The Dragon Prince (23 page)

“Allegedly,” Rhun grumbled. But deep down,
he knew Bridei was right. He was lashing out blindly, desperate to
find someone to blame for their predicament. Everything Bridei said
was true. They’d known many of the British chieftains thought
Arthur was gaining too much power. It was no surprise a man like
Urien would harass them, knowing they were on a mission for Arthur.
“Do you think Urien knows who Eastra is? Do you think he’s keeping
us here because of her?” A spasm of fear went through Rhun. What if
Eastra were in danger?

“I don’t know, but I will try to find out,”
Bridei answered.

“How?”

Bridei’s mouth quirked. “Morguese.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten the two of you have a
special relationship.” Rhun could not keep the bitterness from his
voice. “And while you are at it, see that she does nothing to
Eastra.”

“What do you think she would do to
Eastra?”

Rhun snorted. “There’s no telling what sort
of wicked spell she might work on an innocent like Eastra.”

“You speak as if you believe the stories
that Morguese is a sorceress.”

“Well, isn’t she?”

“Perhaps. But her power’s not much different
than the kind of power Rhiannon has, and you’re not afraid of
her.”

“I
’m certain
Rhiannon would never
hurt anyone, while I’m not convinced about Morguese. All I know is
when Urien ordered Eastra to go with Morguese, this sense of dread
came over me.”

“Maybe you’re afraid Morguese will teach
Eastra how to bewitch you.” Bridei grinned.

“Huh.”
Too late for that,
Rhun
thought to himself as he began to change his own clothing. He was
already
bewitched. Nay, that was misstating it. He was in
love. What else could this feeling inside him be, this desperate
longing to be near Eastra, to hold her and keep her safe forever?
Merely being away from her this short while made him frantic. And
when he thought about the future and their inevitable parting, he
felt such deep anguish he was not certain he could go on.

He ran his fingers through his hair before
splashing his face with water a servant had brought them. “What do
you think Urien intends to do with us?” he asked as he toweled
dry.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s simply
going to detain us here for a good while.”

Rhun jerked around. “How long?”

Bridei shrugged. “If I knew that, I might
unravel the rest of his plan. Relax. If Urien had meant any of us
harm, we would not be here. We would be back in the forest, already
carrion for the wolves and ravens.”

Rhun sighed as he exchanged his leather
riding trousers for some of soft wool. Why had he agreed to this
ridiculous journey? It would have been much simpler to take Eastra
to some other stronghold, Tinegal perhaps. It was far from the
Saxon lands and Arthur’s headquarters at Camlann, but could be
reached by crossing lands that were ruled by the high king’s
allies. This journey to Gwynedd—it was madness. Yet he had agreed
to it, reasoning in some part of his mind hidden even to himself
that it would give him an opportunity to be with Eastra that much
longer. Now his obsession with this woman might have cost his
commander dearly and could yet endanger them all.

He recalled his coupling with Eastra, the
blinding speed with which he’d thrown aside all restraint and
rationality. Merely to touch this woman was to turn into a
lust-raddled fool.

A servant came to take them to the feast
hall. With a grim look at Bridei, Rhun fell in step behind their
escort. He had to stop thinking about Eastra. It was more important
than ever that he keep his wits about him.

* * *

“That you’re a slave does not mean you have
to dress in rags,” Morguese purred. “I’m certain we can find some
clothing that will enhance your charms.”

Eastra felt her body go rigid. She was in a
sumptuous bedchamber, ostensibly for the purpose of helping
Morguese prepare for the feast. But a tiny red-haired servant had
assumed the responsibility of helping Morguese dress and was now
combing out the queen’s thick auburn hair. Eastra had waited,
anticipating some task would be required of her. Now, it appeared
Morguese had more devious plans in mind.

“Come here, sweeting,” Morguese coaxed. “Let
me look at you more closely.”

Repressing a shiver of dread, Eastra
approached Morguese, who was sitting on a stool near the hearth.
“Such a lovely creature.” Morguese reached out her long, elegant,
be-ringed fingers and examined one of Eastra’s braids. “And
exquisite hair. I’ve never seen any that shade before. I’m certain
Rhun must have paid a very high price for you. In Londinium.” She
smiled smugly and her strange eyes glinted green, like marshlights.
She nodded to Eastra. “Turn around.”

Eastra obeyed, her face hot with color. She
might as well be in the slave market, the way this woman was
inspecting her.

“Mmmm. I’ve heard tales of such things,”
Morguese murmured. “Of princesses, even queens, who fell into the
hands of their enemies and ended up as scullery maids. How sad,
very sad. To go from having such power to having naught.”

Eastra whirled around, wanting to see her
adversary’s face, to gauge whether she knew the truth or was simply
guessing. But Morguese’s jewel-like eyes revealed nothing—except a
kind of terrifying power, a startling energy that made Eastra look
away. Anxiety shivered down her body. What if this woman
ensorcelled her and made her reveal all her secrets?

“You’re trembling, child.” Morguese stood,
the movement light and quick. “Fear doesn’t become you. It demeans
your beauty, makes you look pale and insipid. But perhaps that’s
how you’ve had to appear in order to fool your captors into
believing you’ve accepted your lot as a slave. But I know better. I
think you are defiant and proud and not meek at all. You intend to
have it back some day, all the power and esteem that was once
yours.”

Eastra went rigid. It was as if this woman
could read her thoughts!

Morguese responded with a satisfied smile.
“They do not call me the ‘witch of the north’ without good reason.
No doubt you’ve been raised to believe power is something only men
wield. But that’s far from true. In fact, women control everything
important. Urien fancies himself a great man, guiding the future of
Britain. He’s no different than my kin, Arthur. But it is not up to
them. I have looked into the scrying bowl and
seen.
It is my
power, my magic that will endure!”

Eastra stood frozen, mesmerized by this
woman who was like no other she had ever met. Morguese of Rheged
dared to challenge even the warriors of her race.

“About your attire for the feast tonight...”
Morguese tapped a finger on her chin. All at once, she was a woman
again, rather than a seer prophesizing the future. “I think
something subtle would be best. A fabric pale and shimmering, so
that you glow like a flame in the dimness of the hall.”

“Nevyn.” Morguese snapped her fingers.
“Bring me the pale green gown I wore for the Beltaine celebration
three years ago, the one that faded so badly when you washed it.
Shoddy workmanship, I say. A good dye should not fade. Or perhaps I
wasn’t meant to wear it after that. What if that is a sign that I
should not wear the gowns I use for the ceremonies more than once?
The Goddess might feel cheated, after all.” Morguese frowned, and
Eastra heaved a sigh. It was a relief to be in the presence of a
mortal woman once again, haughty queen though she might be.

The gown Nevyn brought was finely made and
elegant, not the provocative garment Eastra had worried it would
be. She and Morguese were the same height, so although the Rheged
queen was more generously built, the gown fit tolerably well. Nevyn
combed Eastra’s hair and loosely braided the front. Finally, Eastra
was deemed ready by Morguese and they proceeded to the feasting
hall. Once they reached it, Morguese surprised Eastra by telling
her to follow Nevyn to the kitchen area. “You’re supposed to be a
slave,” she said with a faint smile. “Let’s see you behave like
one.”

Eastra soon found herself moving around the
feast hall with a pitcher of mead, filling cups. She really didn’t
mind her role of servant this night, if it gave her an opportunity
to get close to Rhun. Gradually working her way around the other
warriors gathered by the hearth, she reached Rhun and, trying not
to tremble, filled his cup. He glanced up, his eyes full of anger
and frustration, but then she smiled at him and his expression
changed to one of yearning. Eastra’s heart soared. He could not
deny what was between them. It showed too clearly on his face.

She moved away, hoping he had the sense to
drink his mead quickly so she could return to serve him once
more.

* * *

To Rhun’s right, Urien said something. Rhun
struggled to listen. He must remain wary and alert, and remember
the danger they were in. But it was very difficult with Eastra so
near, moving like a flame of light in the pale green gown, her
milky skin and silvery gold hair completing the luminous effect. He
wanted to reach out for her, to take her in his arms.

But he could not. It would be terribly
dangerous to let
his enemy guess
she was more to him than a
gift for his stepmother. If Urien knew who Eastra was and how he
felt about her... Rhun’s stomach clenched at the thought.

“The slave girl...” Urien was saying. “It
appears she has been trained to serve food as well as do
needlework. She hasn’t spilled a drop, and she moves among the men
with remarkable grace.” He looked at Rhun, an ironic grin twitching
his mouth. “Perhaps after the meal, we could have her dance for
us.”

Rhun went rigid. The idea of having the
whole hall of men looking at Eastra, enjoying her beauty, made him
almost physically ill. “Just because she can serve mead gracefully
does not mean she can dance,” he retorted. “As far as I know, the
Saxons do not indulge in such activities. Although they set some
store by their heralds and poets and are expert craftsmen, I don’t
think music matters much to them.”

“Still,” Urien said, “It might be
interesting to see if she has a natural gift for it. After Morguese
dances, of course.”

Rhun’s mind raced. He had to save Eastra
from performing for these crude warriors. He could not subject her
to such embarrassment and degradation. Bridei, he thought, shooting
a glance at his brother. He might be able to think of a plan to
spare Eastra. But how to talk to him? Bridei was seated on the
other side of Morguese, down the table.

Eastra carried in a platter of bannocks,
offering the steaming cakes to the warriors to use in sopping up
the juices from the chunks of meat they cut off from the roast boar
carcass set up on a plank near the hearth. Rhun watched her,
observing her agile movements. Demure but queenly, she was the
epitome of refined womanhood. An intense longing built up inside
him. If only there was some way that after this war was over, he
could make her his wife. But that was a vain hope. The war with the
Saxons had gone on since a hundred years before he was born.

She came near, offering him a bannock.
Again, she smiled at him, her teeth white and even, her blue eyes
as soft and tranquil as the summer sky. He lost himself in her
gaze, remembering her skin, her softness, her delicate female
scent...

“I think your plan is witless, Rhun ap
Maelgwn,” Urien said beside him. “You should take her for a
concubine. I’m certain you can find your stepmother some aged crone
to aid her in her sewing. There is no need to waste such
beauty.”

Rhun looked sharply at Urien. The old
chieftain laughed, his teeth glinting pale yellow in his
gray-streaked beard. Rhun jerked his gaze away, fearing he’d made a
fool of himself in front of his enemy. Curtly, he nodded to Eastra,
indicating that she should move on. As she did so, Urien laughed
again.

The feast dragged on. Rhun had no appetite.
He wondered if Urien was serious about having Eastra dance. The
idea gnawed at him.

The wooden platters and the remains of the
feast were cleared away by Eastra and the other servants. She
disappeared for a time, and Rhun prayed she would remain in the
kitchen. But all too soon she returned with another platter, this
one filled with honey cakes. From the edge of the room, Rhun heard
the soft thump of a drum, then a sparkling cascade of notes from a
harp. A second harpist joined the first, the two instruments
blending to make a richer tone. The lilting tones of a shepherd’s
pipe were the last to join the melody.

The drumbeats quickened in tempo and the
music grew more stirring. Morguese rose like a lazy cat from her
cushion between Urien and Bridei. She ran her fingers through her
long, unbound hair, then moved languidly into the open space where
the roasted carcass had been. Some of the warriors moved the
benches back to afford her more room.

She motioned to a small flame-haired
servant, and the girl came forward carrying a cloth bag. Morguese
drew out the contents and with the girl’s help, began to tie the
small bronze bells to her wrists with leather thongs. As Morguese
drew up her gown so the girl could tie bells to her ankles, Rhun
saw that their hostess was barefoot.

Slowly, as if testing each movement to see
what sound it made, Morguese began to dance. The bells rippled and
chimed, blending with the rest of the instruments, forming a rich
tapestry, thrilling and wild. Rhun felt his heartbeat quicken.

Morguese’s lush form, clad in crimson,
undulated like bright liquid spilling across the room. Her feet
tapped rapidly against the hard-packed earthen floor of the hall,
making the bells shimmer and sing. The melody was irresistible. It
surged and subsided, like the waves of a sea lapping against the
senses. Rhun exhaled a deep breath. He felt the music enter him,
reaching down into his soul. It seemed to draw out all the aching
turmoil inside him and concentrate it until it was a fine, golden
thread pulling his thoughts out into infinity.