Warrior (40 page)

***

The rocking motion brought her

back to consciousness as a fierce

headache pounded through her skull.

Wincing, Jaisyn attempted to sit up,

finding that she couldn’t. She made

another attempt but her body would

not move. Her eyelids flickered once,

twice, and finally she could see dark

shadows around her. Where was she?

“Ah, the queen is awake,” said a

voice that was broodingly familiar. It

all came back to her in a rush. The

maid forced to drink the concoction.

Isolde taken. Leaving the castle.

“Isolde,” she croaked, before she

lapsed into a coughing fit. She felt

hands lifting her. Someone was

pressing something to her lips. A skin

—a water skin.

“Drink,” the voice urged once more.

Jaisyn shook her head.

“You can drink this the easy way or

I can force it down your throat. The

choice is yours.”

Her parched lips opened. The skin

fit between. She felt the cool rush of

the water as it slid over her tongue

and down her dry throat. She choked,

and a strong arm lifted her until she

was sitting up. Her head fell forward,

even as she tried to keep it up. She felt

firm fingers against her chin, and then

her head was being lifted once more.

The skin came to her lips and she

drank. Minutes later, she was being

lowered once more.

“Very good, Jaisyn,” the voice said.

“Sleep. You will need your rest for

what is to come.”

She fought she exhaustion, trying to

figure out where she was. She knew

that she was moving. That something

was carrying her somewhere. It was

dark. She made out four shadows

before her eyelids fell. What had they

done to her? Where was her sister?

She remembered leaving the castle

with the red-haired maid, and walking

into the city, her head and face

covered. Her mind went blank after

that. Isolde, she thought miserably, as

feelings of doubt entered her mind.

Had they released her sister? Was she

in Morden Castle, under Vulcan’s

protection? A groan escaped her lips

and she knew no more.

***

Vulcan was in one of his moods

again. Fierce warriors avoided him

and servants feared his presence. It

had been two days since he’d been

made aware of the disappearance of

his queen. His warriors had combed

the city and the provinces surrounding

them but had found nothing. They’d

questioned innkeepers and room

renters about large parties consisting

of golden-haired men and redheaded

men: no one had housed them. To top

that off, one of his soldiers had been

found murdered in his castle. His

castle had been breached, his queen

taken, and no one knew anything.

Asha, the maid who had been

drugged, had told him that she had

come to serve the queen, when

someone had grabbed her. She

remembered nothing else except

waking

in

Jaisyn’s

bed.

The

apothecary confirmed that it was a

potent, yet foreign drug meant to

knock the person unconscious.

He lifted the tankard of ale that had

been brought to him by one of the

servants and took a long drink. His

wife could be anywhere. She could be

in a neighboring kingdom, or hidden in

one of his provinces. She could be

dead. He refused to think of that. If

Malcolm was behind this, then Jaisyn

was alive. That thought did little to

appease him but it quelled his fear

somewhat.

The tankard of ale in his hand

crashed loudly against the fireplace

that graced the opposite end of his

study.

Two

guards

immediately

rushed in only to rush out once more

as their liege ripped into them about

manning their posts. His wife’s guards

were currently locked in the dungeon,

awaiting trial. Until he found out

exactly how the guards had managed

to let his wife be taken from the

castle,

he

was

holding

them

accountable.

A knock sounded at the door and

Vulcan bellowed for the person to

enter. He spun to face the person and

noticed that it was Ingrid, of the sour

countenance. His castle keeper.

“Yes?” he asked, struggling to keep

the rage running through him in

check.

Ingrid curtsied before saying in a

voice that trembled only slightly,

“Liege, it has come to my attention

that a young woman pretended to be

one of the maids recently.”

She had his full attention. Grey eyes

locked onto her and he nodded.

“Continue.”

“The servants describe her as having

pale skin and red hair,” Ingrid said as

calmly as she could muster.

“Pale skin and red hair,” Vulcan

repeated to himself. The villager from

Montak had spoken of Lytherians and

other foreigners. It was high time he

found out which country had people

of that description.

“Send Anhur to me,” he told her

quickly, referring to one of the Seers,

the knowledgeable holy men of

Morden. Her eyes widened but he

continued, “And have General Tarkon

assemble my generals and lieutenants

before the day is out.”

Ingrid, unaccustomed to being sent

on such important tasks, bowed and

immediately went about doing it.

***

Anhur entered the study no more

than half an hour after Ingrid set out

to tell the guards to escort him thither.

Vulcan had remained where he was,

staring into the fireplace.

“You seek answers to questions that

trouble you, Majesty,” Anhur said

firmly, bracing slightly on the stick he

used to help him maintain balance in

his old age.

“Yes. Do you know the questions

for which I seek answers?” Vulcan

demanded, turning to face the Seer.

No one knew Anhur’s true age, but

Vulcan guessed, from his grey hair

and the wrinkles on his body, that the

man was truly ancient. Frederick had

consulted Anhur over his every

decision and Anhur had given good

advice. Vulcan was not as religious as

his father and although Anhur still

resided within his own section of the

castle, Vulcan had hardly had need

for him over the years.

“Perhaps,”

Anhur

replied

cryptically. “I would still have you ask

them.”

Vulcan looked back to the fire. The

orange flames licked greedily at the

wood that had been provided for their

amusement. “Where is my wife?”

“Traveling,” was the response.

Vulcan’s glare might have put the fear

of Rika into any other man but the

one standing before him. Anhur

answered only to the Old Gods, the

gods who’d given birth to the various

religions, for they were the ones to be

praised and feared.

“If you could be more specific,

Anhur,” Vulcan bit out angrily.

Anhur chuckled easily. “You asked

where your wife was and I gave you

an answer, Majesty. Methinks you do

not ask the questions for which you

seek answers.”

Vulcan growled and contemplated

calling the guards to take him away.

“Which kingdom has people known

for their red hair and pale skin?”

Vulcan asked of the Seer.

“The kingdoms to the South. The

largest kingdom to the South is

Sulan.”

“Sulan?”

Vulcan

repeated,

remembering that once in a while his

father would talk of Sulan. Like the

Morden, they were powerful, with

armies numbering into the upper

hundred thousand, and great wealth.

Because they were so distant from

each other, the South usually had little

to do with the North, and vice-versa.

“Why are the Sulanese in Morden?”

Vulcan asked, remembering that

Sulan and Morden had a longstanding,

unwritten agreement not to enter into

the affairs of the other.

“The Sulanese are no longer in

Morden, sire.”

“What is my wife’s destination?”

“Your wife does not know her

destination.”

“What is the destination of my

wife’s captives?”

“They are unsure, sire. They ride

east.”

“Lytheria?”

“East, sire.”

He had one more question for

Anhur, but he wasn’t sure he wanted

to hear the

answer. “Did my wife leave of her

own will?”

Anhur lifted a brow as if knowing

why the question troubled Vulcan.

“Yes and no, sire.”

“What in the name of—what does

that mean?” His Majesty practically

roared.

The Seer was unfazed. “It means

that the queen left of her own will, but

was lured into doing so out of emotion

for another.”

Vulcan sighed and ran a hand

through his hair. He would not get a

solid answer from Anhur. He never

had. His gaze returned to the fire

burning at the hearth.

“I intend to gather my armies and

march against whoever holds my wife.

If the Sulanese have had any part in

her disappearance, they will feel my

wrath. Do I have the blessing of the

Gods?”

Anhur bowed his head but Vulcan

did not see. His response was quick,

easy, to the point. “The Old Gods

have always shown their blessing to

the kings of Morden. You are no

different, Vulcan, son of Frederick.”

There was another knock at the

door. Vulcan called for the person to

enter.

One of his guards bowed low to him

and announced, “A messenger has

arrived from Lytheria, sire.”

***

She could not—nay, she
would
not,

believe it.

Isolde grasped at the round door

handle and pulled. The door did not

budge. She stared in shock. Varian

had locked her in one of the guest

chambers. That had to be why she

was in a foreign room, feeling slightly

confused as to her surroundings. He

had promised to do so if she defied

him and left the castle without guards

again but she never imagined he was

serious.

After weeks of feeling caged in her

home, as Varian had appointed two

soldiers to follow her every move,

she’d finally seen the opportunity to

escape for a few hours. With the

number of nobles who’d been filing

into St. Ives to pay tribute to the new

king through his infuriating brother,

Isolde had felt like she was living in

bustling market. Aristocrats, who

came in droves, and were louder than

the disciplined men of war, had

replaced the numerous warriors.

That was why, when she’d stepped

from her room and had found no

guards before her door, she’d jumped

at the opportunity. She’d made it to

the waterfall, and being alone, had

stripped down her shift and dived into

the lake. A slight chill was on the air

but the sun had been high and that

warmth coupled with the cool lake

had made for fine swimming. After

her swim, she’d allowed her shift and

her hair to dry while she lay on the

rock.

Isolde backtracked from the door as

her memory came back in full sweep.

She’d been slowly drifting to sleep

when the sound of a twig snapping

brought her up. Her eyes scanned the

trees but she saw nothing. Driven by

instinct, she’d stepped into her dress,

ignoring the dampness of her shift,

and had buttoned it. No sooner had

two men, their entire faces covered

but for their eyes, stepped through the

foliage. Heart pounding furiously,

Isolde had hiked her skirts and ran,

screaming loudly as she did so. She’d

barely made it back into the forest

when a hand tugged her hair and she