Song of the Fairy Queen (74 page)

“Caleb,” he shouted.

Fresh blood trickled down her arms as the pressure on them was relieved.

Kyri buried her face in Morgan’s throat as Caleb came at a run and unlocked the shackles, a half cry escaping her as her arms came down, the others unstrapping her wings from the walls.

She folded over Morgan, her arms around his throat, her face still buried there, her wings outstretched, drooping around them.

It was agony of a different kind.

Her voice was a whisper, her forehead buried in his shoulder. “Please, Morgan, help me fold them. I can’t fold them.”

Oh, dear Gods
, Morgan thought. “Caleb.”

Holding her close around the waist, feeling her flinch from the pain, he and Caleb gently lifted her wings, guiding them into place at her back. Once they were in place, as hard as she fought against it, tears of relief fell as she buried her face once more against Morgan’s throat waiting for the worst of the pain to ease.

Looking at Patterson, Morgan throttled back a murderous rage.

Kyri shook her head, bringing one hand to touch his cheek.

“Morgan,” she said hoarsely, but gently, lovingly. “You’re shouting…”

He looked at her, at her damaged lip and the dark bruise on one smooth cheek, at her pale and pained face and struggled against his fury.

“Remember,” she said quietly, “what happens to those who fail Haerold? They go to Caernarvon, Morgan. Alive. He’ll stand guard in the dungeons there…”

Where Morgan had been.

“For years, or longer, unless we win…”

For a minute he stared at her. He took a breath. Then he touched her shining hair, brushing it back from her lovely face as his vision cleared.

It was a fitting punishment.

“Captain,” Caleb said as he stepped out of a cell, giving a hand to the man in it. “It’s Porter.”

The man lifted his head, brown eyes visible beneath shaggy, matted reddish hair. Porter made a visible effort to stand.

Kyri reached out to touch the man, her fingers gentle. She couldn’t not Heal, they hadn’t taken that from her, weak as she was.

A tremble went through him and with a gasp, Porter’s eyes focused.

He looked at her, a little confused and then he looked at Morgan, his eyes widening in astonishment.

“Morgan. My God.”

There was another whole corridor of cells, yielding more familiar faces, some Marshals, members of the rebellion and one or two people who had defied or otherwise challenged Haerold or his Queen in some way. Including a former ally or those who had been allies. One was the Ambassador from Caerdonia, the Kingdom to the west and north.

This they learned as they hurried the lot of them down into the lowest parts of the castle.

With Kyri free it was a risk to continue releasing the prisoners, but Morgan couldn’t leave them and she wouldn’t have let him had he tried.

“We have before daylight before they discover that we’re gone,” Kyri said, “and that draws close.”

Where they were not even a trace of daylight flickered. Morgan looked at her.

She smiled, “I’m a creature of the light.”

Morgan looked at her, amazed she could smile and held her more tightly in his arms, careful of her wings and ribs, myriad bruises. He hadn’t put her down much since he’d swept her up in his arms above.

Now, though, he would have to, the channel where they needed to go was too narrow, too sloped to carry her safely.

“I’m well enough to walk, Morgan,” Kyri said, softly, “some of these aren’t.”

Hart had found his brother Richard – like him, another member of the Resistance – but like many of the others, he was half-starved, battered and beaten.

With despair Hart looked at his brother and the trip across the moat.

“How are we going to get them out of here?” Hart asked.

It was clear that many of them were too weak, too battered, to get across the moat easily, quickly or quietly.

“We need a distraction,” Caleb said.

Kyri shifted a little, leaning on Morgan’s arm, rolling her shoulders to test them, to stretch and loosen them. And smiled.

Sensing what she had in mind, Morgan wanted to refuse her. He wanted to keep her close and safe, but in the face of men who’d served with him for so long and suffered so much, he couldn’t.

Lifting her lips to his cheek, she winced a little as her ribs pulled. Her eyes met his, sparkling mischievously, though.

“Can’t you picture their faces, though, Morgan?” she asked as her grin broadened. “Haerold and his Queen?”

He could never resist her when she looked like this, gamine, impish, her eyes gleaming.

Brushing her hair back from her face, he smiled and brushed his lips across hers.

There was that, too, a kick in the teeth for what they’d done to her and to him. One more loss to Oryan’s cause.

“Are you sure?”

Her wings unfolded slowly behind her, clearly sore, but she nodded.

Then she laughed. “Yes, I think so.”

“Be careful, Kyri, I don’t want to lose you,” he said, drawing her close. “Not again.”

Lifting a hand, Kyri touched his strong handsome face, running her fingers over his square jaw.

“Never,” she said.

Ducking her head beneath the sluice gate, she looked up the wall. Giving him a swift kiss, she darted out into the growing daylight, making a face at the smell as she ran lightly through the moat. So far, no arrows. And then her wings opened, spread.

One stroke, two, another and she was sky-born.

She looped up along the far buildings and Morgan could hear the guards exclaim as she shot up into the air, aiming for open sky, her wings stroking hard. There was a clatter of arrows against stone, but they didn’t even come close. Shooting above the shadows of the city, Kyri rose above them into the sunlight. The sun touched her wings and they seemed to burst into brilliance, glittering and gleaming in the light of dawn.

“Go,” Morgan said to the others, watching Kyri as she danced in the air, swooping and diving like a lark, her body arching so every lovely curve showed clear against her thin shift, her beautiful legs trailing. Celebrating her freedom.

The men and women went as Morgan watched Kyri play in the air just out of bowshot, teasing the guards below…

There was a commotion in the castle, cries and shouts. The guards who’d been looking upward were now looking inward.

Wisely, Kyri spiraled and swooped away.

Most of the escapees rode out of the city in ones and twos, completely unremarked.

The city was abuzz with the story of the Fairy Queen’s escape.

The alarm rose, orders going out even as a wagon of hay rumbled out of the city.

After all, the guards were still looking for Morgan to come in, not to go out.

By the time the Hunters picked up the scent, they were long gone and a gentle rain was falling.

Oryan waited in his tent with Gawain, John of Orland, Jordan of Dorset and Patraic of Mormont – who gave Kyri an ironic look as they entered, to her smile – Detrick, Robert and some of the others who Kyri had spoken to over the previous two weeks. It was getting crowded in that tent.

Gesturing to their companion, Morgan said, “Your Highness, King Oryan, I’d like to introduce you to Lord Rhys of Caradoc, the Ambassador from Caerdonia.”

The man bowed, clearly the worse for wear, but the better for Healing, a bath and some clothes Geoffrey had managed to scavenge for him. They weren’t quite as fine as what he was used to, but better than what Haerold had given him.

“My Lord, the Lady Kyriay had graciously allowed me to send communication to my King. He was most interested in learning where his Ambassador has been for nearly a year. While we aren’t certain how quickly they can get here, he’s sending a division of his own cavalry to assist you in regaining your rightful throne.”

A little surprised, Oryan inclined his head. “My thanks, then, to Alder.”

The ambassador nodded. “I will see he gets them. With your permission, though, I’d like to stay, to offer whatever assistance and advice might be of value.”

“Then, we’ll start by saying we speak plainly around here,” Oryan said with a smile. “You do realize the odds are against us?”

A man of slightly more than middling height, his hair gray, with sharp green eyes, the Ambassador said with a smile, “Better to die in a good cause than a bad one.”

“We’ll try not to let that happen,” Oryan said. “All right. Morgan, now that you and Kyri are back with us…?”

Giving a nod, Morgan said, “Judging by what we saw on our return and what Kyri’s people have seen, Haerold is gathering his forces and preparing to march them northwest.”

“Straight at us,” Oryan said, gesturing for them all to join him by the map table as Geoffrey came in with wine from Mormont, juices and water.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “He knows you’re up here somewhere and while that’s still quite a bit of territory, it’s not that much for a large force. It’s certainly more of a direction than he’s had in a few years. He has to stop us and soon, in a show of power, or completely lose control. He’ll start hemorrhaging people. We, though, need more time.”

“So, how do we get it?” Oryan asked.

Kyri said, “By slowing them down. My people can help with that, hit and run tactics, force them to stop and take cover. Not all of them, but certainly the forward lines, which will slow those behind them. Secondly by making things difficult for them, something Gawain and I can do. He needs a lesson in the large magics as well as small and while I can call up a storm, with his help we might be able to do it in a way that lessens the impact but spreads the effect.”

It was clear Gawain was happy to have something to contribute.

Dropping his hand on his son’s shoulder, Oryan said, “Don’t underestimate the value of inspiration Gawain, and don’t forget that once the fighting starts, you’ll be in the thick of it. In the end, it’s you and I that Haerold wants and Haerold won’t be kind to either of us. Just ask Kyri, or Morgan.”

That brought Gawain back down to earth again.

“The Marshals will be doing much the same thing. Strike and run,” Morgan said. “We found a few friends while we were in Haerold’s dungeons and they’ve got a bone to pick with him. They’ve already ridden out, on their way to gather whatever men they didn’t find here to harry Haerold’s forces.”

“How much time?”

Morgan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, even a day or two will help, while we create an army out of John, Jordan and Patraic’s levies, the rebels who will, with the Marshals, act as our cavalry, since they’re used to hit and run tactics and Kyri’s people in the air. We’ll need to drill, to get people used to taking orders to go a given way. With only one wizard, we’re going to have to find a way to offset their magic, too.”

Kyri said, “My people can help with that.”

Galan came in, a tray in his hands.

“While our feathers don’t make any difference to us,” Galan explained, “since we are inherently magical, they do serve as a protection against some magic for those who aren’t.”