climax were still teasing her body, Tristan undid the buttons of his trews. She watched his thick fingers fumble them with fascination, her body, even sated, craving his. She could grow to hate her own body and its self-destructive impulses. Tristan yanked her to her feet and kissed her roughly, his hands tangling at the hair at her nape. His tongue tangled savagely with hers as her hands gripped his upper arms and Gareth watched from nearby. He hooked her leg over his hip and pushed into her hard and fast. Leveraging the powerful muscles of his legs, he pounded up into her cunt, pushing her back against the table and bumping it backward. Every hard, barely controlled inward stroke sent the head of his cock brushing against a place deep inside that sent shocks of pleasure rippling through her body. The ripples of pleasure became more and more intense until they crested into another climax and washed over her. Tristan buried his head in the curve of her neck as she came and bit her neck, making her orgasm rocket even higher. She felt the explosion of his own climax deep inside and he released her flesh. “Mine,” she thought he whispered. “Mine.” Then as fast as he’d come to her, he was gone, stumbling out of the room with his pants still undone. Letting her skirts fall back into place, Rhiannon sank to her knees in front of Gareth, covering her face with her hands and shuddering with emotion. * * * * * In the days that followed, Rhiannon managed to avoid Tristan. Oftentimes she stayed inside the castle when she knew he was out. When he was inside, she would go to prowl around the castle gardens, since Tristan had left strict instructions with the guards not to let her beyond castle walls. She also found herself talking with her grandmother on many occasions, although Merion’s fragile state of mind and obsession with Cynan made intelligent conversation difficult. Merion constantly sat at her spindle with an old moth-eaten shawl about her shoulders, forever spinning and babbling. She would mutter to herself, take up her uneven yarn and mutter some more in a seemingly never-ending cycle. One afternoon when Rhiannon knocked on Merion’s chamber door, she received no reply. Cautiously, she pushed the door open and was greeted only by the musty smell of emptiness. “She has gone home to her holdings in Defedia, Rhiannon.” She turned and found Tristan’s broad form filling the doorframe. For the briefest of moments, it seemed as if they looked at each other with the whole lengths of their bodies. The discomfort between them was almost a tangible thing. He knew her now as no else did. She turned her head away, her cheeks burning with the memory of what she had let him do to her. How easily she had relinquished what she had sought to protect for so many years. She meant to speak loudly, to sound cool and unaffected, but her voice came out a reflection of her feeling—hollow sounding. “Gone? I spoke with her only last night and she mentioned no plans of departure.” “She left before dawn. Wymand thought it best that she go and I agreed with him. Your arrival strained her already strained mind in a dangerous way. Have you not noticed her—” She glanced up at him sharply. “Obsession?” “Yes.” “I see.” “Peace, Rhiannon,” he said. “I tire of the tension that lies between us. Come, let me show something to you.” He held his hand out to her. “Where do you wish to take me?” she asked warily. “I have not betrayed your trust, Rhiannon. We gave our bodies to each other in passion. What we did together was beyond honest. Come.” She disdained his hand. “Lead me,” she said. She followed him out of the chamber, then into the courtyard. Silently, he led her up some winding stairs to a locked door. Tristan produced a key and led her up onto the top of a small hidden turret. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dirt, and a gently sloping array of early blooming spring flowers met her eyes. A rich palette of colors and textures shivered delicately in the late afternoon’s breath. She gasped as she fell to her knees in the earth, her hands reaching out to caress the soft petals. It was a private garden, a spot she had never discovered in all her explorations of the castle. A wild and untamed place. The flowers reached up toward the sun in every direction. It had a savage beauty, so much like Tristan himself. “I am a warrior, Rhiannon. I do not always know how to express myself with eloquence worthy of a woman like you. My friend is able…” He paused for a moment. “Gareth is able to express himself without hindrance. Unfortunately, I do not possess that ability. I wanted to share this place with you. I use it as a sanctuary, a place to think. As you do, I also find solace in nature’s arms.” “There is eloquence in you, Dragon, but it is raw and untamed. My mother used to say that the Gods and the Goddess had cheated a man who did not hold any beauty in his heart. You have not been cheated.” He flinched as though she’d hit him. “You are kind. Maybe if there is beauty in me, it is you who brings it out.” Something moved in his eyes and he turned his head from her. He walked across the garden, crushing a fragile blossom beneath his boot, and sat down on the opposite wall. “We have something to talk about, Rhiannon.” “Aye, we do,” she said seriously. “I’ve decided that I shall do as Merion requires of me. How many lives has the lord of Warwide destroyed? He is an evil man. And so, considering this, I have decided to embrace my fate and poison him.” Tristan was silent for several moments, and then moved quickly to take her by the shoulders. “Rhiannon, I will not have you put in harm’s way. You will not. I won’t allow it,” he said vehemently. “Tristan, I am confused. I thought that was what my destiny was to be. I have decided to accept it.” She set her jaw. “It is true I am a healer and it will be hard for me to kill even a man like Cynan. But, it will be for the good of many, do you not think?” Tristan rocked back onto his heels. “Cynan is an evil man, it’s true. I, more than anyone perhaps, believe he needs killing.” He paused and pushed a hand through his hair. “But I don’t want you anywhere near that abomination. Just the thought makes me insane with anger. You must refrain from these thoughts. We will cheat fate, you and I. We will change your future.” “Ceri told me that Wymand is never wrong.” “Aye, well, we shall make him wrong this time. I realize that if you destroy Cynan, you will be just as effectively destroying yourself as well.” Rhiannon stared straight ahead. He was right. If she succeeded, she’d be changed forevermore on the inside. Tristan gazed at her intently. “Do I have your word, Rhiannon?” He rose abruptly and paced the garden like a trapped animal. “Do you promise me that, no matter what, you will not go after him?” He stopped and searched her face. “Do you promise?” She raised her eyes to his. “All right.” He expelled a relieved breath. “But then, what is to become of me? I cannot return to Arden Village. I have no money or title, so how can I live among the nobility?” “You have a title, although it’s tarnished in the eyes of the nobility. You are the daughter of a knight and great lady, Rhiannon. You could go to Defedia and live with Merion.” Rhiannon shook her head. “She’s so obsessed with Wymand’s vision and killing Cynan. She believes that I am the answer to her prayers, that if I avenge my parents’ deaths, all will have come full circle and the world will be right again.” “Merion is feeble-minded, Rhiannon. She needs to be reminded that you are her only granddaughter. You are the last remaining shred of Venna. In time, Merion would forgive and cherish you, but then, there are other options.” Tristan paused and dragged in a deep breath. All of a sudden he looked older than his true age. “Marriage is an option.” He paused. “To Gareth.” She was stunned, paralyzed and absolutely numb. He continued, “He came to me, asking for you to become his wife. I told him the decision would be placed in your hands. He tells me you desire to marry him. Is that true?” “I did. Once, a while ago, I wanted nothing more than to marry Gareth so he would save me from you. Now I don’t know what I want.” He was silent for a long moment. “The decision is yours. I will not press you.” Her own choice then, but was it really? “Rhiannon, I feel an obligation to tell you that women have been maneuvering for years to get Gareth into marriage. I know many who would wish to be in your position.” She stood. “Aye, and a proper woman would say yes right now with a smile shining upon her lips. Gareth is a handsome man, a young man, a gentle man with wealth and a title. I feel I am an ungrateful shrew and I’ve always known I’m not a proper woman.” She closed her eyes and slowly forced out the last words. “May I…may I have time to consider it?” Tristan turned away from her. “Of course.” As her thoughts began to come together, the numbness thawed a little, leaving her coated in chilled fury. How dare he bed her and then try to pawn her off on another. Her voice held self-reproach leavened by something akin to bitterness. “A proper woman would never have slept with you. With either of you.” She laughed. “With both of you at the same time!” Her voice cracked and she paused to collect herself. She began again softer, this time with more control. “And what if I carry your child already? You are exactly as they said you were. You will not even give me a second thought, but marry me off to your friend.” She laughed, a cold sound that surprised even herself. “Ah, yes, but it is true, bastards beget bastards, isn’t that right, my lord?” She watched as his fists clenched and pain passed through his eyes. “Rhiannon, what has happened between us means—” “Nothing, probably less than nothing,” she responded bitterly. She turned away but felt him standing there looking at her back for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. Then he left, and she was alone among the flowers of the garden. She turned her face to the sky and watched the sunset. The soft clouds broke into fragments, dissolving out into pale golden and orange wisps of their former glory. Momentarily, the sky was the same color she imagined desire would be. Then all the desire seemed disappear as the sun dipped below the horizon. And the whole world went dark. * * * * * Rhiannon leaned her head lazily against the trunk of the tree that grew next to the stone garden bench she sat on and watched a young wren hop toward her. She still felt the stain of the tears on her cheeks, although they had long since dried. The castle garden was as close to the woods as she could get, and in it she was almost content. The guards had orders not to let her pass. The Dragon did his best to inhibit her from fulfilling the prophecy. “Rhiannon, do you not make yourself ready for dinner this evening?” Listlessly, she raised her eyes from the wren to find Gareth looking down at her. What should she say to him? She stood, causing the wren to take flight. “My lord, I do not plan to attend.” “Why not?” Rhiannon went silent and glanced away. Gareth approached her. “Perhaps we should talk,” he said. “I am aware Tristan has presented my suit to you formally and I am also aware you told him you needed to think on it.” Her words came out in a rush. “Gareth, your offer is a generous one and only a very foolish woman would turn it down. I realize that I am more fortunate than most to not be pressed into marriage and instead am given my own free will—” Gareth cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his. Gently, his lips brushed hers. “You said you wished to marry me, Rhiannon. Do you remember?” “I do. I did, but—” “Rhiannon.” He turned away, sounding crestfallen. When he released her, she stepped back from him and averted her gaze. “How could you still wish to take me as your wife when you know how often I have slept with Tristan? You watched me and Tristan together. How could you still desire me?” She shivered at the memory of that night. He shrugged. “Perhaps I care enough for you that, at this point, it does not concern me overmuch. Marry me and Tristan will touch you no more.” Those words stung. He stepped toward her. “Rhiannon, I realize that you do not feel for me as I do for you, but oftentimes in a marriage, such sentiments are not a concern. And indeed, you may come to love me in time.” “Gareth, I—” His eyes darkened. “I want to see you away from Tristan, ensconced at Swansea where he cannot get to you. I want to see you every morning when I wake and every night before I sleep. I want to see our children toddling around after your skirts. These things would please me greatly, Rhiannon.” She stumbled backward at his words and sat down with a thump onto bench. Gareth continued. “Take a few days and think about it. If you accept, I will make sure all your dreams become reality.” She lifted a trembling hand to brush an errant strand of hair from her eye. “You are far too patient with me.” Gareth laughed. “Believe me, I do not feel patient. If it were up to me, we’d be wed right now, but I made an agreement with Tristan to let you have your head in this.” He paused. “Rhiannon?” “Yes?” “Please allow me to come to your chamber in an hour and escort you to dinner. It would not be the same without you there.” Gareth was so polite, such the polar opposite from Tristan. The prince would have commanded her to attend instead of asking so nicely. She rose, smiling. “All right, I’ll be waiting for you.” Chapter Twelve “Thay!” Rhiannon sat straight up in bed, sweat sheening her body, his name tumbling from her lips. In her nightmare, Thay had called her name. Blood had coated one side of his face and his arm had been hanging at an impossible angle. Shaking, she drew a breath and glanced around her. She lay in her chamber, a fire roaring in the opposite corner. Its heat chased the night chill from the room. The flowers she’d gathered earlier from the gardens lay in a pile upon the table. With a shiver, she assured herself that it had only been a dream and nothing more, no matter how real it had seemed. Even so, any effort she made to go back to sleep would prove fruitless. So she got up, went to the table and put her hands on the blooms that lay there. Gathering them into her arms, she inhaled their perfume. If she desired, she could make some soaps and perfumes from these flowers. Perhaps work would banish the hold the nightmare still had on her. It might stay her mind from Tristan and Gareth, as well. She definitely needed respite from those thoughts. Haltingly, she began to work, but as time passed, she became obsessed and threw herself into her labor with a piety unequaled by that of the holiest of priests. For almost a full night and day she toiled, her windows and doors ajar so she would not suffocate from the cloying scents. She was so engrossed, she even disdained the food Tilda brought her. Not even freshly baked apples with common spice, her favorite, could lure her away from her work. Beautiful and inviting smells poured from her chamber, drawing many of the castle’s residents to peer curiously into her room. “Joram, banesuckle and hasmile.” Rhiannon turned at the sound of Ceri’s voice. The woman stood in her doorway, watching her with somber brown eyes. “How can you pick those scents out of the chaos?” Ceri shrugged, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. “No student of the old teachings lacks an education in herbal healing and the floral family.” “True. Come and sit, stay with me awhile. It’s so rare I see you.” “Are you so lonely? I would come to visit you more often, but much of my time is dominated by Wymand.” “Your friend said your time was wasted by him,” Rhiannon replied. “Ah, yes. Well, Gareth would say that. He is a reluctant supporter of the mystic ways. He would rather have me at the spinning wheel than developing my sensing skills.” Ceri smiled at her. “Are you here now, working yourself to death, to divert your mind, Rhiannon?” “I’ve much to ponder now. Perhaps I use this work as a way to think.” “Or to avoid,” Ceri suggested gently. Rhiannon stilled her movement for moment before crushing the head of an amberdine blossom into her cauldron. “You told me once that I should be careful with Gareth’s heart. Did you know that he would ask for my hand?” She shrugged. “Gareth respects you, has a need to protect you and feels a genuine affection for you. It was only a matter of time before he asked.” “Does he love me, Ceri?” “Yes, I believe he does love you. I sensed it the first night I saw the two of you together.” She paused for a moment before continuing, her brow furrowing. “You do not love him.” She frowned. “Well, love is not always present in marriages, indeed, almost always it is just a luxury. Perhaps with time—” She sucked in a breath. Rhiannon stilled, her hand motionless over the cauldron. “What’s wrong?” Ceri’s green eyes widened. “You love another.” Rhiannon ducked her head in shame. “I do not wish to hurt Gareth. He deserves better.” Ceri’s voice trembled. “It’s all right. Our hearts want what they want. Oftimes we cannot choose. Worry not for Gareth, he is resilient. I-I must go.” She reached out and squeezed Rhiannon’s hand, then disappeared out the door. * * * * * “Tristan! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Ceri said, as she flew into his chamber breathlessly. “Well, you found me. What’s the matter, Ceri?” “I…well, I just wanted to talk with you.” Something more than mere conversation was her goal, he was sure of it. He laughed. “You’re all out of breath and look like you’ve been running all over the castle. All this just because you wanted to talk?” Ceri flashed a forced smile and casually closed the door behind her. “Tristan, you and I have always been close. We’ve shared something that, through no one’s fault, Gareth did not share with us.” “Aye.” “Although, conversely, I realize that you and Gareth shared something that I could not lay any claim to because I’m female,” she babbled. “Do you have a point, Ceri?” “I just wanted you to know that I feel I can be honest with you.” Tristan went to her and clasped her hands in his. “Ceri, what is wrong? Has someone hurt you, because if they have, I will—” “Nay, it’s not anything like that.” Ceri broke away from him, crossed the room to a chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Tristan, you need to set things to rights.” “What do you mean?” “With Rhiannon. I know how you feel. I know how she feels, and yet, you allow Gareth to hope for her hand. It is uncommonly cruel to all three of you.” Tristan crossed the room to look out the window. His voice lowered. “And how does Rhiannon feel?” He turned. “How do I feel, Ceri? Tell me, because I surely do not understand my emotions on the subject.” “Tristan—” “Ceri, I am setting things to rights. Gareth told me he loves her.” “He loves her, that much is true, but Rhiannon loves him not.” “She will grow to love him. Gareth is better for her than I am. His sense of honor—” “—is getting in the way. You know as well as I do that he has an intense need to save damsels in distress. He believes Rhiannon is one and wants to slay her dragons. He—well, he wants to slay you.” “Then let him! He is steady, strong, honorable. He will be able to give her what she needs. I can’t. Rhiannon deserves Gareth, not an uncontrollable, unpoetic, dishonorable warrior like me.” Ceri threw up her hands. “You just answered your own question, Tristan! You asked me how you felt about her and now you know. You want her to have the best, to be happy. Even if it means denying something I sense you desperately want for yourself.” Her voice rose, “Tristan! Don’t you see how much you love her?” He shook his head. “I can’t— I won’t—” He let out a ragged sigh. “I do, Ceri. All right? I do love her. But that is far from enough.” “But it is enough! Tristan, how many women have you bedded since Ellia died? More than you’d care to count, I’m sure. And do you realize that you’ve made sure that all of them were women you could never love nor hurt! Now, for the first time since Ellia, a woman has broken through your armor. You’ve fallen in love with her, all against your will, and now pushed her away. You’ve hurt her!” Tristan turned away from her. Ceri paused and sighed. “Tristan, you’ve hurt her so very badly. She tries to be so strong, but I can feel her pain. She deserves happiness, Tristan, and so do you! You deserve Rhiannon! And Rhiannon deserves the man she loves. She deserves you!” Tristan went for the door, crossed the threshold and disappeared down the corridor. For a long while, he prowled the halls of Hallyn like something feral, Ceri’s words soaking his consciousness. He tried to think of anything and everything but what his sister had said to him, but was failing miserably. His nose seduced by beckoning scents, he found his way to Rhiannon’s door. Her chamber was a mess. Dried blossoms lay strewn on the carpets. Vials of various liquids lay scattered about the tables and on the bed. She’d placed thick lumps of different colors—they had to be soaps—by the open windows. She was completely immersed in her job and oblivious to his gaze on her. He watched her long fingers tear flower petals into smaller pieces and drop them into the simmering water. Her dark blue eyes shone bright with concentration. She had knotted her thick hair at the nape of her neck to keep it from interfering with her movement. Several tendrils had loosed themselves and, once in a while, she would push them away from her face. A thin sheen of perspiration shone on her forehead. It mingled with streaks of red and pink flower dust that had rubbed off from the petals. It marred the creaminess of her throat and arms, giving her the look of a wild flower nymph. It suited her better than the blood that the thorns had drawn that fateful day, he thought with an involuntary shiver. Stealthily, Tristan backed away from the door before she could discover him and walked down the corridor toward the stairs that led down to the stables. What he needed right now was a good, long, hard ride through the woods. What he truly needed were some strong spirits, strong enough to burn the image of Rhiannon from his mind. The image of her standing in his chamber with nothing but her hair and the filtering sunlight to cloak her. He could still feel her silky tresses caught up in his hands, the flutter of her heartbeat beneath his lips… “Tristan?” The wispy, luminous image of Rhiannon disappeared, and was replaced by a piercing violet gaze attached to a breathing cobweb. “Wymand,” he said stormily. Wymand tugged him into an open doorway. Tristan groaned when he saw his sister sitting in a chair across the room. He could only guess what this would be about. “So, Ceri tells me you’ve gone and got yourself bespelled.” “Wymand!” Ceri chastised. Tristan crossed the floor to look out the window. How in bloody hell had he managed to get himself trapped in this room with these two? “I am not bespelled,” he bit off. Wymand crossed to stand beside him and gaze down into the courtyard. “I truly hope you tell the truth and Ceri is wrong, but the futures have been flickering.” “What do you mean?” “I mean the images I get of Rhiannon giving the tea to Cynan have been fading in and out. Beyond them and behind them, I see images of Gareth and Rhiannon’s betrothal. It’s as if something is happening that will change her future.” “Good. If marrying Gareth will keep her safe, so be it.” Wymand turned and fixed him with his eye. “Aye, but you see, it is not Rhiannon marrying Gareth that is threatening to change things. Have you given orders to the guards to not allow her to leave Hallyn?” Wymand’s gaze, sometimes unbelievable in its ability of divination, rested on Tristan’s face. His eyes seemed to be drawing out an answer to his question. Suddenly Wymand screeched, “You’re not doing a very good job at letting the futures take hold, are you?” “We’ve gone over this before. Neither you nor Gareth seem to understand the force of my will regarding this. Rhiannon will go to Warwide and endanger her life over my buried corpse. I will do everything in my power to make sure that particular future never comes to pass,” Tristan growled. Wymand made a disgusted gesture. “Pah! You are bespelled.” Tristan spoke calmly, “Perhaps Rhiannon’s life means more to me than revenge does.” Ceri laughed aloud and clapped her hands. Wymand turned to her. “And you! My student! My most hopeful! The one to whom I will pass on my powers when I leave this life! You revel in this folly!” “Wymand, is this not also fate at work, Tristan and Rhiannon?” Ceri replied. The old Pashian threw up his arms. “Pah!” He turned, his robes swirling in his wake, and walked out the door. Tristan gazed out the window. Rhiannon had entered the courtyard and stood in the garden. She looked unbelievably beautiful, disheveled as she was from her labor with the flowers. “He’s right. It is not fate, but the purest folly,” he murmured. Ceri walked over to him and looked out the window. Gareth had also entered the courtyard. “It’s not,” murmured Ceri behind him. “Love is not true unless it’s fragile.” Tristan merely grunted in response, so engrossed was he with the scene below him. He watched Gareth take Rhiannon’s hand and raise it to his lips. At the last moment, Tristan saw him turn it palm upward. Gareth kissed it lingeringly before letting Rhiannon reclaim it. Tristan fisted his hands at his sides and turned away. * * * * * Below in the courtyard, Gareth’s lips pressed against Rhiannon’s palm and there he gently laid a kiss. “I have neglected my duties at Swansea for too long. Keep this kiss close to your heart and remember me.” He reached out and wiped a bit of flower dust from the tip of her nose. Rhiannon smiled to mask her jangled nerves. Only earnestness and the deepest sincerity marked Gareth’s chiseled features. It broke her heart. Why could she not feel anything beyond mere affection for this man? But perhaps he was right. Maybe she would grow to love him in time. How could she not? He continued, “I will return in seven days’ time. Will you think on my proposal while I’m away?” Silently, she prayed her eyes would not betray her trepidation. “I have already thought on your proposal, Gareth, and I have come to a decision.” The words came slowly, from an apprehensive heart. “I will accept you and become your wife with gladness.” Before she had finished her sentence, he had crushed her against his chest. He murmured into her hair, “I will have the announcement read. We will become betrothed upon my return to Hallyn. You will need to be baptized in the tradition of the Father-of-All, of course.” Rhiannon stiffened instantly at those words, but she said nothing. There would be no way she would forsake her mother’s Goddess for the Galladians’ Father-of-All. But that would be a battle for another day. “You have made me happy, Rhiannon,” Gareth continued, “very happy.” He released her, spoke sweet parting words and took his leave, promising to return as quickly as possible. Rhiannon watched him go, her stomach painfully knotted. * * * * * The next afternoon, Rhiannon made her way down to the garden with a piece of cloth, a needle and thread. Goddess, how she hated embroidery! But she was looking for any excuse to keep her mind busy. As she entered, she saw Tristan leaning against a wall with his face tipped up to the sun. Her steps faltered and she almost turned to leave but decided to stand her ground. She could not allow him such power over her. Taking a deep breath, she set her embroidery down and began to brush her fingertips against the flowers in her customary way of greeting, ignoring the Dragon’s presence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan watch her covetously, like a hungry man would eye a loaf of bread. Finally, Rhiannon was unable to bear the silence any longer. “Shouldn’t you be in your own private garden?” “I knew the loveliest flower would be in this one.” At that, Rhiannon flinched. He was playing with her, fumbling with her heart. Silently, she walked over to her embroidery, sat down and stabbed the threaded needle through the fabric. She felt him walk over and stop not far from her. “So, Gareth told me you’ve accepted his proposal,” he stated. “Yes. Why are you so interested in that, my lord? It is the second time you’ve brought it up. Why should it matter so to you?” Angrily, she plunged the needle into her swatch of cloth with abandon, threading it through with an erratic pattern. “I would have been a fool not to accept his proposal, as I’ve not many options available to me,” she babbled nervously. “Gareth knows how I feel, but maybe, with time—” Rhiannon bit off the end of the sentence and added an oath as she stabbed the needle into her finger. Tristan went to take her hand, but she held it far away from him. Her eyes held his for a heartbeat before she closed them. “Don’t touch me.” Her words came out as a plaintive entreaty, almost a sob. Tristan stiffened and backed away. “Your betrothal is not formal until it is announced before myself and the castle, remember that.” “We will announce it when Gareth comes back from Swansea.” He reached out as if to touch her, then withdrew his hand and silently took his leave. Rhiannon looked down at her fumbled attempt at embroidery. Several large, confused blue lengths of thread crisscrossed the fabric, accompanied by a speckling of her own blood. Odd, she thought, how well it seemed to reflect her own life. * * * * * Rhiannon awoke with tears wet on her cheeks. She climbed out from beneath the covers and threw the shutters open wide, letting the cold air rush in and wash over her. The air hit the dying embers of the fire. They lifted up into the wind and scattered about the chamber, inflamed with new life. She stuck her head out the window and let the wind dry her face. She could not remember the dream that had prompted her tears and she was glad of it. She sighed as she looked out across the forest that stretched on interminably in front of Hallyn. Warwide was out there somewhere in the blackness. Swansea and her future husband were out there also. Since Gareth had been gone to Swansea, Rhiannon had hardly missed his presence. She bowed her head in shame. She never should’ve told Gareth yes! It was not right! It would never feel right and it wasn’t fair to Gareth. He deserved a woman who truly loved him. It was true she would do her best to please him, to be the wife he deserved, but she feared she would be forever thinking of his friend. The wind sighed and shook the boughs of the trees. Thunder boomed in the distance. She watched and waited for the sky to open up and muscle down a hard rain. Like a gift from the unknown, a dragonfly flew into her chamber and hovered in front of her nose. He seemed a strong little creature, while at the same time delicate. Undoubtedly, he could survive the threatening storm outside, but Rhiannon held her breath as if she could kill him with her sigh. Thunder boomed again and large, soft droplets of rain began to fall against her face. Lightning flashed and Rhiannon watched it streak across the blackened sky. “It’s Ter Lugonos,” she whispered with sudden realization. When she looked for the dragonfly again, he was gone, heading out the window toward the dark forests. Impulsively, she pulled a simple gown over her chemise and stole out into the shadowed hallway. Lighted celestial-flame candles graced the walls at widely spaced intervals and Rhiannon reached up and took one. She ran her hand along the cold stone wall until she reached the stairs and descended them. She knew these stairs led down to the courtyard, and from there she planned to slip past the guard at the gate. Ter Lugonos needed to be celebrated. She’d never let the holiday pass without offering tribute of some form to the Goddess. The woods called to her. It was a wild and clear call. One her blood could not ignore. She had to at least attempt to trade stone castle for lush woods this night. There was only one way out of Hallyn, past the barbican. She approached it on silent feet, the sound of talking and laughter growing near. The guards stationed at the barbican during the night were gathered just inside the courtyard, swapping stories. She breathed a sigh of relief for their distraction. Keeping to the shadows, she skirted the wall and slipped into the small corridor leading to the barbican and the guardhouse. She maintained her level of stealth since there could be more guards about. As she neared the guardhouse, a softer rain still fell. She was grateful for the masking noise. A gentle snore wafted to her ears and she stifled a laugh. A guard sat on a tall stool within the small house. He’d tipped the stool back so he could lean against the guardhouse wall and go to sleep. She moved past him, down the drawbridge and sprinted for the woods. * * * * * In the center of the piling of flower petals lay a woman with shining white-gold tresses and dark, passionate eyes. Ancient lace draped her luscious shape. She beckoned seductively. The cloak of lace fell away at his touch, leaving her in unveiled majesty. He drew her sweet nakedness against him and inhaled the heady scent of the flowers that clung to her hair and dusted her skin. His tongue plunged into her nectarous mouth and his hands roamed unhindered over her lush body. Tristan awoke, sweat sheening his chest. He bolted from the bed and threw open a window. Gooseflesh appeared and he knew it was not all due to the cool, rushing air or the gently falling rain. He constantly dreamt of her. If it was not the strange ocean dream, it was another, much like the one he’d just had. It was as though he was steeped in her, as if she had somehow managed to pervade every aspect of his life, all his waking and dreaming thoughts. Though he’d tried to thrust it away from him, his love…nay, his obsession with Rhiannon had completely overpowered him. A muscle flexed in his jaw. It had approached quietly, without his awareness. It had stalked him and pounced, and all in the innocent guise of a healer woman with sun-colored hair. He wasn’t good enough for her by half, but this emotion clawed at him as it likely did her. He shook his head. It was too late to go back now. They could deny it no longer. He could no longer keep this up. He could no longer allow her to marry any man but himself. The poor woman was doomed to a life by his side. But this time, he vowed he’d be a good, honorable partner. He would stay with her to protect her and never lose her. Tristan would never let her doubt his love for her, never leave her alone to face the demons and darkness on her own as he’d done to Ellia. He would not make the same mistakes twice. Something moved on the night- and rain-swathed stretch of grass his window overlooked. He squinted, recognizing the shape of the person and the way she moved. Rhiannon. She’d made it past the barbican and was now headed straight into the woods. Tristan pulled his trews and boots on. Suddenly he remembered what day it was, Ter Lugonos, the earth holiday of the Pashian Goddess. She sought the forest to worship, most likely. He had not a second to lose. She was too quick. He dressed quickly, dashed out of his chamber and down the stairs toward the stables. Tristan didn’t bother with a saddle or a bridle. He mounted and bolted past the group of guards at the gate—he’d deal with them on the morrow—and out the front gates. At the guardhouse, he spared a second to slow, reach into the open window and slap the sleeping knight up against the side of his helm to wake him. Toren’s hooves punished the ground as Tristan made his way in the direction he’d seen Rhiannon headed. Chapter Thirteen Rhiannon walked barefoot, feeling the cool air rise up from the ground. She stopped in a small clearing dotted with oak and willow trees and smiled. Thay had never wanted her to go near willows. He thought they were evil in some way that she had never understood, but she had always been attracted to them. She liked the way their boughs dipped as if they were bowing to the Goddess of creation herself. The long grasses of the clearing were flattened by their own weight and created a lush green carpet beneath her feet. It was here she would pay homage. The rain soaked her hair and skin. She shed her heavy, dark cloak and pulled her gown over her head, letting the rain saturate her chemise. Ter Lugonos was a time to celebrate growth, birth and rebirth, a time to recognize the earth and her life-giving power. She reached her hands up to the sky and let the rain wash over her. Silently, she prayed to the separate Pashian Gods and to the Goddess. She prayed to the four elements, fire, water, earth and air. Beneath her feet, she sensed the very ground trembling with unknown power. When the hoof beats sounded behind her, she whirled and wrapped her arms around her chest. She peered into the night, her eyes searching for a recognizable face. A horse she could not know in the darkness snorted and stamped huge hooves. The rider’s face was hidden by shadow. He swung down and stepped toward her. “Dragon.” “What are you doing here, in the rain, without so much as a gown, or even slippers?” She looked at him in surprise. “It is Ter Lugonos. You could not expect me to celebrate it indoors?” He smiled. “Of course not, I fully expected you to sneak past the guard wearing practically nothing and go running into the woods in the middle of the night.” Blankly, Rhiannon stared at him. “Do you mock me?” The smile left his lips and he moved toward her. “I don’t mock you.” He went to take her hands, but she backed away. “Shush,” he said as he reached out once more to take her hands in his. He unwrapped her arms from their clasp around her body. She knew well what he saw. The sodden chemise clung to her, revealing every hollow and curve beneath its transparent embrace. Her nipples pressed pert and rosy from beneath the sodden fabric. Abruptly, he released her and backed away. He looked down at the ground for a several heartbeats before lifting his eyes to hers. “It’s started between us, Rhiannon. I think it did a long time ago.” She knew what he meant, could read it in his eyes. “Started?” Her voice sounded hollow. “No! Not started, finished. Finished.” She repeated. “You want me to marry Gareth. I am to be betrothed to your friend.” The words were final sounding. “You’re not betrothed to him yet. The announcement hasn’t even been made.” She stared at him open-mouthed. “I said I would accept him. I gave my word. It is as good as betrothed.” He moved toward her, but she stepped away. He shook his head. “There is nothing we can do. What is simply is. You need to understand that. It’s begun, Rhiannon, don’t you see? Words given and pledges made mean nothing now because what we share changes them all.” “And what do we share?” He answered her quickly. “Love. We share it, you and I.” Confusion and pain stabbed at her lower stomach, mixed with something curiously similar to euphoria. She swayed for a moment on unsteady legs. How much she had wanted to hear those words, but they had come too late, far too late. “I am to be betrothed to your friend,” she repeated helplessly. “Nothing matters now except you, me and the ways I want to show you that the things I’ve said are true.” The confusion melted into a low simmering anger, the ways I want to show you. “Do you think me some puppet to manipulate to your will?” Tristan stepped forward and enfolded her into his arms as though she was a bird that he feared might take flight at any moment. She let him. There was nothing else for her to do. He bent his mouth to hers and kissed away the raindrops that shimmered there. “No,” he murmured. “I think you feel as I do. I think you want me to take you right now and make you mine and I don’t think you ever want to be anyone else’s.” His tongue stole out to taste her lips again and then coaxed them open. She relaxed against him, molding her body to his. It felt so right, as natural as breathing. She felt an infinite familiarity with him and always had, even from the beginning—familiarity with his touch, his voice, his scent, even his mannerisms. Then there was something more, a blending of spirit, a spilling over of his soul into hers. No matters their differences, it had always been there. He lifted her chemise over her head and lowered her onto the makeshift blanket her discarded gown and cloak made. Then he shed his tunic and came down over her, his bared chest rubbing coarsely against hers. Warmth flared to life deep within her cunt and spread out, threatening to envelop her with its intensity. He leaned down to take one of her hard nipples into the velvet folds of his mouth. She moaned, bringing her fingers up to twine into his hair. Tenderly, he caressed her other breast, toying with the sensitive peak with his callused thumb. He covered her mouth with his, consuming her gasp of pleasure. Her spine arched as pleasure simmered through her veins. It was incredible the way her body responded to him. So eager. So ready. Her pussy was warm and creaming already. She couldn’t wait to feel the slide of his cock deep inside her. Rhiannon explored his body with impatient hands. Taut muscles corded his arms and chest. The feel of his body was something she would never grow tired of. His stomach was rock solid to her touch. She reveled in the feel of the rough hair that rubbed against her skin. She brushed her fingertips lower and felt his arousal straining against his trews, then undid the laces at his lower stomach. He reclaimed her mouth, probing softly at the sweetness there. Then he moved his hand past her stomach to her aching cunt. He wove a spell of dark ecstasy with his fingers, exploring tender folds and rubbing her clit to sensitive arousal and straight to climax. “Sweetness, come for me,” he murmured. It cascaded over her body like a wave. She nearly screamed from the gently racking spasms that were soon claiming her body. “There you go,” Tristan murmured. “There’s my good girl. You’re so beautiful when you come.” Tristan entwined her fingers in his and placed her hands on either side of her body. With care, he nudged her thighs apart with his knee. Rhiannon felt the touch of his cock against her cunt and arched her back to allow him entry. Tristan moved his hands from her wrists, granting her freedom. She lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, which fast became long and deep. She moaned and writhed beneath him, loving the stroke of his shaft inside her. She ran her hands along the length of his back and down the front of his chest and nipped at his lips and his throat with her teeth. Matching him thrust for thrust, she moved with him in perfect synchronicity. She gave what she had never given before, not merely her body, but her soul and the very beat of her heart. She told him she loved him. Low and silky, she whispered it into his ear. Tristan answered by spilling those same words, full of emotion, from his lips. His control snapped and he released himself into her, pinning her hips against the ground with the force of his climax. They lay breathing heavily for a few moments until Tristan rolled to the side and pulled her against him. She breathed a sigh of relief. A part of her had feared he’d leave her again. She should have been cold, Rhiannon thought, but Tristan’s warmth banished the chill. She lay with her head in the crook of his arm and stared up into the cobwebs that stretched through the limbs of an overhanging tree. Raindrops hung from them like diamonds. Tristan lazily traced his fingers over her collarbone and then trailed them along the side of her breast down to her navel. Over and over, he stroked her, lower and lower to her cunt. There, he caressed her clit softly and surely until he made her come again. Gentle spasms shook her body from the force of it. Then they lay, quiet and at peace. “And Gar—” Rhiannon started to say. “Let’s not think of him in this moment.” “So what happens now?” Gently, he pushed her over onto her back. “You’re mine, Rhiannon,” he murmured. “That’s what happens.” He kissed her throat and trailed his tongue down to kiss her dew-pearled stomach just above the patch of her golden hair. “Do you ache?” His eyes were filled with dark passion—they mesmerized so she could not look away. “A little.” He parted her legs and planed the length of her inner thigh with his lips. He reached her cunt and kissed the pain away with exquisite care and tenderness. He laved her pussy over and then sucked her clit into his mouth. A low sound escaped her throat, almost a cat purr, and she arched her back. Her fingers groped for purchase in the soft grass around her. “Tristan,” she entreated softly. He did not wait for a second invitation. He pushed himself inside her, possessing her body for the second time that morning. “I claim you for myself,” he said. He took her with a savage intensity that drowned all thought, save those concerning the carnal act, from her mind. When he finished, he left her breathless and shaking. “I want you to spend the day in my bed. We will have some cheese, bread and wine brought to my chamber and lock the door behind us,” he murmured as he nuzzled the nape of her neck. “And I’m sure we will be able to find much more than just the food to devour.” After some time of lying sated on the grass, they rose and gathered their scattered clothing. After having dressed and mounted Toren, they made their way back toward Hallyn. The fortification rose tall and strong into the fluffy white clouds that dotted the horizon. The weathered gray walls of the castle had always struck Rhiannon as not being suited to the lushness of the woods that surrounded it. She twined her arms around his midsection and lowered her cheek to rest against his broad back, but despite her lazy happiness, she sensed something was amiss. A smell wafted on the clean morning breeze, a smell that did not fit, something the rain should have washed away. Unless the smell was uncommonly fresh. Suddenly, she realized that the dawn winds had a secret to impart—death was near. The smell clung to her nostrils. It was a mixture of old clotted blood and unwashed human body, the strangely sweet and ominous lingering of the dark taker of life. Rhiannon raised her head. In the distance, she saw a dark, swathed form hanging in a tree to the left of the keep. The man’s feet were balanced precariously on a thin branch that looked as though it might break at any moment. If the branch broke, the man’s neck would be snapped by the jolt. As it was, it appeared he’d been hung there that way on purpose. “Tristan.” “I see it, Rhiannon.” As they neared, she could see that it was, or rather had been, a man. A coarse sack covered his face, but the body was male. The rope from which the nightmarish vision hung creaked from the weight. The shape of the body seemed oddly familiar to her. Rhiannon’s eyes were glued to it unwillingly. The dead man was missing a leg, the same one as— It couldn’t be. The hanging body twitched and made a low gargling noise. Rhiannon sprang from the horse’s back before Tristan could stop her. She shinnied up the tree and climbed out onto the limb to which the noose was tied. Grim knowledge had taken hold of her. Futilely, she picked at the rope with her fingers. Her panicked mind wasn’t working properly. “Knife. I need a blade.” She looked down at Tristan. “Please say you’ve got a blade! Throw me your dagger.” Tristan gave her a look that said he thought this was all for naught, but still he pulled his blade out of his boot and tossed it up to her. Then he positioned himself and Toren beneath the body to catch it when it fell. Using her teeth, she unsheathed the dagger and frayed the rope with the silver edge as quickly as she could. The thick width finally gave way and the body fell into Tristan’s arms with a thump. Toren stepped sideways and whinnied, startled by the black thing that had fallen from the sky. She held her breath for a moment, thinking that the horse would buck them both off. Tristan calmed the stallion with a few words and Rhiannon descended the tree. “We’ve got to get him to the castle, Tristan.” “Rhiannon, he’s dead—” “Tristan, it’s Thay! I’m almost sure.” He pulled the sack off. Thay’s head, bloody but recognizable, lolled to the side. Rhiannon’s knees betrayed her and she sat down on the grass. Chapter Fourteen Rhiannon watched as Tristan laid Thay in one of the vacant bedchambers. She ordered Tilda to bring water and implements and to make a fire in hearth. Then she freed Thay’s arms from where they were bound behind his back. His left arm was clearly broken and she laid it gingerly onto the bed, thankful he was unconscious. She swabbed his head with a dampened cloth and wiped away some of the blood. “Thay, can you hear me? It’s Rhiannon. You’re safe now. You’re going to live. You’re going to be all right.” Her eyes welled with tears. Promises, empty promises. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her voice. “Choking.” The word was hoarse and strangled. Tristan went to his side and gently moved his head. Angry red rope burns snaked his throat. “It’s amazing you’re alive, Thay. It’s clear Cyn—” He bit off the name, his jaw snapping shut. “You don’t have to protect me.” Her eyes darkened. “I didn’t think of it immediately when we first saw him. After we found out how he was, then I knew. Torture like this, it’s Cynan’s style.” She looked down and away. Rage burbled up from the pit of her stomach and she tamped it down, forced herself to listen to Tristan. “He strung the rope so Thay would not break his neck. His intention was to choke him to death slowly by making sure Thay had a branch below to brace himself on. Cynan knew that if he didn’t choke, the branch would break eventually and Thay would hang. It’s possible he did all of that so someone would find him at daybreak and bring him to Hallyn while he was still just barely alive. He wanted you to watch him suffer.” Tristan drew a breath. “Cynan knows you’re here, Rhiannon. I don’t know how, but he does.” “I don’t have time to think of that now.” Rhiannon reached out and ran her fingers along the welts that marred his throat. “He’ll bear these scars for the rest of his days.” Thay’s eyes fluttered open again at her touch and he screamed. He screamed and screamed with his eyes open, but seemingly seeing nothing. His mouth was wide with terror and tracks of spittle snaked their way down his chin. Rhiannon flung herself over him. She cooed and nuzzled him until his screams subsided into soft sobs not unlike that of a young child. Rhiannon pulled away from him with tears streaming down her cheeks. “This is my fault,” she whispered, “and I will make it right.” Her hands flared to life, warming to a degree she could barely stand. “Rhiannon?” Thay choked out. “Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” “So I’m in heaven then. I thought the pain would go away in heaven.” Tristan and Rhiannon exchanged a look. “Thay, you’re not in heaven. You live yet,” she said. Thay smiled. “Then you are alive?” “Aye.” Thay blew out a careful breath. “Ah, girl. They told me they killed you. I thought you were dead long since now,” he rasped. “Rhiannon shall live until a ripe old age, Thay. I shall see to that personally,” said Tristan. “I’m going to heal you now, Thay. Do you accept?” Rhiannon asked. Thay smiled. “I always knew you had it in you, girl. I knew it’d take Prince-Successor Tristan to lure it all out of you. Aye, I accept.” Tears clouded Rhiannon’s eyes as she moved her hands over his body. They flamed over his various wounds and then went cool. When she was finished, she took a step back, furrowed her brow and bit her bottom lip until it she tasted blood. The truth was bitter. His wounds were little improved. He was too far gone—in the Goddess’ hands now. No healing she could do would have much of an effect. Tears stung her eyes and clouded her vision. Sorrow choked her throat. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry in front of Thay. It wouldn’t do to let him know her healing had had little to no effect because of the severity of his wounds. He’d have to fight through this himself, but the odds were weighted heavily on death’s side. Tristan touched her shoulder. “Rhiannon?” She cleared her throat and took a step forward. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Thay.” She worked for hours to cleanse and dress Thay’s wounds, not allowing anyone else to touch him. There was a large, nasty gash on his head, besides the rope bites on his neck and several other less serious abrasions scattered on his arms, legs and torso. Her hands shook with fury as she worked. Almost all his wounds were infected. They had gone too long without being cared for and were beginning to close up, locking the sickness inside him. She would need to open them back up and employ all her knowledge of herbal healing since her magic hadn’t worked. Rhiannon touched her hand to a gash that snaked across his upper leg. Already the telltale red marks that bore internal poisons streaked away from the wound. She could give him herbals, such as Yrrow, gian and heartspanic. But that’s all she could do. Ironically, his least serious-looking wounds might be ones that killed him. “You look beautiful, Rhiannon. Every…bit as pretty…as your mum,” rasped Thay. Rhiannon shushed him. “Save your strength for your healing, Thay.” The words came hard from him, forced and painfully slow. Thay blinked purple-tinged eyelids at her. “Nay, girl, I’ve things to say and…and I don’t know how much longer I have to say them.” “Thay—” “You were always…as a daughter to me. I wanted to spare you the pain of knowing the truth about your mum, but I realized the danger you were…in.” He paused for a draught of air. “From Wen, to be sure, but I also feared Cynan would somehow find out you still lived.” Tristan had been sitting in a chair nearby. Now he spoke. “So you waited until you came across a Hallyn knight and sent a message to me.” “Aye…your mum took me into her confidence. I…I always knew everything. Forgive me for not telling you, girl.” “There’s nothing to forgive.” She kissed him once upon his bandaged temple and pulled away. “Thay, did you overhear how they found out about you?” Tristan asked. Thay leaned his head over the side of the bed and retched. Rhiannon got a pail in position beneath him just in time. “One of your knights,” he gasped as Rhiannon wiped his mouth with a cloth. “The same one…I bought the dagger from.” “Arvin,” Tristan said suddenly. “That sorry excuse for a man.” He blew a frustrated breath and clenched his hands. “If I had known the night of the celebration—” “But how did he know anything?” asked Rhiannon. “He asked questions of me, aye, but I never answered them directly.” Tristan shook his head. “He was likely curious about the message he delivered for Thay. He listened through doors to fill in the information he didn’t possess, perhaps. No way to know, Rhiannon.” Thay coughed. “Rhiannon…you must be careful. Stay within these walls. Allow his lordship to protect you.” Thay reached out with his good hand and grabbed Tristan’s forearm. “You will protect her, won’t you, my lord?” “With my dying breath.” Thay inclined his head toward Rhiannon. “Cynan is beyond evil, girl, and he will come after you. Stay as far from him as you can. Promise me!” Rhiannon touched his chest. “I promise.” Thay lay back and relaxed with something akin to a smile on his lips. “I know I might die, girl. Fear not… I know it is inevitable… So many things are inevitable… So many fates, impossible to avoid. Soon, the Father-of-All will gather me to his breast and I will live…in heaven.” Thay closed his eyes. Rhiannon placed her hand on Thay’s fluttering pulse and heaved a sigh of relief. He was only unconscious. She knelt at his side, concentrating on the weak rise and fall of his chest as though she could make it stronger with her will alone. She left Thay’s side only once that day, to change her clothes. Beyond that she chained herself to Thay’s bedside and stayed there nearly constantly for three days. On and off she would try to heal him magically, but always with the same results. Every day he lost weight. His cheeks hollowed and his skin grew grayish. On the third day Thay stirred, opened his eyes and peered at her. Taking advantage of his consciousness, she pressed the bowl of medicinal herbal to his lips. He sniffed at it and made a face. “It’s terrible stuff,” she murmured, “absolutely foul. Drink it anyway.” Dutifully, he swallowed down the concoction and then his body slipped back into unconsciousness. She slumped into the chair by his bedside. Sometimes, when he did not wake for hours at a time, she would have to tip his head up and force the medicinal herbals down his throat, as well as the thin broths and gruels that were the only foods he seemed able to keep down. Rhiannon slept curled in a chair beside him and listlessly consumed the food Tilda brought her. Drowsing in her chair, she felt a warm, strong hand touch her shoulder. “Rhiannon,” said Tristan softly. “How is he?” She shut her eyes briefly. “He’s—the same. He needs time to simply rest, I think.” “Come to my room. I have ordered you a real meal. You grow too thin.” She shook her head. “No—” Tristan scooped her into his arms. “Tristan! Put me down!” “I will not take no for an answer. Thay is sleeping. It’s what his body needs to do. You do nothing here but make yourself weak and fatigued with worry.” She relaxed against him. It was true. Thay’s life was out of her hands, as loath as she was to admit it. Not even her magic could heal him. Tristan bore her down the hallway and into his room. The first thing she noticed when she entered his chamber was the steaming bath that stood at one end of the room. He set her down. A serving woman entered the chamber and gave Rhiannon a sidelong glance while setting some food down on the table. Rhiannon ignored the woman. She was in no mood to worry about appearances. She thoroughly expected the servants to eye her askance because of her physical relationship with their lord. When the serving woman had gone, Rhiannon peeled off her gown. The night she had spent with Tristan seemed far away and she wanted to regain a little of the safety she’d felt in his arms. She felt Tristan’s hot gaze on her as she disrobed and stood before him unashamed. “Can we share the bath, Tristan?” He said nothing but rather shed his clothing in reply and led her to the tub. The flickering fire of the nearby hearth was no match for the flame that burned in his eyes. He took her into his arms and she molded her body to his, reveling in the silky feel of bare flesh upon bare flesh. The tub was big enough to hold two people, even if one was Tristan’s size. They stepped in together and sloshed water over the sides onto the floor. Wordlessly, Tristan took up the lump of soap and thoroughly bathed every inch of her. His large hands lingered over the swell of her breast, her hip, and stroked her thigh. He even washed the shining lengths of her hair with infinite care. When he finished, she took the soap from him and returned the favor. He stood in front of her and allowed her to bathe him. He watched as she moved her fingertips over his chest and stomach. Her hair clung to her body as she moved. A fervent oath escaped his lips. She looked up at him. He slid down into the water and took her into his arms, holding her with her back pressed against his chest. His hands were free to explore her body, but instead he chose to wrap her in a comforting embrace. She snuggled back into the strong cradle of his body and sighed. Never before had she felt so protected. Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in every heartbeat of it. When the water began to cool, she turned to him but said nothing. Suddenly taken by a strange shyness, she looked at him through lowered lashes. He cupped her nape and brought her lips to his in a deep, sweet kiss. For a few blessed seconds, she was conscious of nothing but the delicate yet strong pressure of his parted lips against hers, his tongue sweetly tasting the inside of her mouth. She straddled him, hand closing around his hard cock. Guiding it into her body, she slid her cunt over it, taking him to the base. “Rhiannon,” he breathed. “You slay me.” She smiled. “I need to feel you within my cunt. When you are one with me, you give me strength.” She eased up and down on his shaft, faster and faster. He reached between their bodies and stroked her clit. Rhiannon let her head fall back, baring her breasts to him. He sucked her nipple into his mouth and nibbled on it, feasted on one and then the other. They came together, each crying the other’s name. They left the tub and dried each other. Rhiannon padded over to don the clean gown that had been left for her. Tristan had it in his hands before she could shrug it over her head. “What do you think you’re doing?” He lifted her up with one fluid movement and laid her on the bed. “You must stay here. At least for a little while.” “But I must—” She struggled to rise. He pushed her back down gently and smothered her protests with his mouth. “You must do nothing except take dinner here with me and stay in my arms. You said yourself that Thay needs time to rest. Let him be, Rhiannon. Tilda is watching him closely and promised to notify me if he became any worse.” It was true Thay’s body required the healing sleep more than he needed her fussing around him. Uneasily, she settled back into the pillows. She felt guilty, enjoying herself while Thay lay prone on the bed. It was her fault he laid there at all. Tristan retrieved the plate of food from the table and got into the bed beside her. “It’s not your fault, Rhiannon.” He’d read her mind, it seemed. Or maybe her thoughts showed on her face. “No one could have known that Cynan would go after Thay,” he continued. “No one sees the future, except a very few, and even they cannot control what it is they see. There was no way for us to know. If we’d known, perhaps we could have stopped it.” “Why do you blame yourself for Ellia’s death?” she asked quietly. Tristan was silent for long moments. When he finally spoke, he did so as if the thoughts were difficult to voice. “I was in Lotharia for a several years, leaving her here alone. I did what I did in order to protect her because I loved her. I wanted to protect my country and my family from Emperor Kaye of Lotharia. Right after the Dawn of magic, I headed home, but when I arrived, it was to find Ellia very ill. The physician told me it had come on swiftly after—after a bout of deep depression about my absence. She was too far gone when I arrived to even know me and she died soon after. They said she died of a broken heart. If I’d been a good husband, an honorable one, I would’ve come home sooner. I should’ve—” She shook her head. “Tristan, you had no control over that. You played no part in her death. It cannot be assumed that she died from depression—from your absence. There are many other explanations.” Tristan went silent. “Is that why you think yourself without honor, Tristan? Because you blame yourself for Ellia’s death? Because you left her alone for so long?” “I always thought that being honorable meant that you would give up everything for an idea you believed in or for a person you loved with all your heart. I didn’t do that with Ellia. I traded one ideal for another. I traded my need to protect my country for her life and happiness.” “You went to Lotharia for the noblest of reasons, risked your very life for your country and for Ellia. To keep her safe from harm. Your future children safe. We all must make difficult decisions in this life,” Rhiannon said. “You could not have known Ellia would become so grieved.” Silence descended. Tristan twined an arm around her and drew her near to him. “Ah, Rhiannon,” he sighed. “These emotions are so complicated. Gareth is right about my growing darkness. After Ellia died, I pushed everyone around me away. I hurt people I loved because I wanted them to keep their distance. I think you keep the dark at bay.” She turned her head and laid a kiss to his chest. “Tristan I want to stay here forever.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Do you believe that if you do know the future, you can stop it from occurring?” Tristan stiffened beside her. He likely knew well she referred to the prophecy. He spoke fiercely, “Wymand and my sister say no. But we will.” Wymand had said that it was by her hand that Cynan should die. The words of a Pashian seer, those she did not take lightly. Tristan made a frustrated sound. “I would not doubt if Cynan is in fact the dark sorcerer sought by the Council of Rule.” Rhiannon went rigid. “What do you mean?” “There is a man or woman, likely given power by the Dawn of magic, who has been siphoning off magic from the land. The council seers can sense the person but not who they are. It was the reason for the meeting at Morlis.” She shuddered. “Such an abomination of a man I have never met. And I assumed I’d experienced the pinnacle in Wen. Nay, I would not doubt it either.” A low growling sound broke the silence and Rhiannon realized, blushing, that it was her stomach. Tristan picked up a piece of braided black bread, dripping with fine, sweet honey, from the plate on the table by the bed. Then he put it to her mouth, coaxing her to eat. She kept her gaze on his as she took a bite. A long thread of honey fell from the bread and twirled itself perfectly onto her pink nipple. Tristan set the bread aside and pulled her down onto her back beneath him. He licked the honey from her lips before moving down. One dark brown brow arched. The smoldering look he gave her before lowering his mouth to her breast caught her fast in its seductive snare. She closed her eyes and lay back, sighing with pleasure as his skillful tongue lapped up all the honey. Tristan rolled her to her stomach and pulled her under his big body, his hand easing over the nip of her hip and the curve of her thighs. His fingers sought and found her cream-damp cunt and teased it even damper. He rubbed her clit into an aching, yearning bud and speared his fingers deep inside her pussy until she moaned his name over and over. When she clawed the bedclothes in need for him, he mounted her from behind and rode her fast and hard. Their bodies slapped together and their sighs and groans filled the air as they moved like one creature—moving in perfect unison as if their hearts and minds were joined. They melded together like water into sand, or a drop of rain into the earth. Words of love went unspoken--the truths were in their touch. When they were both spent, they collapsed on the bed in contentment. Rhiannon lay on her side in the crook of his arm with a leg nestled in between his. Lazily, she planted kisses along his collarbone and throat. He rolled over onto his back and pulled the blankets over them, which they had kicked away in the fervor of their lovemaking. He pulled her to lie against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Soon Rhiannon felt the heavy rise and fall of Tristan’s chest, marking his passage into sleep. She burrowed back against him and sighed in contentment. Although a shadow hung over her and it wore the face of Thay. She wondered if he still slept. Tilda had not knocked at the door and so that must mean he was fine, but wouldn’t Tilda have gone to bed by now? The thought galvanized her. She slipped out from beneath the blankets without waking Tristan and donned her gown. Stealthily, she crept out the door, down the corridor and into her chamber. Rhiannon tiptoed up to the bed and laid a hand to Thay’s forehead. Intense heat met her touch. Fever. It was nothing new, but it seemed to have gotten worse since she last checked him. Quickly, she retrieved a basin of water and a few rags and set it by the bed. Then she stripped the bedclothes from him and as much of his clothing as she could. After that task was complete, she dipped the rags into the water and wiped them over his forehead and body in an effort to bring the fever down. Thay’s eyes fluttered open. “Rhiannon?” She stopped her work to put a hand to his fevered cheek. “Aye, Thay. I’m sorry I left you. I shouldn’t have left,” her words faded into a litany. “You’ve done all you can do, Rhiannon. I’m not a healer, but even I know there is only so much…you can do before you ought leave…it to the body and the Father-of-All, himself.” Rhiannon sighed and sank down into the chair beside the bed. She could not give him any more herbals. She had already given him as much as his body would handle without making him react badly and become sick. “Remember your mum, Rhiannon? Would you like me to tell you about her?” She propped her elbow onto the top of the table next to her and buried her face in her hand. A trace of a smile crossed her lips. Thay’s story about her mother had once been a tale of comfort for her. Perhaps now it would serve the same purpose for him. “Aye, tell me about her, Thay. Tell me everything.” His eyes glazed over. “When she first came to Galland…” Rhiannon chimed in and they spoke in unison. Thay had told this story so many times, she knew it by heart. “You were just a babe who could barely walk. We all thought she was an angel come straight from heaven to live among us. She had red golden curls and eyes of blue. The prettiest I ever saw…” She trailed off, realizing that Thay had stopped talking and had gone still. He stared with unseeing eyes at the end of the bed. She stood, frightened she’d lost him. “Thay!” “She’s here, Rhiannon, your mum. She’s as beautiful as I remember.” Warmth filled the room, wrapping Rhiannon’s shoulders in a gentle embrace. She watched as Thay stretched his arms out to embrace the unseen entity with a smile of joy on his face. Something seemed to separate itself from him and brush past her, caressing her cheek as it went. Then Thay fell back limply onto the pillows. As quickly as it had come, the warmth was gone, leaving Rhiannon feeling cold and empty. She collapsed into her chair, not needing to check to know the life had left Thay’s body. Instead of looking at his lifeless husk, she stared into the black ashes of the hearth. Although the fire was cold there, one was just beginning to smolder in the pit of her stomach. The fire that kindled there was different from the other fires she’d experienced. This one had not been ignited by passion, lust, or love…but by fury. Cynan of Warwide had taken almost everyone she loved away from her. The father she had never known, her mother and now Thay. She knew she had to get to Cynan before Cynan got to anyone else she loved. That probably meant sacrificing her life, but she’d bring the Lord of Warwide down with her. She hardened herself. The decision had been made. The promises she had made to Tristan and Thay would have to be broken, but the circumstances left her no choice. She had gotten past Hallyn’s gates once and she could do it again. Chapter Fifteen Because she had traveled by foot, it had taken Rhiannon all night to make the journey from Hallyn to Warwide. Since it was doubtful she would ever be returning from this mission, she’d left Taliesin behind. She was loath to have the brave horse fall into Cynan’s hands. Rhiannon had dressed herself as a peasant, trading her finely woven gown and thick black mantle for the russet garb of a servant woman. She’d pushed her hair up beneath a cap and smeared dirt on her face to dull her skin in an effort to make herself as unrecognizable as possible. She knew well how to mock a peasant’s accent. After all, she’d listened to it all her life. The guards at Hallyn had given her nary a second glance as she’d passed them. She could only hope Warwide’s would do the same. Her stomach clenched hard around the coarse bread and watered-down ale she consumed as she stared at Warwide from the shadowy protection of the trees lining one side of the massive battlements. Rhiannon’s hands trembled as she checked her waistband to make sure the vial of poisonous juice had not been lost. It had taken her a long time, searching by only the light of the full moon, to find the poisonous rain lily before reaching Cynan’s stronghold. She watched for a long time from the tree line by the castle until finally a group of servants walked up the path from the village toward Warwide. Rhiannon knew they’d come, since it was daybreak and Cynan’s bread had to be baked, his horses kept and his castle cleaned. She stepped out from the forests and followed close behind them, drawing a couple of strange looks from their sullen eyes. The blackened walls of the keep rose from the weed-choked ground. Brackish, ominous-looking water filled the moat. The sunlit side was opposite her, so she walked up to the keep in a massive shadow. From the crumbling towers, dark birds took wing. Their forbidding cries echoed through the chill air. She watched the guards at the barbican closely and frayed the edge of her gown in her nervousness. A peasant woman hung back, waiting for her. “Never seen you before.” “I-I’m new. My name is Alienor. I was just hired yesterday,” she lied with her very best peasant accent. “I’m to wait upon his lordship myself.” “Ah.” She gave her a knowing grin that made Rhiannon shiver. She assumed something other than what Rhiannon had meant. “Well, if this your first day going into the keep, watch yourself in front of the castle guards. They may want to stay ye there for their own pleasures,” she warned her in a whisper. Rhiannon ducked her head as they crossed the barbican, trying not to rouse suspicion. The raised portcullis was just in front of her and she knew that if she managed to get under that, she would be free to roam the castle. A gleaming silver blade suddenly blocked her path, brandished a mere breath’s space away from her nose. “And who are you? I never saw you here before,” drawled a guard. A gauntleted hand struck the cap from her head. Rhiannon scrambled across the drawbridge after it with her hair cascading over her shoulders. The peasant woman stepped in front of the guard, her chin jutting out. “Prince Cynan wants her to serve him breakfast this morning, if you get the gist of my meaning.” She poked his arm and raised an eyebrow. “She’s for your lord, not for the likes of you.” Rhiannon finally caught her cap, smashed it back on her head and gave the guard a wide berth as she passed. They passed under the portcullis and walked toward the kitchens. Before they reached their destination, Rhiannon grabbed the woman’s arm. “Thank you for your help. Could you tell me how to get to his lordship’s chamber?” The woman smiled, her black eyes shining. “You’re not really a servant, are you? You’ve come to do his lordship harm, haven’t you?” Rhiannon bit her lip and did not answer. The woman’s smiled broadened. “I’ll help you all you want if that’s the case.” * * * * * Tristan awoke slowly, anticipating drawing Rhiannon into the circle of his arms. How quickly his torment had faded to bliss. He felt like Saint Facan, who’d miraculously regained his vision after years of blindness. Everything seemed so clear to him this morn. He loved again, more deeply than he ever had before. He would embrace this new opportunity to have happiness and marry Rhiannon. Gareth. Well, Gareth would have to understand. Though Tristan feared it would permanently damage their relationship. He was due to arrive at Hallyn that morning. Tristan sighed. It would be a long, hard day. He stretched and rolled over…to an empty bed. Sitting up, he saw a rumpled bit of parchment lying on the pillow. He picked it up and read it. When he was through, he crumpled the note in his fist, stood and quickly dressed. He strode to the chamber where Thay lay and threw the door open, startling Ceri. Tristan glanced at Thay’s body. In her note, Rhiannon had told him of the cotter’s death. Ceri now aided in the preparation of the body for burial rites. Wymand stood at the far window and spoke without turning around. “She’s gone, Tristan. Gone to make my vision true.” “What do you mean? She’s gone, but not to make true any of your blighted visions, only to escape her own fears.” He spoke brutally, anger lacing every word. Ceri shook her head. “Nay, Tristan, she’s gone to Warwide.” “She left me this.” Tristan shoved the paper into Ceri’s hand. She read it and looked up at him, shaking her head. “I can feel her presence there this very moment,” Ceri answered. “This note was only to throw you off, so you would not go after her and endanger yourself. She’s gone to kill Cynan.” Wymand turned from the window and walked to the center of the chamber. “There’s naught you can do. Let the futures take hold.” Tristan’s blood ran cold at his words. “She wouldn’t go bounding over to Warwide against such overwhelming odds.” If it were so, Tristan would have the head of the guard who had allowed her out of the castle. Tristan looked to Ceri and saw there were tears shining in her eyes. “She would if she wasn’t planning on returning,” she whispered softly. Tristan paced the room. He felt so powerless to protect her. “I swear she will not die. We will storm Castle Warwide and make all its demon-spawned inhabitants pay…and Rhiannon will not die.” Ceri looked at Wymand knowingly, as though to say his efforts would prove futile. Rage flowed through Tristan’s veins like fire. He snarled at them both and left the room. * * * * * Rhiannon did not stop to think that she was fulfilling the prophecy she had so wanted to avoid. She did not stop to think about much of anything except the vial of poison tucked into her waistband and Cynan’s morning tea. Convincing the regular morning servant to let her bring Cynan his food had been easy. Fear at the mere mention of his lordship’s name had shown blatantly in the woman’s eyes, and she had handed the tray over. Clearly, the servants disliked their labor at Warwide. Their sullen, downcast eyes and their forever shuffling footsteps evidenced it. It was all so different from Hallyn. Now, Rhiannon paused outside Cynan’s door and drew a shaky breath. She slipped the vial from her waistband along with another smaller packet of spices she had gleaned from the kitchens. Balancing the tray on one hand, she poured the contents of the vial into the tea, followed by the spices, which had been chosen carefully to mask the bitter taste of the poison. She mixed the concoction thoroughly with her finger. Rhiannon had chosen the rain lily because it was what her mother had given her father. There was a certain sweet irony in that. According to Ceri, Venna had wished she’d had black pansy to counteract it. This morning, there would be no black pansy for Cynan, just as there had been none for her father. She smoothed her gown, took a deep breath and pushed the heavy door open. Cynan sat propped against his pillows with his cascade of whitened hair falling down around his shoulders. Glittering black eyes bored into her. “Where is the regular woman?” he asked. Rhiannon averted her face and tried to keep to the shadows. She doubted he’d remember her, but she didn’t want to take any chances. “She’s unwell this morning, your lordship. She sent me in her place so’s not to make you ill.” She handed the tray to him. He grabbed the teacup directly, sloshing some of the liquid over the rim. Rhiannon winced at the loss of the killing concoction. “How very thoughtful of her,” he growled. Rhiannon looked down at her shoes and wondered what serving women did in their master’s chamber while waiting for their lords to finish eating. She bustled around the room, straightening a little and chanced a glance at him. Cynan raised the cup to his lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him sip the tea. She prayed he would not notice any strange flavors and down the entire cup. He sipped a bit more and then looked at her. She expected him to ask her why she stood there like a simpleton, watching him drink his tea, or bellow at her for being lazy or some such thing. She never expected him to say what he did. “You’ve come earlier than I expected.” He sounded as sated as a snake that had just swallowed a kitten. “I knew you’d come, just didn’t expect you so soon.” Rhiannon turned toward him. “So you must know who I am then.” Cold rage put a hard edge in her voice. “It was the rain lily. As soon as Arvin told me of Wymand’s vision, I familiarized myself with its taste. Really, you’ve no imagination whatsoever. Don’t worry, I didn’t drink enough to harm myself.” His voice lowered ominously, “but you will.” He set the cup on the bedside table, stood and advanced on her. How had Arvin known of the vision? He must’ve been listening somewhere, somehow, when they discussed it. Or perhaps someone had confided in him? In any case, Cynan had known. Her fingers curled around the handle of Thay’s dagger tucked into her waistband. “You killed my father, my mother and the only true friend I had in the world,” said Rhiannon. “I will see to it that the pain you inflict upon those around you comes to an end.” He laughed. His voice was soft velvet when he spoke next. “Such brave hissings from the fierce little kitten. You’d do best to sheath those claws with me.” She pulled the dagger and flew at him, landing a hard and deep slash to his chest right off. Blood welled through his nightshirt. Cynan looked down at himself in surprise. When he looked back up, death shone in his eyes. He lunged at her. His hand closed around her wrist and squeezed. Pain blossomed up the length of her arm into her shoulder, but she didn’t relinquish her blade. They struggled for a moment, but Cynan’s superior strength won out and he gave her a hard shove. Her head cracked against the bedpost and she slid to the floor. In the next heartbeat, he ripped her dagger from her hand. She blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. Cynan’s face floated in front of her. Her magic flared within her and threatened to boil over. She tamped it down with effort, controlling it, focusing it, thankful she’d had training from Wymand. Why it should be rising now, she didn’t know. Hers was a magic of healing, not death, and death was her goal here. Another magical force rose in the room. It brushed against her magic, pushed at it. A strange pulsing vibration darkened through her. Rhiannon lost her breath for a moment. It clashed with her own magic, warring with it briefly before retreating. She looked up at Cynan through the tangle of her hair. “You. You’re the one the council seeks.” She and Tristan had spoken of the possibility in half-serious terms and it was true. He smiled down at her, the dagger clasped in one of his hands. “Aye, girl. It’s me. You know it, but they will not because the knowledge will die with you.” Cynan’s own magic swelled, abrading against hers. Death rasping against life, decay against healing. She closed her eyes and pointed her magic at him with the goal of stripping him of his. This gathering and centering of her power was nothing Wymand or Ceri had ever taught her. Her own instincts guided her now and nothing more. Rhiannon pulled the power into the center of her chest, molding and strengthening it while peripherally she felt Cynan doing the same with his own magic. The floorboard squeaked as Cynan took a step toward her. She opened her eyes and let her power surge forth. It poured out of her like a tidal wave. She screamed at its release and the ripping pain that accompanied it. Cynan cried out, stepping back and warding himself against the burst of power. “I take your darkness and expel it!” Rhiannon cried. He halted in the center of the room and braced himself. She felt his power gather and push back at her. For moments that felt like years, they fought for control. His magic pushed at hers and she pushed back, stripping and picking at him with her rage-focused power. In the end, her will was stronger. She struggled to her feet and grasped the bedpost so that she wouldn’t collapse. With a final, hard burst that made pain explode in her head and dark spots appear in her vision, she pushed all she had at him. Cynan’s embattled push against her own magical force faltered and retreated. With a bitter pop, something freed itself from Cynan. “No!” he cried. The very air around them swelled to near bursting and then collapsed in on itself before stabilizing. They both buckled with the abrupt departure of power. Rhiannon sank down hard on her buttocks and Cynan went down on his knees, keening in grief. They both stilled and breathed heavily. Then Cynan’s face twisted in rage and grief and he lunged for her. She clawed viciously at his face with her fingernails. He yelped and tried to stab her with the dagger. She twisted in an effort to avoid him, but he managed to slash her just below her ribcage. Her blood welled hot and fast, soaking through her gown. Blinding pain enveloped her, but she was too tired to even cry out. He fell back, holding his cheek that was now wet with his own blood. “Hubert!” he bellowed. She pushed to her feet with a supreme effort of will and went for the door, only to be surprised by the huge and hulking man coming through it. Instinctively, she fled him by running around to the opposite side of the bed. Hubert beckoned to her with one hand. In the other, he held a dagger. “Calm down, girl,” he said, advancing on her and effectively blocking her into the corner. “Come here.” She lunged past him toward the door. It was her only hope. Hubert grabbed her easily around the waist and pressed her spine up against his chest, then swung her around to face Cynan. Cynan approached her slowly, with the cup in one hand. “Well, well, you’ve much more spirit than your mother. In character, you’re decidedly much more like your bloody father. It’s fitting that you’ll die like he did.” He gripped the back of her head, forced her mouth open, and poured the poisoned liquid into her. She sputtered and managed to spew some of it back into his face. Swearing, he closed her jaw and plugged her nose. She held the liquid in her mouth until she couldn’t go without breath before she passed out. Consciousness weaved in and out and back and forth. Hubert shook her hard and she swallowed. It tore its way down her throat and into her stomach. Her head immediately swam. It was too much poison. She would never survive it. The world danced and shifted before her. Her head lolled as she tried to stay conscious. She knew that if she lost her awareness now, she would lose her life. “Hubert.” It was Cynan’s voice, she thought dully. “Hubert, hold the girl’s head up. I must talk to her.” Hubert’s enormous hand grasped the back of her head and Cynan’s face filled her vision. “You came here alone, didn’t you?” Cynan’s tone was one of wonder. “Either you’re brave or incredibly stupid. I’ll bet on the latter.” Suddenly, Cynan’s face shone with realization. “Or…maybe you’ve become the prince’s little whore. Have you? Has Venna’s little bastard daughter been servicing the Dragon in his bed?” He paused and tipped her chin up to his face. “Hmm?” His voice was the softest caress. “The Dragon’s bed? Has Tristan’s cock been in your eager little cunt?” Her hair was long and tangled, obscuring her vision of Cynan’s face. She met his gaze and smiled, mad with the knowledge that soon she would die. “I was happy to have the honor.” He released her chin. “I hope you realize he won’t rescue you. He can’t or he’ll lose all his wealth, power, lands and title. He is the Prince-Successor of Galland, you know. Of all the princes, he has the most to lose.” Cynan clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Nay, I believe he cares for you. I saw it in his face at Morlis. But I highly doubt he cares for you that much.” He smiled. “Though it’d be nice.” Rhiannon swam up from the depths of the fog that threatened to engulf her. To retch was her only chance at life and the thought beat at her ferociously. Cynan’s words flowed past her like water in the sea she drowned in. He left her, she suspected—though she wasn’t completely sure—and then returned. A blurry pendant appeared before her eyes. It was a cat, encrusted with amethyst and bloodstones. “Do you see this? Answer me, girl, do you?” Cynan slapped her across the mouth when she did not reply. It mattered not, for her mouth was numb. A trickle of blood trailed onto her tongue. She swallowed it dispassionately. “Aye,” she said thickly. His lips stretched tight over his teeth in a hideous imitation of a smile. “Ah good, for a moment I thought I’d lost you.” He waggled the pendant in front of her eyes. “This was your mother’s, given to her by your father. It was the only thing he owned that was of any value. It was silly that he gave it to her, don’t you think? I just wanted you to know I have it.” His goad worked. Weakly, she tried to free herself from Hubert in order to claw at Cynan’s throat. The smile faded from Cynan’s lips and an odd look passed over his face. He made a dismissive gesture. “Take her away to die, Hubert. I weary of her.” Soon she found herself being hauled out the door and up a flight of stairs. Rhiannon felt herself deposited onto a cold stone floor. When she heard the door close, she forced herself up. Parts of her vision had gone black. She crawled, inch by agonizing inch, over to a wall and pulled herself up onto her knees, her fingers searching for purchase in the crumbling stones. When she was upright, she forced herself to retch onto the floor beside her, then slumped back down. It was probably too late, but she had to try to get as much of the poison from her body as possible. She’d failed, she thought as she closed her eyes and pressed her flushed cheek to the floor. She’d meant to bring Cynan with her into death at the very least, but she had botched it miserably. Though she’d managed to take his dark magic. At least there was that. It was the last thought she had. Chapter Sixteen Tristan had never raised and assembled his knights in such a short amount of time. By afternoon, he and Gareth sat just outside the border of Cynan’s lands. Tristan had tried to convince Gareth to stay behind, so he would not impinge the council’s edict but, of course, Gareth wouldn’t listen. As it was, Tristan vowed he’d take the brunt of the council’s wrath for this. The Swansea knights were not present, only Gareth. The council would never know of Gareth’s participation if he could help it. He let out several long and enthusiastic oaths, exchanged a meaningful look with Gareth and raised his arm to signal the charge. A thundering of hooves rent the grass and filled air the air. The guards at the gate were visibly amazed to see the army marching toward them. Taken by utter surprise, they gave little resistance. Mild skirmishes against Cynan’s unprepared castle guard got them inside in record time. When they stormed into the inner courtyard, Cynan’s people screamed and ran. Tristan and his men had no issue with them and allowed them to flee unmolested. Tristan and Gareth dismounted and entered the keep. A peasant woman with black eyes scurried up to him. “You’re Lord Tristan of yon Hallyn, aren’t you? Come looking for a blonde woman, the one who caused such a ruckus earlier today? She told me of her plight.” Tristan fought the urge to grab her by the shoulders. “Where is she?” “Lord Cynan had her locked in top chamber of the south tower last I heard, my lord.” Gareth grabbed the woman and spun her toward him. “Does she live?” he rasped. “I don’t know, my lord. I doubt it.” Tristan and Gareth whirled and made their way through the melee of fleeing servants and battling men toward the south tower. Anyone who dared give them resistance met their end with little fanfare. When they reached the locked chamber door, Tristan gave it one powerful kick and sent it flying open. “Blood of the saints!” Tristan’s voice sounded oddly detached to his own ears, rough with intense emotion. Rats scattered into the corners at the sound of it and the room grew deathly quiet. Rhiannon lay crumpled like a doll flung carelessly to the dirty ground. Blood soaked through the front of her gown, still hot and sticky. Gareth drew a sharp breath as her crumpled form met his eyes. Tristan went to her and knelt, immediately pushing her gown up to get a look at the wound below her rib cage. It was shallow, but the knowledge brought little relief. He took her in his arms, noticing the bloody gash across her forehead and the cut on her lip. Fine blue veins trekked their way across her pale throat and face. Purple tinged her eyelids. Gareth leaned down and pressed his hand to her throat, feeling for the sign that her heart still pumped. “The beat is there, although it’s faint. She’s very cold,” he said. He pulled his hand away and fixed Tristan with an accusatory glare. “It’s your fault she’s in this hell-spawned mess.” Tristan barely registered his words. His attention was caught by the shadow that had suddenly fallen outside the door. His eyes moved from Rhiannon to the evil shade. Cynan’s presence was almost a palpable thing. Gareth followed the sweep of his gaze. “We’ve company.” “Gareth, you let me have him. I’m the one giving up everything to kill him. By the terms of the edict, all my lands and titles are now yours.” “Tristan.” He held up a hand. “No time to argue. I’ve already made my decision. I’m taking my vengeance now and will give everything up to you in exchange. It’s a high price, but worth it.” Now he had nothing to lose. Gareth had become the Lord of Hallyn as soon as he’d commanded his men to charge. Tristan laid Rhiannon back down. “I’ve a few scores to settle,” he said, rising and striding toward the door. The ominous ringing sound of his broadsword being pulled from the scabbard filled the air. Cynan leaned against the doorframe in seeming nonchalance. His sword remained sheathed in the scabbard buckled around his waist. “To be honest, you’ve surprised me, Tristan. I never thought you’d give up all that wealth for that small bit of skirt. I’d hoped but never truly believed it. Instead I set my goal on destroying the last bit of Venna’s unfaithfulness.” He smiled. “And I succeeded. Too bad you’ve given up everything for a woman who is food for the rats now.” Tristan brandished his sword at him. His tone was low, menacing and perfectly even. “Draw your sword.” Cynan ignored him. “The little thing was surprisingly brave though, right up to the end.” He chuckled. “Imagine, she wanted to poison me with the crushed bulb of a rain lily. Concocted a brew just like Venna did. But I guess you knew that already because of Wymand’s vision.” Tristan advanced a few steps. “Draw your sword, Cynan.” The sound of his voice near shook the walls. Cynan continued, “But I managed to turn the tables on her. She drank the killing draught, not I.” Tristan knew well Cynan was now successfully manipulating his emotions. Still, it was all he could take. He hefted his sword and ran at Cynan, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Cynan drew his sword and neatly stepped out of Tristan’s way, bringing his own sword around with the intention of taking his opponent from behind. Tristan turned just in time to block Cynan’s downward stroke. Tristan swung his sword at his opponent’s midsection, but Cynan caught his blade mid-blow, causing their swords to scrape against one another. The lengths kissed as Cynan managed to push Tristan up against the wall, bringing his blade dangerously close to his throat and Cynan’s face so near he smelled his rancid breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Gareth go for his sword. He did not move his head, but stared directly into Cynan’s black eyes while he spoke. “Gareth, you stay out of this! I’ve got this piece of filth right where I want him.” “Ah. Really?” Gareth sounded unsure. Tristan hooked his foot around Cynan’s ankles and pulled out, sending him crashing down beneath him. Cynan’s sword clattered to the stone floor beside him. “Hubert,” yelled Cynan. “Tristan put the sharp tip to his throat, his smile quick and predatory. “See, Cynan, I have you right where you belong—beneath me, on the floor, among the rodent droppings. What’s this? Have you no clever words? No eloquent explanations when my blade is at your neck?” Cynan swallowed hard, causing the sword point to nick his bobbing Adam’s apple. Tristan watched a spot of blood well and run down the side of his throat. “Ah, yes, I suppose the edge of my sword does preclude any thoughts you may have of forming words or taking a breath. That’s too bad.” Cynan’s eyes roved to something behind him, and in the same instant, Gareth yelled for Tristan to look out. He whirled and saw a hulking man advancing toward him with a drawn sword. “Kill him, Hubert,” said Cynan. Gareth ran toward the giant from the side. Hubert whirled, saw Gareth coming and redirected his attack. Gareth carried himself full force into the beast. His blade pierced flesh and pinned Hubert to the wall. Cynan brought his knee up and rammed it into Tristan’s privates. Thrown off balance, his genitals screaming from the underhanded move, Tristan rolled off Cynan. Cynan bolted up and regained his sword. Tristan took a deep breath and forced himself up to engage once more with Cynan. Their blades sang and danced through the air. There was no conversation in the room. The distant fighting of the men in the castle below could be heard, but in the chamber where Tristan and Cynan fought, only the whizzing and clanking of swords and the grunting concentration of the two men filled the air. The weight of the last sixteen years needed no verbal expression. It was a physical thing, living and breathing with them there in the room. Cynan lunged and landed a blow. Blood welled from Tristan’s shoulder where his blade had bit into flesh. Using Tristan’s momentary incapacitation, Cynan jumped to the window ledge. One hand clutched the side as if he meant to jump while his sword dangled in the other. “But I won truly, didn’t I, Tristan?” Cynan said. “Without even knowing it, I sucked all the joy out of your life when I poured the poisoned brew down her throat.” His eyes were as cold as frozen pebbles. “I’ll see you later, Dragon.” Tristan charged him and Gareth matched him stride for stride, but when they reached the window, Cynan had disappeared. Their eyes darted to the stones below, but he did not lie there. It was then they spotted the tiny ledge constructed into the stone wall. Cynan had escaped them. Tristan began to climb out onto the ledge, but Gareth pulled him back. “Tristan, we need to get out of here. We’ll get Cynan later,” he said. He indicated an opposite window. Flame licked at the stone walls, turning them black instantly. The smell was just beginning to approach them. The fire would spread quickly, using the dry rushes that lay on the floor, the furniture, drapes and the wooden sections of the castle for fuel. Gareth gathered Rhiannon up into his arms and together they headed down the stairs. By the time they reached the bottom, the castle was engulfed in smoke and flame. Coughing, their eyes burning from the smoke, they made their way out on horseback, the Hallyn knights following. After they were safely out and away from the castle, Tristan looked up at what would soon be a blackened ruin. “If Cynan escaped that, it would have had to be through the help of the Goddess and the Father-of-All both.” Gareth smiled ruefully. “I don’t think the Goddess or the Father-of-All will help one such as him,” answered Gareth. Tristan turned to rest his gaze on his friend. Gareth cradled Rhiannon in his arms. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders and down the side of Gareth’s mount. “I’ll take her, Gareth.” All he wanted was to hold her in his arms, to feel her sweet weight against his chest. He reached out and touched her cheek. Rhiannon moved her head ever so slightly at his voice and touch. “Nay, you’ll drop her. You’re injured.” Tristan touched his shoulder and grimaced with pain. He had almost forgotten. “She comes home with me to Swansea and you do not,” Gareth said. “Gareth, that is insane. Swansea is farther from here than Hallyn. She is near death.” “It’s not much farther, and at Swansea there is a physician and she’ll be away from you, which is necessary to her survival.” “At Hallyn there is Wymand and Ceri,” Tristan countered. “They have no healing magic, only herb knowledge. We’re going to Swansea.” A crazed look graced Tristan’s blue eyes. “You will not take her from me, Gareth.” “She is my betrothed, or have you forgotten?” Tristan lowered his head. “I have not forgotten, but at the same time, she means a great deal to me and I will not abandon her now.” “Fine, you can come with us to Swansea.” * * * * * The hook-nosed physician swept into the room, waving his hands. “You’re much too close! Back away!” In a daze, Tristan gazed up at the hawk-like man but didn’t move. Thomas stamped his foot and set his thin arms akimbo. “My lord, if I tell you to get away from the woman, you’d do best to heed me.” For a brief moment, Tristan stared at the screeching man. Gareth sighed, for he knew that look in his friend’s eye. It meant his patience had come to an end. In a flash, Tristan stood, caught Thomas by his gray physician’s robe and pushed him against the wall. “I will go near her when I choose, do you understand?” Tristan released him and the physician slid weakly down the wall a small way before catching himself. Thomas straightened and drew his robes around him. His tone was crushing when he addressed Tristan again. “My lord,” he made a dismissive gesture, “or are you even a lord anymore? I am all that stands between that woman and an early grave, so treat me delicately.” Tristan remained silent but seemed to growl at him with his whole body. Thomas pushed past him and went to Rhiannon. He felt her forehead and checked her eyes. “Hmmm…yes. Perhaps it’s in her liver or possibly her spleen.” He clucked his tongue. “Or perhaps it’s trouble with a humor.” Tristan sighed. Gareth knew well how far his friend’s beliefs had tipped toward the Pashian ways. They did not keep with the healing ways of the Galladians. “She’s ingested the poison of the rain lily,” stated Gareth. Thomas gave them a sharp look and hummed as though in thought. “You’ll both need to leave the room. I must perform a more thorough examination and clean and dress her wounds.” Gareth felt Tristan stiffen beside him and whispered softly, “Worry not, Thomas prefers pretty young boys, not girls.” Thomas turned to Tristan. “You also need looking after,” he said, indicating his shoulder. Tristan touched his bloodied surcoat. “You care for her. I can deal with this myself.” Gareth hesitated with his friend in the doorway, both reluctant to leave Rhiannon alone in his hands. When Thomas waved them off a second time, they took their leave. Gareth and Tristan went to the southern battlements. For now, they were not rivals, but rather two wearied friends who had a united cause. Tristan stared down at the waves crashing onto the beach. Gareth slammed his fist down on the ledge of the wall. “We let the bastard get away. I should’ve let you go after him.” “There was naught we could’ve done about it then. The fire prevented it,” Tristan replied. Silence descended. “She will not live, will she, Gareth?” Gareth sighed and watched Tristan’s face. Tristan did not move his eyes from the shore. “You know as well as I do. Sometimes people lie in these sleeps for years, provided there is someone to nurse them. Sometimes they wake up.” He paused sadly. “Sometimes they don’t. I am not a physician, but I will take a guess that she did not consume enough of the poison to kill her outright, only enough to plunge her into this hell-tainted sleep.” “It would be fruitless to send for a magic-imbued healer since they cannot heal people without their consent and they must be conscious to give it,” replied Tristan. “Aye. I will send my swiftest knights to search for black pansy this afternoon. It may be our only hope.” Tristan whirled. “I have to get out of here. I can’t watch her waste away. She used to be as bright as the very sun itself and now she is but a pale wraith. What will it be like a week from now? A month?” Gareth’s lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. “I know, despite everything, you care about her. How can you leave now, Tristan?” Tristan ground the heel of his palm into his eye. “It’s because I care that I can’t watch her die.” He swallowed hard. “You are now the lord of Hallyn, friend.” Gareth looked away. He’d never had a thirst for power and had been more than content to leave the dealings of the massive Hallyn to Tristan. He had no desire to be Galland’s Protector either, though that mantle was now on his shoulders. “Aye.” No smile graced his lips. “Where will you go? You’re wounded. You cannot go to Hallyn, and you have but the purse of coin you carry.” “I cannot stay here waiting. I’m going to find—” he snapped his jaw shut on the rest of his sentence. “I’m going to find Cynan.” He paused for a moment in seeming indecision and then went toward the stairs. Gareth called after him. “Tristan! Remember that you are always welcome here.” Tristan half-turned toward him as though to say something, then turned back around and disappeared down the sea-misted stairway. “If she wakes up, tell her—tell her I wish her all the happiness in the world as your wife,” Tristan called as he walked away. A few moments later, Gareth saw Tristan gallop through the gates on Toren. Gareth knew now that Tristan loved Rhiannon. It was painfully clear in his actions, on his face, in his voice. “Coward,” he muttered under his breath. He also wished he could flee and not have to watch the woman he loved waste away to death. Chapter Seventeen Tristan walked Toren up a steep hill. When he reached the top, he knew there would be more unending landscape, rolling hills and ground to cover before he made it back to Swansea. Almost three weeks ago, he’d left Swansea for Symour, in search of the black pansy. For almost the same amount of time, he’d had no luck. He’d searched every hill, hut and bush all over the small country and found no sign of the elusive plant. Finally, however, just as he’d begun to lose hope, he’d located some in the small home of a bent, old healer and follower of the Goddess. It had cost him the rest of his pouch of coins and the dagger he always kept in his boot. The loss of those two things meant he would have no stored food or money for lodgings for his return trip. Leaves swirled from the trees, displaced by the howling winds as Tristan made his way though the forest north of Swansea. His left shoulder ached incessantly, and because of it, he could tell rain was coming. Shelter needed to be found and soon. Toren stopped, sniffed the air and snorted. He felt it too. Often, he’d been able to find lodgings indoors at cottages he happened upon along his way. Peasants were always glad to get some coin in exchange for a bit of food and a place by their fire. But there were no cottages in sight now. Up ahead, a gaping black mouth of a cave beckoned to him. It was there they would find shelter from the impending storm. Tristan swung down from Toren and began to lead him toward it, gathering branches for a fire as he went. The first pelting rain drops fell as they reached the mouth. Inside the cave, he kindled a fire and settled back against a boulder, wishing he had a rabbit to roast. Beyond the mouth of the cave, Toren munched grass unfettered. When the rain began in earnest, Toren would wander in. Thunder crashed above, and Tristan figured that would probably be soon. He snuggled down as best he could against the rock with his blanket under his head as a makeshift pillow. A rock jabbed painfully into his side. Irritated, he extracted it and flung it at the opposite wall. Tristan knew it would be some time before he’d be able to go to sleep. In his mind, he conjured images of Rhiannon—the glint of sunlit hair and a pretty smile, the feel of silk beneath his hands and the scent of her creamy skin. Her smooth lips beneath his. The clasp of her velvet cunt around his cock. Sometimes he could delude himself into thinking that Warwide had been nothing but a nightmare and now she lay in his arms… With that comforting delusion, sleep found him at last. Tristan awoke to a scream, a banshee wail that chilled him. He bolted upright and looked out the mouth of the cave. The fire had burned itself to near ash, making the light wane. In addition, the rain fell in sheets, obscuring his vision even further. He could just make out a shape, huffing and thrashing out there in the darkness. In a flash, he was up and had grabbed his scabbard. He approached it carefully, and realizing what it was, he sank to his knees in the mud, his throat constricting painfully. Toren lay before him, snorting as though in pain. Blood mixed with falling rain, quenching the thirsty grass. He was alive. The wound, a sword slash to the horse’s haunch, was not mortal. Still, Toren was in great pain. Tristan raised his fists to the sky and let out an open throated, heart-wrenching yell. When the first torrent of fury had been spent, he bowed his head, allowing the rain to soak his clothing, hair and skin. When Tristan again lifted his head, grief was replaced by cold fury. He leapt to his feet and drew his sword. Brandishing it to the trees and bushes around him, he yelled into the pelting rain. “Come out, Cynan. I know you’re here. Only someone as cowardly as you would stoop to this.” Silence was his only reply. Tristan hefted his sword, intending to bring it down into the trunk of the nearest tree to vent his anger, but he stopped mid-stroke. He could not allow his emotions to get the better of him this time. That’s exactly what his opponent wanted. Cynan was out there, watching him, counting on him to choke on his grief just as he had at Warwide. Cynan was skilled at emotional warfare. “Cynan!” came his full-throated cry. He was ready to slay an entire army. He couldn’t wait until Cynan showed his face. “Dragon, I told you I’d see you again.” Tristan whirled and found Cynan leaning up against the trunk of a tree. His long white hair clung to his head in sodden tendrils, forcing the bones of his face to stand out in harsh relief. “I’ve been following you ever since you left Swansea.” “Draw your sword,” Tristan said simply. The sound of Cynan’s sword being unsheathed from his scabbard cut through the rain. His teeth flashed through the rain. “Gladly.” Cynan’s black eyes glittered as he raised the blade that still dripped with Toren’s blood. He flew at him. The first clank of blade against blade reverberated through the woods. “I almost killed you while you slept there like a babe, but I wanted you to know it when I slashed your heart with my blade,” Cynan said. Tristan lunged and nicked Cynan with the point of his sword. Blood welled red under his tunic. “Looks like I’m the one doing most of the slashing.” At seeing his own blood, Cynan flew into a rage. Two livid red spots marked his white cheeks, making him look like an enraged marionette. He slipped in the mud and narrowly missed Tristan’s blade. He rolled back up onto his feet, coated in mud. “You murdered my daughter and left me with nothing!” Cynan yelled. His voice was a high-pitched whine and reminded Tristan vaguely of the wind that whipped at the far-flung leaves in the treetops above them. Suddenly, he wondered how stable his opponent’s mind was. Tristan advanced on him. “I did not kill Ellia,” he spat. He realized it was true the moment he said it and a weight lifted from him. Tristan stepped forward and Cynan met him. His blade met Cynan’s with a satisfying clash, instantly pushing his opponent into the defensive. Tristan laid a shallow gash right away to Cynan’s shoulder and watched his blood well through his tunic. Cynan cried out and grimaced but did not falter. Determination shone on Cynan’s features as his swordplay grew more aggressive and he pushed back at Tristan with vengeance. Tristan looked for an opening in Cynan’s suddenly tight offensive strategy. He found it. Lashing out quickly and risking the bite of Cynan’s blade, Tristan aimed for his throat. Cynan darted to the side at the last moment, causing Tristan to miss. Tristan whirled, following Cynan as he retreated. Tristan feinted right, then thrust lower, laying a stroke high on Cynan’s chest. Cynan raised his sword, muscles rippling beneath the sodden cloth of his surcoat. His face was bright red and the corded veins in his neck and at his temples pulsed with fury. He lunged forward, but Tristan sidestepped and Cynan went past him. Tristan followed the motion, aiming to strike Cynan’s side, but Cynan turned at that last moment and blocked the blow. The lengths of their blades kissed. Tristan pressed forward, locking the guard of his sword with Cynan’s, and pushed him up against the tree behind him. “I was there the night that Ellia died, Dragon. I’ll bet you never knew that.” “What are you saying? I was there and you were not.” He shook his head. “I felt her dying.” His eyes widened. “In my mind. It was like I was there.” Tristan pressed the sword closer to Cynan’s face. “What do you speak of?” Cynan’s face crumpled. “The bitch stole my magic away.” Great Goddess, the man had gone insane. “Ellia?” Cynan steadied his gaze. “The bastard girl, Rhiannon.” “What do you mean, your magic?” Tristan rasped. Cynan laughed. “The Universe saw fit to grant me special powers, a way to gain retribution. I could intensify emotion.” His expression darkened. “But the little bitch ripped it all away.” Tristan went still in shock. Rain dripped into his eyes and off his nose. He stared at Cynan while things became clearer. Cynan was the dark sorcerer, imbued by the Dawn of magic with the ability to intensify emotion. Ellia had grown ill right after the Dawn, and had died of depression. “You killed Ellia, didn’t you?” His voice level rose as he spoke. “Didn’t you?” he yelled. Cynan shook his head back and forth and closed his eyes. “Ellia loved you, you! Never me. Just as Venna never loved me. Ellia loved you and you left her. She fell into a deep grief because of it.” “But you helped that grief didn’t you, Cynan? She was the first person you affected with your magic.” Cynan slumped against the tree and sobbed and babbled to himself. Tristan backed away from him and lowered his sword. So his mind was not stable then. How could he kill a man who’d gone daft? It was already a punishment worse than death. “You disgust me,” Tristan said and spat at the ground by the sunken man. Cynan’s eyes opened. His face was lined, making him look older than he was. “I tried to find her love for me and intensify it, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t find any. I was angry. I-I didn’t kill her on purpose.” He stood, raised his sword and lunged at Tristan. Rage consumed Tristan. He gave Cynan no quarter, no mercy. His blade slid through Cynan’s body as easily as butter. Cynan looked shocked to see the sword hilt protruding from his chest. He slipped in the slick, wet earth and collapsed to the ground, his blood swirling in with the mud and forming an evil puddle. Cynan stared up at Tristan and smiled. Then his eyes went glassy and blank. “The end,” said Tristan. He pulled his sword free and walked away. He found Cynan’s mount, a dark chestnut that shied when he approached him. Gently, he stroked his flank and crooned to him until he had gained his trust. At the same time, he searched Cynan’s saddlebags. A glint of something shiny caught his eye—the cat pendant Margan had given Venna. He extracted it and examined it, remembering how Margan had shown it to him before he’d gifted it. It lay heavy in his palm. With a sigh, he took the horse’s reins in his hand. “Swansea is not far and I’ve two things to deliver,” he said as he guided the horse back to where Toren lay. He dressed Toren’s wounds and together, walking at a slow pace to accommodate the wounded Toren, they traveled away from the cave and Cynan’s body. The guards at Swansea’s gates allowed him in with no trouble. Tristan gave them instructions not to notify their lord. He wanted to make his delivery and leave. Toren could stay, be tended by those who would care for him better than he could. He left both horses at the stables, where the servants took them in hand. Tristan instructed them on what Toren needed. With a final pat to his beloved stallion’s neck, Tristan left him and headed to Rhiannon’s chamber. The battered soles of his buskins made no noise as he stole up the steps and down the hallway toward the room he sought. He had no idea if Rhiannon was even still there. Gareth could’ve had her moved to Hallyn, although he doubted that. He did not think Gareth would take such a risk with her health, but there were other possibilities. Perhaps she had awakened on her own and now lay in her husband’s bed, breathing, warm and alive. Tristan would much prefer that to the final possibility, that Rhiannon lay, not sleeping nor in her husband’s arms, but deep under the earth. Outside the door, he paused, bracing himself for the sight of an abandoned bed, a cold fire and an empty room. If that was the case, he would disappear as stealthily as he had come. He pushed the door and it opened with an ominous creak. On the bed was Rhiannon, the one his every thought had caressed since he’d left. As he neared, he could not believe what he saw—limp hair, a skeleton’s body and the sunken features of a beautiful face. A tube lay beside the bed and he knew what it was for—to pour water and herbals down her throat. He unhooked the small pouch from his belt and opened it. The dusty scent of the herb wafted out. Tristan spied a cup of water near her bedside and dumped the contents of the pouch into it. The herbs were dried and crushed into a fine powder. They dissolved instantly into the water, coloring it a faint black. Delicately, he lifted her in his arms. She was so light, as insubstantial as a shadow. He held her for a moment, reveling in the feel of her slight weight in his arms. Then, kneeling on the carpet with her against him, he tipped her head back and inserted the tube, then he poured the water down her throat. She swallowed and after she had consumed every last drop, he cradled her in his arms, her head pressed against his cheek. “I gave my life to you the first time I set my eyes on you and didn’t even know it,” he murmured. Haltingly, he proceeded to tell her everything he had ever wanted to say. He smoothed her hair away from her face, realizing he hadn’t been this content in almost four weeks. Eventually, he laid her back onto the bed, tucked the blankets around her and prepared to leave. He had nothing to offer her now. No castle, no lands, no wealth, not even so much as a cottage. He had often fantasized that he had a small cottage and Rhiannon lived there with him. But she had come from that kind of hard living and Tristan never wanted to see her back in it. No, it was far better she marry Gareth…if she awoke. * * * * * Rhiannon felt the black pansy slide down her throat and it was as if the time she’d been asleep was erased—eaten up by the act of love that this man performed for her. She now knew only that the man she loved more than anything else in the world had come to wake her. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she cared not for fine castles and beautiful clothes. She didn’t care if he was poor as a cotter. They belonged to each other. She opened her eyes and squinted. Tristan was just rising. He turned toward her and stilled. A smile slowly spread itself across her lips. He watched as she sat up with care. “You’re weak,” he said awkwardly. “Your muscles have gone unused for many days.” Tentatively, she cleared her throat. Would her voice even work, or had it abandoned her? “Tristan,” his name came out a croak, but it still sounded better than anything in the world to her. “Whatever you gave me woke me up.” He crossed into the shadows at the end of her bed. “How did you know I gave you anything to drink?” The words came slow as her voice threatened to cease working. “I heard…everything while I slept, felt everything. I heard you when you said—” She broke her sentence off. That’s all her vocal chords would allow her. “I didn’t mean those things. I only said them to spur you awake. I’ve been through hell and back trying to get those herbs to wake you for Gareth and didn’t do it all for naught.” With several long strides he was at the door. Surprise and anger ripped through her mind and centered themselves on her face. She tried to speak, but even her words had deserted her. She wanted to say that if he didn’t want her, he should have just let her sleep. Rhiannon made another attempt at speech. To her relief the words came soft from her lips, but they came, and were loud enough to make Tristan stop in his tracks. “Then why Warwide?” she whispered. Tristan turned. “You know about that too?” He shook his head. “Well, don’t be arrogant enough to believe I did that for you. I found out Cynan killed Ellia that night, Rhiannon. I did that to avenge her death, not for you.” “I-I don’t believe you. What you said…before.” She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. They shared love, he’d told her so. “Believe it, Rhiannon. A man will say about anything to sleep with a woman.” Chapter Eighteen Without another word, Tristan rushed out of the room and made his way down the corridor toward the stairs. Soon, he’d be gone. She’d forget him. She’d marry and have children. Have a good life. Be loved. Humming met his ears, accompanied by the squeak of a chamber door. He made for the shadows but was not quick enough. “My lord!” Tilda gasped. The bowl of water she carried crashed to the floor, splashing water over the rushes. “My lord! Where have you been? We’ve all been worried about you!” She had called him “my lord” and he did not correct her. It sounded too good to his ears. Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Tilda hurried on. “Why, and you just look like death warmed over, your fine clothes all in tatters like that. Your hair so long an’ unruly…and that beard!” “Thank you, Tilda, I realize what I look like.” Tilda went from white to red and raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh! Forgive me, my lord. It’s just, oh…I’m so happy to see you that I’m forgetting my place!” “Tilda, tell your lord—” “Tell me what? And what is the meaning of sneaking into my keep unannounced?” Tristan turned. A sleep-rumpled Gareth stood looking at him. This was getting worse by the moment. He would answer the first question but not the second. “She’s awake.” Gareth’s eyes widened. Tilda gave a small scream and ran toward Rhiannon’s chamber. Gareth remained silent, his gaze intent for several moments. “So you were successful where I was not. You were able to wake her.” Tristan shook his head and avoided Gareth’s gaze. He didn’t need to think he’d failed his future wife. “Nay, she awoke on her own. I just happened to be there. Anyway, it matters not—she is awake now and ready to become your bride.” At those words, Gareth suddenly seemed himself again. “Tristan, you must not leave. There is important news that you need to be made aware of. Give me your word you will not go. Iestyn, Ceri and Wymand are here.” Tristan ducked his head and composed his denial to Gareth’s request. “You are in need of a bath, new clothes, the castle barber and undoubtedly a good night’s rest. Here they are yours.” That particular lure proved too much to resist. “All right,” he answered finally. Tristan remembered the pendant and retrieved it. He threw it to Gareth who caught it in his palm. “Give this to her and tell her that Cynan is dead,” Tristan said wearily before turning to stride away. * * * * * The next morning Iestyn found Tristan on the same battlements that he had stood on the day he left Swansea on his quest for the elusive black pansy. He was bathed, dressed in clean clothes, shaven and had almost had a good night’s rest. The waves crashed onto the beach in the same relentless way they always had and the birds called above him in the mists. He waited impatiently, ready to get his horse and be on his way. He remained only for the news Gareth had bade him remain to receive. “Prince-Successor Tristan.” He started angrily, “Not Prince-Successor, just Tristan. I’ve lost the title of—” Tristan turned to find Iestyn looking at him. “Forgive me, Iestyn.” “I called you by your lost title because it has not been lost.” Tristan stared blankly for a moment. “What do you mean? I raised an army against the lord of Warwide. According to the council’s edict, all my titles and lands have been revoked.” Iestyn rubbed his chin. “The council has decided to waive the edict due to recent realizations.” “What realizations?” Iestyn sighed. “Did you know Cynan killed one of your men? A knight named Arvin.” Tristan clenched his jaw. So that is what had become of him. Arvin should’ve known better than to trust a viper like Cynan. “He was a traitor to Hallyn, spying on us for Cynan. I didn’t know he’d been killed.” “We found his remains in the woods after the fire. Even though Arvin may have turned on you, he was still your man. Cynan committed a violent act against Hallyn before you ever raided Warwide. Cynan violated the edict first. Not to mention that according to what Rhiannon has said, Cynan was the dark sorcerer we sought. He’d violated our rules and covenants before you ever rode past his borders.” Tristan ran his hand through his hair and absorbed what Iestyn had told him. Iestyn’s eyes bored into Tristan’s. “Did you know every last Hallyn knight left after they found out you were no longer their lord? It seems Gareth does not inspire the same loyalty that you do.” Here was the true reason he would not lose Hallyn, Tristan thought. Iestyn continued, holding a level gaze with Tristan, “We need those men, Tristan, and we need you to lead them.” * * * * * Rhiannon took two steps forward and stumbled against Tilda. A frustrated breath escaped her. “My lady, it’s only been two days. Give yourself some time,” Tilda chided gently. She drew a determined breath and took several more steps forward. Triumphantly, she turned back and looked at Tilda. Gareth swept into the room and saw her hovering on weakened legs. He caught her up in his arms. “And where do you think you’re headed?” He talked to her as if she were a child. “I wish to leave this room. I need the sunlight on my face. I need to be outside.” “Well, then, I’ll carry you. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” “Gareth, don’t you understand? It’s important that I go under my own power.” “Soon, my love. Soon you’ll be able to walk about under your own energies. For now, allow me the honor of being your legs.” He started toward the door. “Gareth, no! If you must carry me, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go at all.” Gareth paused and looked hurt. Rhiannon regretted her words but could not take them back now. He turned slowly and put her back onto the bed. “As you wish, Rhiannon,” he said and left the room. “Oh, my lady.” Tilda breathed. “Tilda, I don’t know what to do.” She paused indecisively, not knowing if she should take Tilda into her confidence. In the end, her mouth decided for her and the words practically rushed over themselves in an effort to be free from her mind. “I do not love his lordship Gareth, but yet, I have told him I would marry him. Now I wish to be free of that vow, but he was at my side so often while I was ill. If I refuse him now, I’ll injure him and die of shame.” Tilda stared at her. “So, you’ll marry his lordship just because you’ll be shamed if you don’t?” Rhiannon was silent. Tilda continued, “Well, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, I just think that’s wrong. It’s not fair to his lordship nor to you.” Rhiannon bit her lower lip, contemplating her words. Then slowly, she swung her legs to the floor. “I have to walk, Tilda, and soon. * * * * * This is madness, Tristan thought as he stepped into the great hall and spotted Rhiannon across the trestle tables. Since he had found out that Hallyn was still his, one week had rolled gently into another. He did not know why he had stayed this long. His castle beckoned to him from across the moors and so did the daunting task of recovering his scattered men. Ostensibly, he’d stayed because Ceri had bid him, but perhaps that was not the true reason. Perhaps he’d stayed to make sure Rhiannon didn’t need him, even though she had long since made it clear she didn’t. She had been more frigid toward him than winter’s frost-laced breath. He didn’t blame her, nor did he expect anything less. Perhaps he’d stayed in order to inflict some sort of torture on himself. Yes, Tristan thought, this last reason was surely the truest. He had made it his religion to love Rhiannon and now he did his penance. He made his way toward her. She did not raise her eyes from her plate. Ceri rose from her seat, with a too-friendly smile that revealed the tension that seemed to coat the air. “Friend,” Gareth greeted as Tristan settled himself in his place. His tone was sharp, but it was Gareth’s words that slit an opening in Tristan’s heart. “The betrothal will take place two days hence—will you stay?” The bit of baked fruit that Rhiannon held between her fingers slipped and fell to the rush-strewn floor. She stood. Both Gareth and Tristan rose from their places. “I-I’m not feeling well. I think I shall go to my chamber,” she stammered. In a tender gesture, Gareth took her by her forearm and eased her back down into her place. “You do not feel well, my lady, because you have not eaten. Eat a little and then see how you feel.” Tristan was struck by the concern in Gareth’s tone and the caring look that graced his eyes. He truly loved her. Not only did Gareth love her, but he likely loved her as much as Tristan did. Tristan sat back down. Any deep, shadowy hopes he may have nursed about trying to take Rhiannon away from Gareth died with a defeated gasp. “Perhaps you should allow her to leave, Gareth. She is flushed, mayhaps she needs to lie down,” he mumbled. Rhiannon’s head snapped up to fix Tristan with an icy gaze. “No one is going to allow me, or not allow me, to do anything. I’m feeling much better. I’ll stay,” she said with finality. Tristan knew she would stay only because he had suggested she go. There was a shimmering of the old Rhiannon. He suppressed a smile. Gareth turned to her and covered her hand with his. “I believe Tristan meant to imply that women are delicate creatures, fragile, weak and in need of a man to shelter them from the harsh—” Tristan saw flickers of anger light Rhiannon’s eyes. “Actually, I didn’t quite mean to imply that,” he said quickly. “Perhaps,” Ceri suggested, “we should cease this topic of conversation. But if I may be allowed to state my own humble opinion.” Ceri turned and fixed her brother with an immovable stare. “I do not think the term weak only applies to women. I think the weak are those who do not follow up on their hearts’ desires. Those who let circumstances buffet them from their original course.” Tristan stared back at her, comprehending the imbedded message in her words. “Ceri, this is a change. You have always believed that we should accept our fates with open arms, that everything happens for a reason.” Ceri broke the stare. “Aye, well…recent events have led me to believe I may have been wrong about that,” she finished. “Well,” Tristan stated, and then paused to look around him. Gareth was busy at his food and seemed lost to his own thoughts, but Rhiannon was intent on them both. It was clear she had understood every word of their conversation. Tristan cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t believe you were wrong. Things happen for a reason. Gareth, in answer to your original question, nay, I will not be here two days hence. In fact, I plan to leave on the morrow.” Rhiannon stood again. “Then this shall be the last time I will see you. Good journeying, my lord. I hope all is well at Hallyn.” Tristan’s stomach clenched as she smiled at him and then turned to take her leave. “Rhiannon?” Tristan choked out. Rhiannon turned, a smile pasted on her lips. “You’ve done well for yourself here. Gareth is an honorable man. He loves you well. Already I can see that. You know, don’t you, that I love him as my brother?” Slowly, she nodded her head. Tristan continued, “You will be well cared for here. You will be happy and Gareth will be happy. I wish you both luck.” “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. Then she turned and fled the hall. Chapter Nineteen Tristan buckled the saddle on Pryderi. He had dubbed the old chestnut that because in the old tongue it meant “survived”. Toren would be fine but could not make the long trip to Hallyn yet. Tristan would send for him later. When finished, he swung up and walked him out from under the overhanging eaves of the stable. He paused for a moment, looking up at Rhiannon’s chamber window. A figure appeared. He did not have look closely to know who it was. She hovered there in her white gown, staring down. He gave a half-bow while he sat astride his mount. One strong arm folded in on his waist, the other thrown wide. He did not take his eyes from her. The shape disappeared, as he knew it would, and he nudged Pryderi forward. His sentence was over. He’d been dismissed and it was nothing less than he deserved. He would return to Hallyn and next time he’d greet Rhiannon as his friend’s wife. It was the way things had turned out in the end after all. Before Tristan reached the portcullis, Gareth came striding across the courtyard toward him. He reined Pryderi to a halt. Gareth had spoken less than a handful of words to him since Rhiannon had awoken. Last night had been the first time they’d had anything resembling a conversation. Perhaps he wanted to apologize. It turned out Gareth didn’t want to apologize. Gareth grabbed the front of Tristan’s surcoat and yanked him down from Pryderi. Tristan was caught off guard and offered little resistance. Gareth’s fist landed squarely onto Tristan’s cheekbone, and he lost his balance, landing on his rump in the dirt. Pryderi pranced nervously above him, dangerously close to his head. Gareth hung back, cradling his fist in his hand. “You did something to her! You woke her from the sleeping spell but placed another on her!” Gareth leapt on him, pummeling him. Tristan did not want to hurt his friend. However, he was forced to defend himself. It was as if Gareth was possessed. The strength that he exerted was uncommon. Tristan rolled over on top of him and apologized before hitting him square in the jaw. Taking advantage of Gareth’s incapacitation, he spoke, his voice heavy with exertion. “I placed no spell on her. Her temperament is her own.” Pryderi stepped close to Gareth, whinnying with nervousness. Tristan allowed his friend to flip him over, rolling them away from the horse’s sharp hooves. “Lies! You spew lies at me. You changed her somehow to ensure we would never be happy together. She is different. She has been ever since she awoke,” Gareth accused. “And since yesterday it has grown even worse.” The door leading out to the courtyard burst open and out came a floating angel. Momentarily, both men ceased their conflict to watch her approach. Rhiannon’s white, lace-encrusted gown swirled around her in the morning breeze. The pendant glinted from the hollow of her throat. Although she’d gained most of her weight back, she was still pale and frail looking. Tristan realized that her butterfly-frailness was deceptive. She was no such thing. Tristan watched her stop and her dark blue eyes widen. “Tristan! Watch yourself!” she screamed. Pryderi had reared and Tristan looked up to see him looming like some squealing monster above him. The whites of the horse’s eyes were what his gaze fell on. He moved to heed her warning too late. A sickening crack filled the air. * * * * * Gareth watched as Rhiannon ran toward them. He was struck at how this all reminded him so much of a sunny day long ago, in the tiltyard at Hallyn. Then he’d also seen Rhiannon run to his friend’s side with concern plainly etched on her face…and something more. He struggled to get his mind around that something more. It was concern and— Gareth sucked in a breath. By the blood of the Father-of-All, had she really loved Tristan that long? Tristan did not yell when Pryderi came down on his arm. He only grunted and then lay still, purposefully forcing air through his nose and out his mouth. The only sign he was pained was the great thirsty gulps of air he took. Gareth stood and took Pryderi’s reins, talking quietly to soothe the nervous beast. He watched Rhiannon to go to Tristan’s side. Rhiannon cradled Tristan’s arm in her lap. He winced and blanched at the movement. She reached down, pulled out the dagger he kept in his buskin and placed the leather sheath between his teeth. “Bite,” she commanded. “I must lay my hands on it and it will hurt.” Tristan bit into the leather. She then grasped his arm again. Efficiently, her fingers skirted the bone. She fell back on her haunches. “It’s a clean break. The horse did not place his full weight on it. The bone is not crushed,” she said in a little rush of relieved air. “Do you accept this healing, Tristan?” she asked. He nodded. Gareth watched her set her hands to the wound. A few moments later, Tristan moved his arm. His friend opened his mouth to let the leather-sheathing fall out. Relief dominated his features. Her eyes flicked up to the horse. “And so where is the stalwart and forever trustworthy Toren?” she asked, contempt for Pryderi clearly coloring her words. Tristan closed his eyes wearily. “It’s a long story. Toren was wounded, but he shall survive.” Rhiannon was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. He opened his eyes and found her gaze holding his. “So am I,” he said softly. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted. Gareth’s heart twisted. Rhiannon could not take her eyes from Tristan’s. They remained so for several moments until Gareth broke the spell. He cleared his throat. “Come. Delay your leave at least for an afternoon. I could use a drink as could you, I’m sure.” He shifted his gaze to Rhiannon and lowered his voice. “You and I must talk.” * * * * * Rhiannon allowed Gareth to lead her to battlements. She went instantly to the ledge and looked out over the ocean. There was no mist today. The sun burned bright in the sky. Wrapping her fingers over the ledge, she prayed for strength. “Gareth, I was happy for the suggestion because it’s long past time we discussed what lies between us.” She turned. “I have many things to tell you and I fear you will not like any of them.” Gareth held up a silencing hand. “I suspect what you will say already.” Rhiannon looked at him with knowing sadness. He continued, “You wish not to marry me.” She looked away from him. “I do not wish to wound you. But it’s better I leave you now. I fear marrying you would only cause you and me both greater hardship in the future.” Gareth went silent and looked away. She walked to him and laid a hand lightly on his sleeve. He winced at her touch and her guilt deepened. She continued, “So I have decided to leave Swansea.” “And if I had played the rogue like Tristan? Would that have changed things?” His words struck resonant chords of guilt as she realized Gareth knew she loved his friend. She shook her head. “Nay, Gareth, I feel as though I was doomed to fall in love with Tristan from almost the first time I saw him. There was nothing anyone could’ve done. It just was. The heart wants what it wants and that’s the end. There’s no hope for it.” “Are you to go back to Hallyn?” There was bitterness in his voice. She turned away and faced the ocean. “Nay, I’m just going away.” “Where will you go? Where will you find shelter?” Rhiannon hadn’t thought that far yet—she knew only that she must leave. Truth to tell, she did not care what befell her now. She just knew she could not bear to stay at Swansea for one more minute. “You forget that I came from peasant life. It will not be difficult for me to enter it once more.” “Nay, I forbid it. You speak foolishness. You will not survive a night out there on your own. You are still weak from your sickness.” She turned and fixed him with an immovable stare. “Do you mean you’d keep me a prisoner, like his lordship, your friend, did? You have a short memory. It was not difficult to escape him and it shall not be difficult for me to escape you. It’s best you let me leave.” An irritated sigh escaped him. “You cannot go running all about the countryside like some—” “Peasant girl?” she suggested quietly, “but it is exactly what I am and how I was raised.” Then sterner, “Do not try and stop me, Gareth, because I will fight you. I will go now and gather my things.” Gareth went silent. She took it for acquiescence. She moved away from him toward the stairs leading down to the courtyard. She stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. He spun her around and took her hand in his. Into it, she felt the heavy weight of a coin pouch dropped. “Take this,” he said, sounding defeated, “and take Taliesin too. Tilda rode him over from Hallyn and he’s waiting for you in the stable.” Rhiannon started to shake her head, her eyes filling with tears, but Gareth stopped her by cupping her chin and tilting her face up to his. “You will take these things or else I’ll lock you in my tower.” Rhiannon could see he was not teasing her. He looked at her for a moment, bereft of words, and then he released her, turned on his heel and went striding back into the keep. She paused for a moment and wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her cloak. Then she turned and went toward her chamber. Chapter Twenty Tristan took a drink of cold ale and closed his eyes. He wondered what Gareth and Rhiannon discussed, but that which lay between a lord and his future was none of his concern. He’d stayed because Gareth bade him, but after he finished his tankard, he would be on his way home. Someone sat on the bench beside him and Tristan opened his eyes. “Gareth, don’t tell me you’re going to punch me again.” Gareth grabbed his tankard and took a long swig. “No, even though I’d truly love that, I’m here to answer all your prayers. Your woman waits for you. You must go to her.” Tristan straightened. “What are you talking about?” “Rhiannon has left the castle. Even now, she makes her way into the woods.” Tristan bolted from the bench. “What? And you let you go? She’s not strong enough. She’ll die out there alone, or worse.” “I only let her leave so you could go and get her. You love her, don’t you? You want her. Isn’t it true?” Tristan did not respond to the harshly asked queries. He stared at Gareth, mute. “I know the answers to those questions already, Tristan. They are clearly written in your eyes. You love her. So go.” Gareth took one last swig, stood and walked out of the chamber. “And you’d best move faster than that,” he said, looking at the befuddled expression on his friend’s face. * * * * * Gareth made his way to the top of a tower—the place he’d have the best view from—and sat down on a ledge. In a few moments, he saw Tristan racing down the drawbridge on Pryderi’s back. A light hand touched his shoulder and he started. The touch was so soft, so like Rhiannon’s. Hope flashed in him. Had she come back? Come back to tell him it was really he that she loved and not his friend? “No, Gareth. It’s only me.” Ceri took a step forward to stand beside him. They watched Tristan bolt through the gates after Rhiannon. “How did you know I hoped it was her?” he whispered. Her talents never failed to bewilder him. “I knew it as soon as I saw you. And I hardly needed to use my gift to interpret what had happened.” Gently, she touched his cheekbone, searching out his deepest emotions. She sucked in a breath at what she found. “You did the right thing. But does she know how much she has hurt you?” “Nay, and I would not have her know. I love her, Ceri. I love her enough to let her go.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. I would have had it go another way. It’s clear that her heart belongs to Tristan and I would see her have what she wants and needs.” He smiled sadly. “I always knew my friend would fall in love again. It’s just a pity it had to be with the only woman I ever cared for. Still, I am happy for him.” “Sometimes it is possible for people to pity themselves and yet be glad for others at the same time.” “Yes, Ceri, I know that now.” * * * * * Rhiannon trotted Taliesin along the sandy shore of the ocean. She felt Tristan’s presence behind her. With a heartfelt sigh, she turned Taliesin to wait for him. “What do you think you’re doing following me?” she asked as he approached. “And what do you think you’re doing, riding around all alone as though you think there is nothing out here that would hurt you?” “I can take care of myself.” She pursed her lips into a thin, displeased line. “So can I.” He paused and turned his head toward the ocean as though he were contemplating its vastness before turning back to look at her. “We are much alike, you and I,” he said softly. His words were identical to what she had said to him all those months ago when she had treated him for the bruising on his ribs, and he had discovered her scars. She turned her horse back to the path. “I don’t have time to match wits with you, Tristan. And nothing you say could lure me back to Swansea.” “So where are you going in such a hurry?” She stopped because it was a question that had no answer. “Leave me alone, Tristan. Please. I can take your torment no longer. You seduced me and told me pretty lies and then passed me off to your friend.” “Rhiannon, hear me out.” She turned her mount toward him. “Was it some kind of competition? Did you need to bed me just because you knew Gareth had feelings for me? Did you want to taint me before Gareth got me so you would always know the triumph of having me first? Did taking me that night give you a thrill because you knew you’d had me before him?” “You were never a mere conquest for me, Rhiannon. You were, and always will be, my destiny.” She whirled her mount around and urged him to a trot. He lied so prettily. Tristan called after her. “You would not allow me a few moments of your precious time, my lady?” Rhiannon paused and looked back at him with curiosity mixed with distrust. The sea breeze was lifting his hair from his shoulders and blowing it around his face. His light blue eyes were lit with their usual fire. Tristan dismounted and walked his horse down to the beach. “And why should I believe a word you’ve got to say?” she called after him. He turned. “Because I love you and everything you accused me of that night I woke you was true. Forgive me for deceiving you. I wanted you to marry Gareth because I believed he was the better man for you. The first time it was because I was afraid I’d hurt you. The second time it was because I believed I’d lost my holdings and titles. I gave you up both times only because I loved you that much. Loved you enough to want better for you than me.” Silence. “Rhiannon,” he spoke softly. “Do you remember Ter Lugonos? Do you remember the night before you went to Warwide? Do you remember the power that seemed to course between us? Remember the deep love?” “Yes.” “There is your truth. Come here to me.” Rhiannon sat on Taliesin for a moment, remembering. How she wished things were still the same between them. That short span of time had been the happiest of her life. Still uncertain, she dismounted and walked down to stand next to him on the beach. She flinched when his arm snaked its way around her waist, but she did not move away. Together, they looked out over the expanse of water. The sun shone bright overhead and the birds called to each other above their heads. A sudden wind ripped the hood of her cloak away and she turned to him with wonder in her eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, remembering a powerful dream she’d had on the way to Morlis. Suddenly she knew who the man in her dream had been. “I had a dream so very much like this,” she exclaimed in awe. He nodded. “So have I.” “I mean, almost exactly like this, except you and I look different. You’ve got tattoos on your forearms and I’m wearing—” “Jewels at your ears and a pale coral necklace around your throat,” he finished her sentence for her. “We stand at the water’s edge and a wind comes up. It blows your hood back and you look up at me. Aye, Rhiannon, I’ve had those dreams since I was a child.” “Goddess,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Do even my very dreams belong to you? Shall I never be free of you?” “I hope not.” She turned her face up to his. “What does it mean that we dream the same dreams?” His arm tightened around her. “I do not think they’re dreams so much as memories.” He bent to kiss the salt spray from her lips. “I think we share each other’s memories,” he murmured. “And I want to create more with you.” “Do you ask me back to Hallyn with you?” “I ask you into my life forever.” His mouth reclaimed hers. Rhiannon wrapped her arms around him and returned the kiss. She made certain her embrace, her touch and the look in her eyes told him her answer more eloquently than any words she could have uttered. About the Author Anya Bast is a multipublished erotic fantasy & paranormal romance author. Primarily, she writes happily-ever-afters with lots of steamy sex. After all, happily-ever-afters with lots of sex are the very best kind. She enjoys the study of Celtic myth, dreaming, and shamanism and incorporates what she learns into her paranormal stories. Anya got her start writing fantasy romance. Since writing a little hotter seemed to come naturally to her, she had no trouble making the move to erotic romance. She loves writing books that are heavy on plot, emotion and character development, and also have spicy, no-holds-barred sex scenes. Exploring the elements of dark sexual fantasy in her writing is what Anya does best. She lives in the country with her husband. They share their lives with eight cats and one perplexed dog. Anya welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com. Tell Us What You Think We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at Comments@EllorasCave.com. Also by Anya Bast And Lady Makes Three anthology Blood of an Angel Blood of the Damned Blood of the Raven Blood of the Rose Edge of Sweetness Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis IV anthology Ordinary Charm Seasons of Pleasure: A Change of Season Seasons of Pleasure: Autumn Pleasures: The Union Seasons of Pleasure: Spring Pleasures: The Transformation Seasons of Pleasure: Summer Pleasures: The Capture Seasons of Pleasure: Winter Pleasures: The Training Seduced In Twilight Tempted by Two Water Crystal Whisper of the Blade Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless. www.ellorascave.com

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