Debbie Mazzuca Bundle (31 page)
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Authors: Debbie Mazzuca
Prologue
Isle of Lewis, 1592
Seated at a table in the back of the crowded alehouse, Aidan MacLeod attempted to slough off the burden of his responsibilities and enjoy the carefree companionship of his friends, and the voluptuous redhead in his lap.
“See what ye’ve been missin’, MacLeod?” Gavin grinned at him from across the table, hauling a buxom blonde into his arms.
Aidan shook his head with a laugh and returned his attention to the greedy wench, who attempted to smother him in her bountiful charms.
“Ah, MacLeod, we’ve got company.”
Aidan drew his mouth from the lass’s rosy-tipped breast. Ignoring her throaty groan of protest, he followed Gavin’s gaze to the front of the alehouse. Torquil, his father’s man-at-arms, stood in the entryway.
As he noted Torquil’s grim expression, Aidan’s lust was replaced with a heavy sense of foreboding. He eased the woman from his lap and came to his feet. Without taking his eyes from the silver-haired man-at-arms, he tossed her some coin and motioned for her to take her leave.
She sidled up to him, her heavy scent cloying. “I’ll take yer coin, laddie, but I’d much rather ye give me this.” To the amusement of his companions, she groped the front of his trews.
He shot her an impatient look and brushed her hand aside. “My father’s back?” he asked the thickset man, who now stood before him.
“Aye, I had no chance to warn ye, lad. We left—”
Before Torquil could finish his explanation, Aidan grabbed his woolen cloak off the bench and headed for the door. His companion’s entreaty to remain fell on deaf ears. His wee brother was alone and unprotected.
Thunder rumbled overhead as Aidan strode across the rainsoaked yard to the stables. Cursing every moment of delay, he kicked off the mud that caked his boots against the edge of the door. The stable hand, who had been lolling against a bale of hay, leapt to his feet.
“Bring me my mount, and his,” Aidan added, sensing Torquil’s presence behind him.
“Dougal will keep the lad out of the laird’s way. He’ll come to no harm,” Torquil said as he attempted to reassure him.
Aidan swept droplets of rain from his face and focused on the man-at-arms. “Are ye tellin’ me my da is no’ drunk, then?” If that were the case, it would do much to allay the fear icing Aidan’s veins.
Sober, his father would do nothing more to his young brother than ignore him, and although hurtful to the bairn, it would do little more than wound his heart. But if his father was in his cups, that was another matter entirely.
His question was met with tight-lipped silence and Aidan cursed. He accepted Fin’s reins with a muttered thanks and leapt onto the stallion’s back, turning him toward home.
Moments later, Torquil’s big bay caught up to him. Despite the fading light, Aidan could see the man was holding something back. “What havena ye told me?”
Torquil raised his voice to be heard above the thunder of the horses’ hooves. “’Tis the day of the lad’s birth is all, and ye ken how yer father—”
Aidan’s disgusted bellow was lost in the wind. Of all the days to leave his brother alone, he’d chosen this one. With his father away at court, he’d taken the opportunity to join his friends in the hunt and a night of pleasure. At eighteen, he was more of a father to Lachlan than a brother, and lately he’d chafed at the responsibility. But never had he expected his actions would put his brother in danger.
The memory of Lachlan’s birth eight years past escaped from where he’d locked it away. He tried to shove it back, but the words the old crone had uttered reverberated in his head, words that damned both his mother and his brother.
He has the mark of the Fae.
His mother’s anguished cry of denial echoed in his head alongside his father’s bellow of rage. Aidan squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the image of the bloody white linens shrouding his mother, the sound of his bare feet slapping against the cold stone as he ran from the room.
He wrapped his cloak tighter to ward off the bitter winds and memories. Bent low over Fin, he tore across the narrow wooden bridge, leaving Torquil far behind. Lights flickered in the distance as the tower came into view through a misty curtain of rain. Aidan’s heart raced as he closed in on his home. His chest was so tight he could barely shout out his brother’s name when Dougal met him in the deserted courtyard.
The old man’s gnarled fingers clutched at Aidan’s trews. “I canna find the lad or the laird.” He jerked his whiskered chin toward the keep. “All within are searchin’ now, but—”
Aidan met Dougal’s worried gaze. No words needed to be exchanged. They both knew what had happened. His father had taken his brother to the cliffs. He’d uttered the threat often enough, only Aidan had never believed the man he once loved and admired would attempt such a heinous act. Even now, with every pained breath he took, he prayed he was wrong.
“Be careful, lad, I fear he’s gone mad. I doona ken what set him off. Mayhap ’twas somethin’ yer uncle said, but ’tis worse than before.”
Aidan gave a tight nod, blinking hard to keep his tears at bay. He was a man, and this was no time for a woman’s emotion. With a sharp tug on Fin’s reins, he brought the horse around and headed back into the night.
As the granite cliffs came into view, he called out his brother’s name, but the words were lost on the plaintive howl of the wind. His eyes burned from straining to see through the gloaming, and the rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the rugged landscape. A hulking shadow dragged a struggling white bundle toward the rocks.
An agonized cry ripped from his throat. “Nay, Da, nay.” He leapt from Fin. His fear making him clumsy, he stumbled toward them.
“Ye canna stop me, Aidan. This day I will ken the truth.” Alexander MacLeod’s words were thick and slurred. He jerked Lachlan’s arm, and the bairn cried in anguish.
Aidan slammed down his anger and his fear. He needed to keep his wits about him. With his gaze trained on his father, he searched for an opportunity to get his brother out of harm’s way. Inching closer, he heard the waves crash against the rocks below, smelled the salty tang of the sea air, and his senses reeled.
Lachlan whimpered. His eyes were wide with terror, golden curls plastered to his angelic face.
“Da, doona do this. Give him to me, please,” Aidan begged.
With a fierce shake of his head, Alexander snaked an arm around Lachlan, whose wee body convulsed with fear. Soaked to the skin, the white nightshirt clung to his brother’s slight frame, and his bare feet dangled high above the ground. His father’s blue eyes looked black—wild and glazed. In that moment Aidan knew nothing he could say would stop his father. He had to act.
“I’m givin’ him back to the Fae and ye canna stop me.” Alexander lost his footing on the rain-slicked turf and his hand shot out. Trying to regain his balance, he loosened his hold on Lachlan.
In his mindless state, his father’s movements were slow and exaggerated. Aidan, seeing his advantage, threw himself forward. Grabbing his brother’s outstretched arm, he wrenched Lachlan free from his father’s hold. Aidan cradled Lan’s trembling body to his chest and rolled a safe distance from the ledge. Alexander stumbled backward, his eyes widened, and his arms flailed. With a harrowing cry, he disappeared over the sheer rock face.
“Da!” Shoving Lachlan behind him, Aidan lunged to where his father clung to the rocky outcropping. He twined his fingers through Alexander’s bony ones. The muscles in Aidan’s arms quaked as he struggled to hold on. He tried to dig the toes of his boots into the wet earth, but found no purchase. The jagged rock scoured his chest as inch by inch Alexander’s weight dragged Aidan over the edge of the cliff.
Their eyes held for a brief moment, and Aidan panicked at the grim resolve he saw in his father’s watery blue gaze. “Nay, Da!” he cried as Alexander wrenched his fingers from Aidan’s grasp. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to witness his father falling into the churning black water below. Burying his head in his arms to drown out the last of Alexander’s dying scream, he could no longer contain his heartbroken sob.
A warm breath whispered in his ear. “I can call the faeries, Aidan. She’ll save him.”
White-hot rage flared to life inside him and he staggered to his feet, dragging his brother from the edge of the cliff. His fingers bit into Lan’s narrow shoulders, and he shook him so hard his brother’s head snapped back. “Never again, Lachlan, never again will ye speak of the Fae. Do ye hear me?”
Tears streamed down his brother’s wee face and his lower lip quivered. “Aye, Aidan,” he whispered. “Aye.”
He sensed movement behind him and turned from Lan. Torquil and Dougal stood in silence by their mounts, then Dougal took a hesitant step toward him. “Give us the bairn. We’ll see him home.”
The blinding haze of Aidan’s anger dissipated. Looking down at Lachlan, he saw clearly the fear he’d put in his young brother’s eyes. Aidan’s chest tightened, and he swallowed past the suffocating knot in his throat. “Nay, I’ll take him.”
He swung Lachlan into his arms and gave him a fierce hug before wrapping him in the blanket Torquil handed him. “I’d no’ harm ye, brother. And I’ll let no other put ye in harm’s way. I’ll protect ye always. Ye ken that, doona ye?”
Lachlan wrapped his thin arms around Aidan’s neck and buried his face in his chest. “I ken, Aidan. I love ye.”
“I love ye, too, Lan.” Aidan vowed, if ever he had the chance, he’d make the Fae pay for what they’d done to his family.
Chapter 1
The Enchanted Isles, 1603
Princess Syrena, astride her white-winged steed Bowen, glided over the Enchanted Isles. Far below, the placid azure pools twinkled in the noonday sun, and the thick verdant forest of ancient oaks met the tall swaying grasses of meadow’s dotted with purple and white flowers.
Syrena surveyed her kingdom—her father’s kingdom, she corrected—with pride. Surely no other realm was as beautiful, although those who remembered the stories of their forbearers claimed the heavens were. Since the Fae race had descended from six angels tossed from the celestial heights for interfering with the Mortals, Syrena supposed there must be some truth to their claims. But it mattered not. To her, nothing was as lovely as the Enchanted Isles.
Tapping Bowen’s sleek, muscular hindquarters with her pink satin slippers, she directed him toward home. She couldn’t put it off any longer. At this very moment her father was ensconced in his throne room, choosing his successor. After a bloody battle in the Fae realm of the Far North over succession, the wizard Uscias insisted her father name the next in line.
There were four in the running: Lord Bana and Lord Erwn, her father’s cousins and closest advisors; her stepmother, Queen Morgana; and at Uscias’s insistence, Syrena. King Arwan hadn’t cared that Syrena as his only heir should have been named without hesitation. No matter how hard she tried, she failed to measure up to both his and the Fae’s expectations. If only they would give her a chance, she would show them her worth.
As she and Bowen flew alongside the razor-sharp peaks of granite, the crystal palace, nestled high atop the mountain, came into view. Noting the palatial mansions of the aristocracy cast in shadows at its base, Lord Bana’s and Lord Erwn’s among them, she wondered if even now one of them celebrated. One of the two was clearly her father’s choice.
It didn’t matter, not really, she comforted herself. King Arwan’s successor would never get the chance to rule. The only way her father would willingly cede his authority was through death. And since the Fae were immortal—could only be killed by the juice of the Rowan berry, a wound from a magickal weapon, or fade if they so chose—her powerful father would reign forever.
“Well, Bowen, time to land.” She patted the neck of her beloved steed, a gift from her mother the week before she faded. With a firm tug on his mane, she banked to the left. “No!” she cried, realizing too late that she’d forgotten his deformed wing.
They tumbled from the cloudless sky.
The pressure from the whistling wind pulled at her cheeks and whipped the crown from her head. Her long hair wrapped around her face, muffling her warbled scream.
She dangled helplessly in midair, struggling to tangle her hands in Bowen’s mane to keep from falling. Her foot found purchase on his stunted wing, and she flung herself over the top of him. Hooves kicking wildly, Bowen fought to right himself. As he flapped his one, powerful, full-sized wing, the frightening free fall was over as quickly as it had begun.
She clung to him, her heart returning to its rightful place behind her rib cage. “I’m sorry, Bowen,” she said once she’d recovered. “If I ever do something so foolish again, ignore my command.” He nickered and nodded as though he agreed.
Distracted with thoughts of her mother, she’d banked to the left without thinking. Deformed since birth, Bowen’s left wing was half the size of his right. Syrena and her steed had learned to compensate for his shortcomings. But obviously his tendency to comply with her commands, no matter how foolish, was something they had to work on. Although there had been other incidents, no one as yet had found them out. Syrena only hoped it would be the same today.
Her hope was short-lived. As soon as Bowen’s hooves hit the cobblestones, Rainer, one of the stable hands, crossed the courtyard to greet them. He twirled Syrena’s jeweled crown on his finger.
“Interesting maneuvers, princess.” His thin upper lip curled in contempt. “Too bad you didn’t think to use your magick.”
And risk turning Bowen into a bird?
But no, she couldn’t say that. None of the Fae knew Syrena couldn’t do magick. Well, she could, she just wasn’t very good at it. And there was a time when that inability almost cost Syrena her life. But her mother had protected her, just as Evangeline, her handmaiden and friend, did now.
She slid from Bowen’s back. Her legs wobbly, she leaned against her steed for support. “A trick, that’s all it was, and a very good one if I do say so myself.”
Rainer raised a dark brow, towering over her as most of the Fae did. “That’s not how it looked to me or to anyone else. As we speak, the head of the royal guard is reporting the incident to your father. It’s about time, if you ask me, wasting our energy on this pathetic excuse for a steed. He’s better off dead.”
Overcome by a frantic pounding in her chest, she struggled to project a confident demeanor. Tears and begging would make no difference to Rainer. If anything, they would increase the pleasure he took in tormenting her. The stable hands looked for an excuse to put Bowen down. They were intolerant of any disability, any imperfection. Power was the only thing they understood.
She swallowed her fear and snatched her crown from his finger. She shoved it on her head and pushed a hank of golden hair from her eyes. “You forget yourself, Rainer. Bowen is mine. He’s under my protection. No one touches him.”
With an insolent look, he tracked his gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Your protection,” he scoffed. “I guess he’s as good as dead, then.”
Syrena tried to push past him, but he wouldn’t budge. She took a step to the left and he did the same. She moved to the right and he followed suit, laughing at her futile attempt to outmaneuver him. Bowen nudged him out of the way and Rainer turned on her steed. “You’ll pay for that,” he snarled at Bowen, balling his big hand into a fist. Her only thought to protect her steed, Syrena lunged and knocked him off balance before he could hit Bowen.
His angular face contorted in rage, and he drew back to strike her. With no time to get out of his way, she squeezed her eyes closed and steeled herself to receive the blow. He wasn’t as big as her father. It wouldn’t be as painful, she reassured herself. There was a gush of air, a strangled squeal, and then a splash.
Cracking an eye open, she noted Rainer, sitting in a cement trough, spurting water from his mouth.
“You’re lucky it is only your pride that has been wounded, Rainer. The penalty for striking royalty is death,” Uscias informed him equitably, then turned to Syrena, his blue eyes intent beneath thick silver brows. “Although, your highness, the decision ultimately rests with you.”
“No . . . no, your punishment was more than adequate, Uscias, thank you.”
The wizard waved his gnarled fingers, and Rainer stood pale and dripping before them. “Take Princess Syrena’s steed to the stables. And remember, if anything should happen to Bowen, your fate rests in her highness’s hands.”
As Uscias led her away, she took one last worried look over her shoulder. He patted her arm. “I will keep an eye on him, but right now our presence has been requested by the king.”
Her jaw dropped and she clutched his arm. “Mine? You’re certain, Uscias? He wants me?”
“Yes, my dear, that is what I was told.”
She blinked back tears. “Oh, I cannot tell you how happy this makes me. They will have to address my concerns now, don’t you think?” Too excited to wait for his response, she went on, “You may not be aware, Uscias, but our laws are unfairly slanted to the benefit of men. And truly, our approach to the other realms is severely outdated. Diplomacy, Uscias, diplomacy is the an—”
“Princess,” he interrupted gently. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me. I am not at all certain your father has chosen you as his successor. The presence of all candidates was requested.”
A heated flush prickled beneath her skin. How could she have thought anything had changed? Her father would never name her as his successor and she might as well accept it now. Years spent memorizing the dusty tomes, documenting her arguments against antiquated laws, were all for naught.
“I’m sorry, Uscias, you must think me a fool to believe my father would see past . . .” The tears that welled in her eyes threatened to overflow, and she couldn’t go on.
“No, my dear, you are far from foolish. It is the ones that do not see you for who you truly are who deserve to be called such. Now, I’m afraid we must go.”
As Uscias and Syrena entered the palace, an ear-piercing scream shattered the quiet hum of activity. Queen Morgana, her stepmother, stumbled from the throne room.
“The king, King Arwan has faded!” she cried while Nessa, her handmaiden, reached out to steady her.
Servants stopped what they were doing, frozen in their disbelief. Syrena’s heart skittered in her chest and her legs went weak
. No, not her father, there must be some mistake. He wouldn’t fade. He loved his kingdom. He loved the Isles. He loved her.
But no, even in a state of shock, she knew the last was not true. He didn’t love her. He never had.
. No, not her father, there must be some mistake. He wouldn’t fade. He loved his kingdom. He loved the Isles. He loved her.
But no, even in a state of shock, she knew the last was not true. He didn’t love her. He never had.
Lord Bana and Lord Erwn came out of the grand hall, shouldering their way through the gathering crowd, their perfect faces lined with confusion. They joined Syrena and Uscias. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“The king, Morgana says he’s faded.” Uscias informed them before he strode purposefully toward the throne room. His sapphire robes billowing behind him.
“Your highness,” Evangeline’s melodious voice came from beside her, and she wrapped a supportive arm around Syrena’s shoulders. “You should sit.”
“No, I can’t,” she said, watching as Lord Bana, Lord Erwn, then Morgana and Nessa followed after Uscias. “I really must . . . I have to understand. I have to know . . . Why, Evangeline, why would he fade?”
“I don’t know, my lady, perhaps Uscias will be able to explain it.” Holding her close, her friend guided her to the throne room.
Uscias, no bigger than Syrena, was dwarfed by the two lords and Morgana as they pummeled him with their frantic questions. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot think with all the shouting. Give me a moment.”
Syrena, coming to stand beside him, followed his gaze to King Arwan’s golden throne. A pile of ashes on the red satin cushion was all that remained of her father. The sight triggered a memory of the day her mother faded. Memories she’d buried clawed their way to the surface. An image of her running into the room to give her mother a carefully chosen bouquet of pink and white flowers, only to have her father rip them from her hands and crush them beneath his boot. He’d forced Syrena to her knees in front of the throne, making certain she knew she was to blame for her mother’s decision. All that remained of the beautiful, loving Helyna was a tidy pile of ashes on a red satin pillow.
She bowed her head and focused on the gold veins that ran through the white marble floor, shutting away the painful memories.
“Morgana, where is the Sword of Nuada?” Uscias asked.
Her stepmother’s mouth formed a pinched line. “I don’t know.”
“The parchment for succession that I delivered the other day, do you at least know where that is?”
Morgana shared a surreptitious look with Nessa, who stood at the back of the room with Evangeline, and Bana and Erwn’s servants.
“There, beside his throne,” she said as she pointed to it.
Uscias jerked his chin at the liveried guard standing at attention behind the throne. The man retrieved the rolled scroll and delivered it into the wizard’s hand. Uscias unrolled it with care. Syrena looked at the bottom of the parchment where her father’s name was signed with a flourish. On the line that named his successor there was one letter—the letter
L
.
L
.
The wizard passed a twisted finger over the letter and it disappeared. Syrena blinked. Uscias, looking at her from the corner of his eye, raised a bushy brow. He was right. It could have been either Erwn or Bana.
“Who is it? Who did he name?” Morgana asked, although there was something in her stance, in her tone, that said to Syrena her stepmother already knew the answer. Had her father confided in his wife? Given their strained relations, Syrena doubted he would. Morgana had as much chance of holding the throne as she did.
“No one,” the wizard said blandly. “And since he did not have the opportunity to name his successor, or hand over the Sword of Nuada, the four of you will have to compete for the honor. In the Books of Fae, the parameters of the test are clearly set out for circumstances such as these.”
Having all but memorized the five ancient tomes, Syrena knew exactly what the test entailed and her heart sank. The first segment, knowledge of the laws, she knew she could easily win. The test of courage and strength, she didn’t even try to fool herself that she had a chance at. And the third, a test of the competitor’s magickal abilities, would have been laughable if not for the danger it posed to her.
The Fae were tested three times, once at the age of four, again at the age of twelve, and on their twenty-first birthday, the last and most difficult of the tests. The highest level to be awarded was a five. Syrena had yet to see anyone other than a wizard achieve the designation. Her own level was a dismal two, and that accomplished only with the help of her mother and then Evangeline.
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