Destined for a King (11 page)

“And how will you stop him from discovering what has transpired between us? He already knows you hold this keep. Clearly he has ways of gathering news.” Her gaze focused on his chest. “Do you think he has a Stone of his own?”

The possibility had never occurred to him. “Not that I am aware. I suppose he might, but Stones like these are rare, even among the Avestari, who actively seek them. He'd have to know the lore, and he'd have to have been fortunate enough to find one.”

“Then what will you do to stop him from learning what's happened?”

“This is why I must act without delay.” Another thought occurred to him, at once heartening and terrifying. “Although Magnus may come to me instead. I hold this keep. He'll want to take it back. And now he has a bargaining chip on top of everything else.”

A scratch at the door had him reaching for his sword belt. “Come!”

“What are you doing?” Calista whispered. “The more people who discover I spent the night with you, the more likely word will get out.”

She looked ready to duck under the bed, but she was too late. Thorne came into the chamber, freezing in his tracks when his gaze landed on his daughter. His expression hardened to granite.
Yes, the situation is every bit what it looks like. Your daughter caught with me in her bedchamber, her hair and clothes in disarray and the sun barely risen. The servants haven't even been in to light the fire.

“You summoned me?” Thorne asked carefully.

“Indeed.” Torch crossed his arms and leaned one hip against a bedside table. “I'd like to negotiate my wedding contract with your daughter.”

“Wedding?” The question was wary, almost disbelieving.

At the same time, Calista interjected. “No!”

Gods, he should have sent her off to dress, but he was the one in her chamber and not the other way around. “Sweetling, I don't think we've a choice in the matter anymore. Not after last night.” That last was calculated of him, to be sure, but he had to secure Thorne's agreement to the proposal.

“But your sister—”

“My sister knew of my plans to wed. She would never ask me to change them over a small snag.”

“Small snag?” Calista went white and shook her head. “You call what's happened a small snag?”

Gods, he sounded callous, but he had to. He'd learned the trick from a young age, out of necessity. Hide your true feelings behind a shield of sarcasm or charm or coldness, but above all hide them. That way no one could discover your weaknesses. “I've no other choice but to call it that. And we will rescue her. But my marriage to you was always the goal here.”

“Perhaps we ought to discuss this at another time,” Thorne put in. “When emotions are running less high.”

In the blink of an eye, Calista's complexion went from colorless to bright red. “You mean once you've gotten rid of me, is that it, Father? Just like you decided my fate once before without even consulting me?”

“If you disapproved of the match between you and the king, you had only to speak up,” Thorne said mildly. “I daresay you're being offered an alternative, of sorts, now.” Thorne glanced from Calista to Torch and back, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the tangled blankets strewn across the bed. “One might even say you've made your choice already. Or do you think Magnus will blindly accept a union with this man's leavings?”

Calista's jaw dropped. “Leavings?”

Overwhelmed in a hot wave of rage, Torch launched himself at the man and grabbed two fistfuls of velvet doublet. “Daughter or no,” he grated, “you will not refer to my intended in this manner. She
will
wed me. No child of mine will know the life of a bastard.”

Beneath his ruddy complexion, Thorne paled.

Torch inhaled through his nostrils. Control. Damn, but that quality had deserted him sometime in the night. He needed it back. Now. He uncurled his fingers from Thorne's garments. “Honor demands I make this offer, but I daresay I would have made it either way.”

“Do you have any specific objections to this man?” Thorne asked.

Calista narrowed her gaze on Torch. Then she crossed one arm over her waist in support of her opposite elbow. Her index finger tapped her chin and she studied the rafters for a few moments. Damn her for drawing it out. She was playing now, and he had no choice but to endure. A small enough price to pay in the end, when they were both asking her to decide the course of her life.

“Let me think…He has no castle, no lands to speak of, a reputation as a heartless marauder. No, I can't think of a single reason I'd agree to such a union.”

Torch glared at her. “You know better,” he said, infusing his rejoinder with a note of warning. “And I can lay every single one of those same accusations at the door of Magnus Ironfist.”

“You can if you wish to end up on a gibbet for treason, but pray, do not drag me and my family down with you,” said Thorne. “A man can lay accusations where he will, but if he cannot prove them, they're only so much wind.”

“I intend to prove them in time, as your daughter well knows.” He kept his gaze riveted on her, willing her to give in. “She's now aware of a great many of my ultimate goals, and I would ask her to help me rather than hinder me. I aim to right a great wrong among the lords of the Strongholds. I ask only for a little patience and trust.”

“You ask a great deal of me.” For a man who lived and died by Torch's decree, Thorne displayed more than his share of defiance. “A great deal too much.”

“Not to mention lands and a castle,” Calista supplied. “Which is where I come in.”

It is more than that now, and you know it.
If only the Scrying Stone permitted him to speak those words directly into her mind; he did not wish to voice them in front of her father. Not when the man was still an enemy. Still a king's man. One who would bear watching.

“I'll require far more than just the Blackbriar lands before I'm finished.” No, he'd have to win the other Strongholds to his cause, one castle at a time. The others would be harder. He could only arrange one allegiance through wedlock. “But it's a start.”

Thorne raised his brows at his daughter. “I am still awaiting your reply. Will you toss your lot in with this upstart and damn us all?”

“As if I truly had a choice in the matter. I have none after last night.”

Yet you gave yourself freely.
He stopped himself just short of voicing that thought aloud. He was certain neither Thorne nor Calista would appreciate it. “Then let the negotiations begin.”

Torch stalked across the yard in a high dudgeon, ignoring the clang of swords of his men at practice. Damned Thornes, both father and daughter. If he'd known they'd be so difficult to deal with, he'd have left Calista for Magnus and chosen another bride. Damned pride that pushed him to take as much as he could from the Ironfist.

Thorne had had no choice but to allow the marriage, but he'd still chosen to complicate matters. “What do you offer my daughter other than this keep?” he'd said, unable to prevent the smugness from creeping into his tone. “The keep she's grown up in, when Magnus offers Highspring Moor.”

The barb had stung, but Torch had no choice but to bear it. At this juncture, he wasn't about to reveal his true identity to a man he did not trust. Not that Thorne was likely to take him at his word, for all that. “I offer her protection, which is more than Magnus can.”

“Do you really believe that, when the man can raise an army of ten thousand and surrounds himself with guards?”

Torch pushed aside thoughts of his sister and brother. When he was finished with the Usurper, Magnus was going to need every last guard to protect his sorry hide. “I do. And the protection of this keep has been good enough for your daughter her entire life. It can suffice until I find more suitable lodgings.”

Thorne hadn't borne that barb much better than Torch had held up under his, but he'd moved on to other matters quickly enough at the reminder that he hadn't been able to hold his own keep. “As for the wedding itself, I see no reason to rush matters.”

“The wedding will take place as soon as it can possibly be arranged.” The sooner he married Calista, the less likely word would get back to Magnus that he'd anticipated his wedding night.

Thorne had raised his brows above his hairline. “And so you would bring the king's wrath down on us all.”

Yes!
Torch's mind had screamed. Now more than ever, with his siblings added to Magnus's tally of sins. The more Torch provoked the Ironfist's wrath, the more likely Magnus would descend on them without taking the time to raise an even larger host. “You don't believe he'll pay his respects one way or the other? To deal with you, since you yielded this keep? Then he's likely going to demand I swear him allegiance. Cast your lot in with me, and I will shield you as I shield myself.”

The matter was settled now—with the father, at any rate. He only needed to bring his intended to heel. By all the gods, what had happened to her when her father came in? She'd been pliant enough in his arms. Beneath him. More than pliant. She'd been responsive and soft. Everything he could want in a bedmate.

And he'd made damned certain she'd enjoyed herself. Even afterward, when he'd read the note, she'd reached out to him with comfort. The reaction had given him hope for their future as husband and wife. It made him think they might eventually develop a kind of partnership once he took back his kingdom—or even before. She possessed all he needed to see him through the dark days ahead, and she was strong enough to bear up. He'd seen that during the time she'd cared for him.

But her father had come in, and she'd turned cold and recalcitrant. Why? What had changed?

A shout from the yard, close at hand, drew him from his musings.

“You bloody, bloody idiot. How many times must I tell you?” One of his men was standing over Owl, who lay on the ground, his blunted training sword lying just out of his grasp. Hawk held his own blade to the boy's throat. “You need to pay closer attention if you're going to defend yourself properly. Now up with you and try again.”

Gods, the boy's troubles on the training grounds had gone on longer than could be borne. Torch walked over to the pair. “What's the boy done now?”

“What hasn't he done, more like,” Hawk growled. “He was supposed to practice and clearly he hasn't. He keeps dropping his bloody blade at the slightest provocation.”

“Please, m'lord.” Hells, the boy was practically sobbing. “It hurts too much.”

“You think that hurts?” Hawk raised his blade, presenting the flat. “I'll show you something worse.”

“What seems to be the matter?” Torch asked his squire. The boy needed training, to be certain, but he usually presented more mettle than this.

“What isn't the matter?” Hawk asked. “First he can't concentrate, and now he can't even keep a sword to hand. We may as well leave him behind with the maids and dotards for all the good he'll be in a fight.”

“Please, sir. My hands.” He held them up, still encased in leather gauntlets. “They sting.”

Torch had been on the receiving end of enough of Hawk's disarming moves to understand where the boy was coming from. The man had a way of striking that made the blade vibrate. Dropping the weapon was easiest, but even that hurt. Maintaining the grip was far worse. “You've got to grit your teeth through that. There's nothing else for it. Your enemy isn't going to wait for you to stop and gather your things in the middle of a battle.”

“I know, sir, and I tried. Please. Something's not right.”

Something certainly wasn't right about the boy's voice. He normally displayed more fortitude in front of the older men. He normally tried harder as well.

Torch grabbed his hand and yanked at the fingers of his gauntlet. Owl let out a cry and tried to pull away. This was more than just his hands stinging from a mere disarming. The pain ought to diminish, in any case. Torch relaxed his grip, and tried again.

The gauntlet wouldn't move. “What in the name of the Faceless One?”

He pulled harder, and Owl's breath came out in a hiss of pain. “Stop. It hurts too much.”

“What have you done to your hands?”

“Nothin', sir. I swears.”

Torch exchanged a look with Hawk. His jaw was just as taut as ever, but a glimmer of concern had come into his eyes. “Perhaps we should cut them free, my lord.”

“No, sirs, and beggin' yer pardon. I wouldn't know where I might come by another pair.”

“The next time a leather worker comes by the keep,” Torch said, “I'll purchase you new gauntlets myself.”

He pulled a knife from his belt and inserted the blade between Owl's wrist and the gauntlet. The leather split beneath the blade's sharpness, and Owl let out another cry. The flesh above his wrist was swollen and covered with red blisters crossed by angry scratches. As he eased the gauntlet from the boy's hand, more damaged skin came into view.

“By the Three, boy, what have you been into?”

“Nothin' sir, I swears it.” The reply came too quickly, and Owl refused to meet his gaze.

Hawk picked up his other hand for inspection. “I've seen something like this before.” He dropped the hand just as quickly. “Some sort of pox. Best not touch him if you don't wish to catch it, too.” Hawk's eyes narrowed. “You're like to need to burn all your clothes.”

“That depends,” Torch said. “If it's just on your hands. It is just on your hands, isn't it?”

Owl studied the ground, but the back of his neck turned flushed. At least that part of him was free of blisters, at the moment.

“Best tell us what you've been up to,” Hawk prodded.

“Nothin'. At least nothin' out o' th' ordinary.”

“That's what I'm worried about,” Torch said. “At your age, I was after about anything wearing a skirt.”

“I never touched her.” Now Owl looked him in the eye, and his tone took on a belligerence.

“Touched who?”

“The maid, Tamsin.”

“What about anyone else?”

“No, sir, I swears it by all Three Gods.” Too much vehemence there, but Torch didn't think the boy was lying. Not completely.

“Perhaps we ought to question the girl.”

“Please don't, sir.” Owl's cheeks turned so red, they might have matched a robust southland wine in the glass. “She already won't talk to me as it is.”

“We're going to have to take you to Calista with this, though.”

“Ah, do you have to?”

Torch nodded. “Might be she has some kind of salve that could relieve you.” She also might have some sort of notion of what afflicted the boy.

The stillroom was dark and silent—the perfect spot to shut out the rest of the keep and seek calm. Calista took a deep breath of dank air, redolent with rare and precious cinnamon and cloves along with lavender, honeysuckle, and blackbriar roses. The flowers hung in bunches from the ceiling, where they would eventually dry and their scent could be preserved in the sweet-smelling soaps and lotions her mother made.

Those scents were Blackbriar's true bounty, Amara always claimed. Her tinctures and perfumes fetched a hefty price at Highspring, which was the source of much of the castle's wealth. One day, Calista herself would be entrusted with the secret recipes and the making of such things. Bounty to bring to her husband's coffers.

Husband. For some reason the word weighed heavily in her gut, turning her stomach sour, but for the life of her, she could not work out why. She'd grown up in the knowledge her father would marry her off to form the most advantageous alliance possible. When he'd presented her with the king himself, she'd immediately agreed. He could not ask for a more powerful ally.

And now Torch had stepped in to claim her. Another king. One who would claim Magnus's throne. One who believed his claim was the true one. While he might bring her passion, he would accompany that personal joy with a wider war. It would bring wounded and dead. It would bring about the horror she'd witnessed firsthand last night. And if she defied Magnus and married Torch, she'd bring all that down directly on Blackbriar.

Torch has already challenged Magnus in taking this keep,
a voice in her head reminded her.
Magnus would have swept his hosts down upon us either way.
True, but she couldn't escape the feeling it would happen all the sooner now, with Torch's desire to marry as quickly as possible.

Once more she heard the echo of his words.
No child of mine will know the life of a bastard.
His voice had strained with suppressed emotion. And he should know the rigors of such a life. She'd seen as much filtered through Jerrah's memories.

“Gracious, my dear. I've been looking all over for you.” She turned to find her mother's form silhouetted in the sunlight filtering from the bailey. “Your father's been released at last. Such a relief. But is it true what he tells me? You're planning on wedding this upstart?”

Thank the gods for the darkness that hid the blush fast rising on her cheeks. “I've no choice.”

“So your father says.” Her mother crossed to her and took Calista by the shoulders, angling her face so the daylight from the door illuminated her features. Mother's gaze penetrated. “That man…tell me he did not force you.”

“No, he did not. It was…” She nearly said “comfort,” but she preferred not to have to recount her experience with the Stone to her mother. Something at the back of her mind warned her to keep the depth of her experience and knowledge quiet for now, both the horrors she'd witnessed and the secret she'd discovered.
You're not even certain it's true. It's what Jerrah believes, but that's no solid proof.

“It was seduction, I'm sure.” Mother enfolded her in an embrace. “Thank the Three it was no worse. There's no denying he's easy on the eyes, and he can be charming when he chooses.”

Charming, handsome, seductive—he was all that and more. “How do you know this?”

Mother stepped back to study her daughter once more. “Tamsin has gone on at considerable length about the entire lot of them. It's grown quite tiresome. And naturally, I've kept an eye on things myself.” She raised a hand to Calista's jaw. “You won't be the first maid to fall victim to a man's clever tongue, nor the last, but this does not condemn you to a marriage you do not want nor one that would lower your status, no matter what the men have told you.”

Calista stepped away from her mother's touch. “You cannot believe Magnus would go through with a wedding now. He would set me aside after one night.”

“A mere trifle.” Her mother looked about, as if to make certain no one stood at hand. “There are ways around it, ruses you would not be the first to play, potions you might drink to ensure your courses come upon you in a timely manner. Magnus need never suspect a thing.”

The silence of the stillroom bore down on Calista. It all seemed so easy. Too easy. But then, her mother was offering what she'd wished for all along—a choice. But was it a true choice when her father had arranged the union with Magnus from the start? Or had her body made the choice for her last night? Worse, had it been her heart? “I shall think on it.”

“Do not take too long considering. Your father says Torch will not delay.”

She knew as much. Torch wanted this done as soon as might be so he could ride to his sister's aid. And how could Calista blame him? “He can drag me to the altar, but he cannot force me to repeat vows if I refuse.”

“
If
you refuse? How can you even consider throwing aside the offer of a king for this…this…Well, he's nothing more than a landless bastard, isn't he? And he only wants you for the keep you can provide him.”

He wanted her for that, yes, but he wasn't just a landless bastard. Not if what Jerrah believed was the truth. Not if what her brother believed, and all the rest of the Bastard Brotherhood. But Calista couldn't get into that with her mother, not without some kind of proof less nebulous than a magical dream where she'd inhabited someone else's head, no matter how real it had seemed. And that was assuming Torch wasn't controlling what the Stone had shown her, for his own ends.

But if his claims were, in fact, true, he did not need her lands.
He didn't choose you for your beauty or your accomplishments or even your body. He believes you're his destiny because of that Stone, much as he believes himself to be the rightful heir to the throne at Highspring.
For some reason that thought settled uneasily over her heart.