Song of the Fairy Queen (28 page)

The wizard next to him was oddly compelling in a cold way. Her hair a deep red, she was tall and full-bodied. Kyri couldn’t understand for the life of her why the woman reminded her of a tick or a leach bloated and filled to bursting. It chilled her even to think it.

No Hunters were here that Kyri could see.

Certainly there were none between her and where she needed to go. Had their diversions worked? Or were they tucked away waiting for the next move?

In the distance there were shouts and she saw Haerold glanced irritably over his shoulder at the distraction from his spectacle.

Raising his hood, Morgan moved out of the alley at the sound, snatching up a burning twig from one of the little braziers as he passed with a nod of thanks to the man cooking.

From one of his pockets Morgan took a small metal ball – two more resided in other pockets – filled with paraffin and flammable oil.

Standing, the trumpeters blew a fanfare.

Everyone’s eyes were drawn above as Haerold slowly rose to his feet.

Obediently, the crowd grew silent, save for little rustlings here and there. Parents scurried to gather up their children.

Morgan lit the paraffin-soaked wick, flipped open the little catch that opened small holes at the top and tossed it beneath Haerold’s platform as the ‘King’ began his speech.

The ball tumbled, spraying flammable oil and wax. When it came to rest in the wood shavings left from the construction of the platform, the wick ignited the oil and the paraffin.

The shavings smoldered.

“We’ve discovered a traitor to our crown in our midst,” Haerold announced, his voice echoing over the square.

Looking up as he lit the next ball, Morgan discovered that Haerold had made himself a new crown, far more elaborate one than the simple one Oryan had worn.

At the rate Haerold was spending he would bankrupt the treasury in a year.

Morgan rolled the next fireball beneath the platform.

He drew out the third, lit it and threw it lightly beneath the dais.

They were small, it would take a few moments for the fire to take hold.

He ambled slowly away, glancing up at the stage as if he wanted a better view, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Kyri.

He couldn’t see her.

Small as she was, she had be dwarfed by the crowd.

“Philip, Duke of Dorset,” Haerold continued, “has been discovered to be in league with the forces of the renegade known as Oryan, once King. Having been duly tried and found guilty, Philip of Dorset has been sentenced to hang until dead, at which point he will be drawn and quartered and his head displayed on a pike above the castle gate as a warning to others.”

It was butchery, unnecessary butchery
, Morgan thought, his jaw tightening.

Even under the worst of circumstances it was a far worse punishment than almost any man deserved.

No one had yet noticed the smoke filling up the area below the platform, or the small flickers of flame. That was all to the good.

Haerold helped that cause inadvertently by crying out, “Bring out the prisoner.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the castle gate.

A tumbrel rumbled out, Philip standing in it unsteadily. His eyes looked dazed. He was battered, bruised and dressed in rags.

“Philip of Dorset,” a crier called, taking up the charges.

The ‘King’ apparently, wouldn’t deign to address the prisoner. They hadn’t been friends anyway.

His thin brown hair blowing in the growing breeze – a breeze for which Morgan was thankful – Philip’s head turned like a rusty wheel and looked in the direction of the voice.

Kyri looked up at Philip, her heart aching.

She’d seen him a time or two at Court and once or twice since he’d loaned Oryan his summer house for those few days.

The man she’d know then had been tall and lanky, but hale and fit for a man of middle years.

Standing in the makeshift dock, the man looked at least ten or more years older.

His brown hair wasn’t grayed so much as washed out. His face was colorless and this close, Kyri could see bruises on it, but it was the stunned look in his eyes that hurt her heart the most.

Reading the charges, hearing them, brought no reaction from him.

“Prisoner. Do you understand these charges as they’ve been set out before you?”

Slowly, Philip nodded as the words slowly penetrated, resigned now to his fate.

“For these crimes your lands are forfeit to the Crown, as are all your kin, kith and kind, all tithes, rents, titles and properties, all vassals and servants. You have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, then drawn and quartered, your head to be mounted on these walls….”

The crier repeated the King’s statement as a look of horror washed slowly over Philip’s face, but Philip said nothing.

Two men dragged him from the tumbrel, up the steps of the platform, one of them fastening the hempen rope around his neck.

Kyri’s heart was in her throat as both men stepped back. The executioner turned.

“Fire!” someone shouted.

All heads turned as smoke billowed across the square.

Someone screamed.

Others fled, understanding instantly what was about to happen.

Taking three running steps, Kyri whipped off the cloak she wore as she ran, her wings unfolding to spread for two great beats, all that was needed to lift her to the platform.

As many times as he’d seen her do it, Morgan still loved to watch her.

It was a beautiful sight.

Her sword, honed to razor sharpness, slashed across the rope. Philip staggered and nearly fell into her arms, but she’d braced herself for his weight.

Kyri shook Philip hard, looking into his dazed brown eyes, her heart wrenching to see the look in them.

“Philip, look at me. You have to help me. If you want to live, hold on.”

Fighting to focus, Philip looked into the beautiful aquamarine eyes of Kyriay, Queen of the Fairy, as her wings open around them. Sunlight glowed through them.

Hope, once so distant, flared as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Nodding, he clutched at her.

Confused, blinded by the smoke, the archers above opened fire on those below and the crowd panicked.

They fled, running in all directions, Morgan with them, as the viewing stand went up in flames.

On the opposite platform there were outcries and indignation, as those there looked around below them and the flames grew with a roar.

Then they ran.

In the square below there were soft cries of wonder as those who didn’t look to the flames beneath one dais but instead watched the prisoner.

Gossamer wings unfolded, opened, glittering through the thick smoke.

Kyri enfolded Philip in her arms and launched herself from the platform, her wings spread wide to glide, gaining speed before swooping low over the heads of the crowd and then they beat, hard, in long powerful strokes.

Now there was shouting, the loud and angry kind that led to arrows.

Philip’s pain beat at her. He’d been tortured, even without trying to Heal him Kyri knew that. It was agony for him to have her carry him like this. Her arm burned across his flogged back, ground on cracked ribs, pressed against bruises and contusions.

How could one thinking being do such a thing to another?

Difficult as it was for her to do so, she tried to give him some aid while they flew – if nothing else something to ease his pain.

She saw the horses waiting below, Galan and the others ready to assist.

There wasn’t much time.

A half dozen people were there to take Philip as she landed.

Folding her wings, she said to Galan, “Take the wounds across his back, I’ll care for the ribs, that will get him well enough to travel.”

Her hands floating above Philip’s semi-conscious form, she found internal bruising as well. She gave that a cursory touch, enough to ease it, then took to the ribs to bind bone together again.

All she could think of in the back of her mind was Morgan.

The lack of news was worrying. Oryan paced. This was the hardest part of being King, waiting and wondering, knowing you’d sent people into danger – people you cared for and respected, not knowing how it had ended.

Yet.

Nor was he the only one. It seemed the whole encampment held their collective breaths, everyone waiting. Few moved about, everyone seemed to be watching his tent.

Jordan fidgeted, unable to sit still, frightened for his father. Oryan laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder in comfort.

Even Geoffrey seemed restless, polishing the few items of gold and silver they’d rescued from Gwenifer’s estate again and again.

The thought brought Oryan a pang, but not the piercing sense of loss it once had. Oryan was too worried for Morgan, Kyri, Galan, Philip and the others who’d gone with them on the rescue.

Only phlegmatic Dorien seemed undisturbed. Unusually somber for a Fairy, the usual light of mischief and glint in his eyes was missing for the moment. His eyes were unfocused, dreamy, listening to voices only he and Kyri could hear.

“They have him,” Dorien said, suddenly, his head turning a little. “Alive, but not well…Kyri works on him…”

His mobile fine-boned face suddenly shadowed…as his head tilted another way…

“Galan helps….”

An odd echo of Galan’s voice rang out, in worry and fear. “Kyri…”

For a moment Dorien’s eyes fluttered. “She’s gone after Morgan. Morgan hasn’t left the city. The others come…”

A trickle of fear moved through Oryan…

Kyri wouldn’t have left Morgan behind.

Silence stretched…

Dorien’s eyes when he opened them again were worried.

“The Hunters are after him…after them…”

It was a long time before Dorien spoke again.

Morgan darted through and between the maze of buildings, keeping to the alleys as the streets were far too dangerous for someone as recognizable as he was. He hoped no one had been too seriously hurt in the panic in the square, trying side doors here and there as he dared. He needed to get up to the roofs.

Then he heard the sound he’d dreaded.

A howling, almost a baying. The sound of wolves on the hunt… or Hunters.

He’d hoped the smoke, paraffin and oil might cover his scent, but like the moat, apparently they hadn’t.

Bracing himself, he threw his shoulder against a door and then again.

The thin lock sprang, the door flying open.

Racing inside, Morgan grabbed a chair to prop beneath the knob to slow the Hunters down and ran for the stairs, swinging around at the top, sprinting for the door to the attic.