Song of the Fairy Queen (70 page)

As Galan clearly feared, it was far too easy for Morgan to picture her as Galan had been, trapped in an iron cage, her magnificent wings clipped. It nearly destroyed him to think of it, but that wouldn’t do Kyri any good.

“How long has she been gone?” Morgan asked.

“Most of the night. I heard from her yesterday afternoon after she left Mormont,” Galan said, heartsick. “She told me she was going to one of the rebel camps in the south. I kept waiting to hear back from her and when I realized how long it had been, I tried to call her.”

There had been no response.

“Go back to Oryan, tell him we’re going after her,” Morgan said, turning to Caleb. “You spent time in Remagne, is there any way into Haerold’s dungeons?”

Caleb smiled grimly, fearing himself for Lady Kyri. “Funny you should ask that, Captain, for as it happens, there might be. Didn’t you never wonder what I was doing in Remagne, me being a country boy? I was looking for a way in, in case you was in there. Then, all of a sudden, there you was. Out.”

“But there is a way in?” Morgan asked.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Caleb said. “But it looks like that information is going to come in handy after all.”

Morgan looked at the others. “This isn’t your responsibility.”

All of the men had seen Kyri come and go by now, she’d shared meals and laughter with some of them in times past, healed one or two.

They looked back at Morgan and waited without question..

“All right,” Morgan said, relieved and grateful. “Thank you. How do we get into the city without being noticed?”

If they had Kyri there, they would be watching for him.

“We get us a wagon, Captain,” Caleb said, “and we fill it with hay. Put an old country-man like myself on the seat. Tie the horses to it and bring them in to market, with our folk hiding in the hay. It’s an old trick, but it still works.”

It was some hours later that an old farm wagon trundled toward Remagne’s western gate. Intended for trade, this wasn’t a grand entryway like the main gate, but a simple iron-clad set of doors leading into the back streets of the city. A small line of wagons similar to it, some bearing produce, some fowl, some pigs, waited, all trying to get through the gates before midday.

Buried under the hay, chaff teasing his nose, the wait was terrible. It took an effort for Morgan not to allow himself to imagine what might be happening to Kyri. Instead, he concentrated, ‘calling’ to her, shouting in his head. He didn’t know if she heard, but he tried all the same, sending her reassurance, love, encouragement. It was all he could do until he could do more.

The wagon lurched forward, stopped, lurched forward again and then finally rumbled over the cobblestones.

Cooler shadows fell over the hay.

A clatter of horses going by caught Morgan’s attention.
Guards, heading for the gate? Normal
? He didn’t know.

The wagon turned and then Caleb knocked on the side.

“C’mon out,” he said, “quiet like.”

Morgan and the others slid out from under the hay, brushing it out of their hair and clothes.

“Where are we?” Morgan asked.

“Courtyard behind a closed inn,” Caleb said, “they couldn’t make a go of it, not since Haerold made himself King. Bad enough when he was Lord here. Now no one wants to come. Now what, Captain? We don’t even know if she’s here yet for sure.”

“Will your contacts know?” he asked.

Caleb shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Depends. Hart has a brother in there, was looking to get him out. Our interests was the same. I helped him, he helped me.”

“Make contact, get things started. I know someone who’ll know,” Morgan said.

His breath catching, Caleb thought he knew who it was.

Jacob, and he’d betrayed Morgan before.

“Be careful, Cap’n.”

With a nod, Morgan headed out to the street, pulling his hat low over his eyes.

It was a risk, a pretty good risk, of betrayal once again.

But for Kyri, Morgan would take that risk.

One way or another, at least he would know if she was here.

It was dark, dark and damp wherever Kyri was and she hurt all over. Pain radiated from her wrists where cold iron burned once more, from her wing joints at her back and her head. A brief flare of near terror went through her at the pain in her wings, remembering Galan and what they’d done to him, but the pain wasn’t sharp. They were intact.

For the moment she was alone.

Stiffly, she tried to move, her feet looking for and finding purchase on the hard stone floor, which took the weight of her body off her wrists where they’d been shackled above her head. Dried blood cracked on her arms. She flexed her stiff hands to get the circulation going and looked to each side.

They’d drawn her wings out and secured them against the wall, but as far as she could tell they hadn’t been damaged significantly and the relief she felt was nearly overwhelming. Tears stung her eyes. It wasn’t, however, a comfortable position to be in by any means. Her wings were only meant to be spread in flight, supported by air, or folded. Stretched this way the muscles strained.

Her ribs ached, too, setting up a chorus of aches and pains from bruises.

Slowly, the memory of what had happened returned.

The rebel camp, a small one. She’d been careful. At least two sources had confirmed it was supposed to be safe, Oryan’s people and Detrick’s had both verified it. She’d called down and everything had seemed fine as she’d hovered briefly, a tall man with brown hair and brown eyes stepping from the tent. Then she’d noticed the children seemed frightened…that there were the hidden nets to each side, one dropping from above even as she looked up. She’d tried to fly out and then the rock a man slung struck her in the temple.

She vaguely remembered a tunnel of sickly green light.

A portal.

Now she was here, although she didn’t know where here was, as it wasn’t familiar.

But she had a very good guess.

A door opened somewhere nearby, hinges creaked and multiple footsteps came down the passageway. Guards? Or someone else?

Kyri took a long slow breath to prepare herself.

And then she heard Morgan’s voice in her head, ‘calling’ to her.

Morgan.

Her eyes closed with relief. To be that clear, with stone and iron between, meant he was close. He was in the city. And he knew she’d been taken. Her throat tightened.

“Well,” a voice said.

She opened her eyes.

Haerold stood before her with his wizard Queen and the brown-haired man from the camp.

It was the first time Kyri had been this close to either Haerold or his Queen. The resemblance to Oryan was faint at best. Of a height with him, they both had longish faces, but all resemblance between Oryan and Haerold ended there. Haerold was darker in both hair and complexion, bearded, his brown eyes much darker than Oryan’s. Some would have said Haerold was the more handsome of the two, but Kyri much preferred Oryan’s homelier, more lived-in face to Haerold’s sharper features.

Haerold’s Queen was beautiful in appearance, if cold and remote, her eyes distant and uninvolved, her features a little too strong for true beauty so she appeared more striking than truly beautiful, save only for her porcelain skin. As always, she had her pendant on, her long fingers playing with it idly.

“Patterson,” Haerold said, with a nod to the man.

The man stepped up, smiled. He backhanded Kyri hard, splitting her lip instantly. Her head rocked back. Kyri tasted blood.

“It seems,” Haerold said, “he has a problem with the High Marshal. Perhaps if you tell us where Morgan is…?”

Since he hadn’t actually asked a direct question, Kyri decided silence was best.

Haerold looked at her. “No?’

Patterson struck her again. Her head slammed back against the wall with the force of the blow. Her cheek throbbed.

“Not too much on the face, Patterson,” the woman said. “We want people to recognize her.”

That didn’t bode well, either.

“Tell us then where Oryan is,” Haerold asked.

Since she didn’t know that either, as the camp had undoubtedly moved as soon as they’d realized she’d been taken, she couldn’t answer that either. And so she stayed silent.

The next blow was aimed for her ribs and took the wind from her. Something crunched inside her. Pain flared. With an effort she forced her body to relax, to not fight for breath and it came back to her slowly, but there was a sharp pain in her ribs each time she tried to breathe.

“All you have to do to end this is tell us where Morgan and Oryan are,” Haerold said with a nod at Patterson. “Let’s try something different.”

Patterson pulled out a leather quirt from his packet. He flicked it hard against her arms, belly, legs, raising welts, each snap of it sharply painful, stinging.

“Tell us where Morgan and Oryan are and it ends,” the woman said, running her fingers through Kyri’s hair.

The woman was using the pain as a distraction, her mind probing Kyri’s, peering down into the cup of her pendant to try to see Kyri’s thoughts.

Focusing on the pain, on each sting of the little whip, Kyri kept her mind a blank. For Fairy and for the Fairy she was, mind magic was her nature and second nature, although she would never have used it this way.

In disgust, the woman released her and spun away, shaking her head.

Morgan’s voice whispered in her inner ear,
‘Hold on, we’re coming
.’

“Let’s try another tactic,” Haerold said, his dark eyes narrowed in his long, thin face, stepping closer.

His fingers moving, Haerold traced a sign, a little glyph, in the air above her heart.

Kyri’s throat tightened. Fear turned her limbs to water.

With a wave, he turned to his Queen. “Elissa, my dear?”

It took everything Kyri had to hold still, to show nothing as the woman walked up and repeated the gesture, but she could feel herself pale.

Harold gestured again and pain bored into her. The wizard Queen did the same. Like the long ago arrow had, it pierced her, impaled her. She closed her eyes against the outrageous agony, her heart pounding.

“Tell us where Morgan is and the pain stops,” Haerold said.

Kyri knew that was when the pain would truly start.

“I don’t know,” she said, “nor would I tell you if I did.”

“So you know,” Haerold said, gesturing, “We’ll ask again. And again. Until you do.”

The wizard Queen snapped her fingers and light gushed from Kyri’s chest. Haerold did the same.

Pain exploded through her, as light streamed out of her.

“Little sips, my Lord,” Elissa said. “Savor it. Quality matters, not quantity, or you’ll waste it.”

Basking in it, they shivered a little with pleasure as they drank her in. Pleasured themselves with her. Now Kyri knew why the Queen had reminded her of a tick, or a leech….as did Harold now as well….