Moon Shadows (15 page)

“Enough.” His tone was a low growl as one powerful arm snaked around her waist and held her still, her body pressed helplessly against his.

“That is not the bargain I had in mind,” he said.

“Then what is?”

She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong and she had to bite her lip to keep from shouting a curse that would turn him into a toad.

“If you give up this quest of yours to die in the Valley of Org, I'll make you my wife, the Duchess of Blackthorne.”

She couldn't have been more shocked if he had shot her with an arrow. “Your . . .
wife
? What makes you think I want to be your wife?” She gaped at him in stunned disbelief. “Or that I'd give up on my sister's life for
that?
”

The way she said it made him sound like such a loathe-some monster that Keir almost smiled. Every moment he spent with her, she surprised him—with her quick mind, her intensity, with a determination that went far deeper than he'd first expected. This sensuous enchantress from Callemore sparked his interest more than he would have thought possible. Since his fourteenth summer, when he'd grown tall and strapping for his age, many women had fallen enthusiastically into his bed and—Lise of Callemore notwithstanding—would have been eager to win the title of Duchess of Blackthorne.

This one implied it would be a fate worse than Org.

Why was he bothering with her? Merely to try to save her foolish life? If he had a whit of sense he'd send her packing right now.

But he had not felt this alive in a long while.

“I need a wife and why shouldn't it be you?” he said bluntly, deciding to lay it out to her as plainly as possible.

“A truly charming proposal. My pet lizard could not have done better.”

She was right. It was an idiotic proposal and a stupid plan. Yet he couldn't resist explaining it to her.
On the off chance she would accept?
he wondered ruefully.

“I am the last of my family and I want—I
need
—heirs. I have no interest in attending balls and feasts and fairs in
search of an appropriate biddable bride. You have fallen into my lap, so to speak.”

“So you think!” she exclaimed, struggling with renewed zeal. But it was no use. Breathless, she gave up, glaring at him, her hair falling over her eyes.

“You are a beautiful and intelligent woman,” he remarked grimly. “You could give me strong, fine children, worthy of carrying on my family's lineage. And besides,” he added as she opened her mouth in outraged protest, “if you accept my proposal it will save your life. It is the one decent thing I can do for you—save you, too, from becoming a victim of Ondrea's evil magic.”

“Your kindness leaves me nearly speechless, but I must decline. I'll choose my own husband when I wish to marry,” she said breathlessly. She had given up struggling, as it was both useless and undignified. But being this close to him had the effect of making her breath catch in her throat. He was so very strong, and male and handsome—and irksome—all in a way that combined to compel her attention and trigger a warm flame deep under her skin.

She didn't understand the heady sensation his nearness created or why she wasn't quite so furious with him any longer. A tingling warmth swept over her as they stood like this, locked together, his face only inches from hers, the leather and spice and
man
scent of him all around her.

If he kissed you right now, you might very well decide you are ready to marry,
some mad voice inside of her whispered and she was appalled.

She'd once thought herself in love with a traveling minstrel, and at Lise and William's wedding feast, she'd danced with a young knight who'd made her heart flutter crazily, especially when he'd kissed her later in the garden. But neither of them had ever affected her quite like this coolly handsome duke with the hard face and haunted gray eyes.

She fought to ignore the way her heart was tumbling in her chest. “My sister is all that matters. I'm afraid even such a romantic proposal as this,” she added with asperity, “cannot tempt me.”

For a moment there was silence. Then his eyes narrowed.
“Fair enough. The women of Callemore have scorned me twice.” He spoke softly but there was a decided edge to the words. He released her so suddenly, Gwynna nearly stumbled. As he stepped back, she caught the sheen of ice in his eyes.

“If you wish to go to your death, it's on your own head. I want you gone from my keep at first light.”

“Done.”

She swept past him, the gown rustling about her ankles. He made no move to stop her as she sailed into the hall and raced up the staircase to her chamber.

An odd emptiness filled her. She had failed. Failed to glean from Keir how he had managed to escape from the Valley of Org. “No matter,” she whispered to herself as she tore off the amber gown and dropped it to the floor. “I don't need his advice, his marriage proposal or anything else the Duke of Blackthorne has to offer.”

Tugging back the scarlet silk coverlet she crawled into the bed, her face turned toward the high open window.

Tension pinched her shoulders, throbbed in her neck.
I may not get out alive, but I will get Lise's beauty and youth and life back into her body. My sister will live
, she told herself desperately.

Beyond the window, a cloud passed over the moon.

And Gwynna tried not to think of the man who had offered her marriage. The tall, hard-faced man with the shadows haunting his soul.

But his warning words filled her mind as she struggled to sleep. So did the memory of his eyes and his touch.

Keir of Blackthorne was the most arrogant, lonely, infuriating man she'd ever met—and the most stimulating.

And she was never going to see him again.

T
HE
Valley of Org was near.

Gwynna knew it, for the terrain had changed during the last hour of her trek and it grew steeper, more inhospitable and darker the farther she travelled, as she left behind the borders of Blackthorne, the rolling hills and level pastures, and made her way toward the unknown banks of the Wild Sea.

She had awakened before the roosters and donned her boy's garments once again. Then she'd slipped out of Blackthorne Keep without a word to anyone. Keir had been nowhere about, neither had Roslyn or the serving girl who'd brought the amber gown to her chamber.

She'd gone immediately to the hut at the edge of the village where she'd left her horse and sack the day before.

But when the farmer's boy had offered to fetch and saddle Aster for her, she'd shaken her head. “Thank you, but no. I won't take her where I'm going. I'm sending her home.”

She'd fed Aster and stroked her neck, speaking silently in the manner she did with all creatures, asking her to return to
Callemore. The boy stared in amazement as Gwynna stepped back and watched the chestnut mare gallop toward home.

“You've cared well for her and you shall be rewarded,” she told the boy as he led her into the hut. “Here, take this for my mare's food and keep.”

The boy's eyes grew round as she handed him two shimmering gold coins.

His mother, who'd been slicing fresh-baked bread, stared in wonder at the coin-giver, who was not much larger than her son. He was dressed humbly, but he spoke with the dignity and assurance of nobility.

“You are generous,” she murmured as she stared at the youth before her, wrapped in a plain gray cloak and cap. “But . . . where did a boy like you come to have such sums?”

Smiling, Gwynna extended her hand to the woman and in it glinted a third coin. “I have come by these coins honestly, and you are welcome to them. You have done a favor for the Princess of Callemore.”

“You serve the Princess of Callemore?” the woman asked in astonishment.

“No. I am the Princess of Callemore.” She tugged off her cap and her cloud of wild dark curls spilled out. Ignoring the gasps of the woman and her son, Gwynna drew from the sack her traveling gown and matching cloak of deep forest green.

Now, clad in her own garments, she strode through the rocky terrain that would lead to the Wild Sea. She was glad to have shed her boy's garments; they had seen her through to Blackthorne well enough, but now their usefulness was done. Once she entered the Valley of Org, she would not be safe no matter how she was attired, so she may as well go in as a princess. If Ondrea or her spies saw her, so much the better.

It might speed her mission along if they knew that Queen Lise's sister, the moon witch, Gwynna, was paying a call. Perhaps she'd be met by Ondrea's underlings before she'd gone more than fifty paces inside the Valley of Org and be escorted to Ondrea's fortress.

She reached the rise that overlooked the Wild Sea in late
afternoon as the wind picked up and the towering waves swelled and roared beneath an increasingly leaden sky.

Even the velvet lining of her cloak didn't stop the chill as she gazed down at the wharf in the distance and at the row of fishermen's huts trailing down a rocky hillside to the shores of the sea.

The wharf appeared deserted when she finally reached it, the wind screaming in her ears. A lone ferryboat bobbed on the maddened water, tied with rope to the pier, and she eyed it warily.

It was widely known that wizards didn't cross water well, and she suspected that witches wouldn't fare much better.

Though she'd never traveled by sea before, the very sight of the roiling water, blue-black in the gloom and crested with foaming white, made her stomach surge and dip.

So engrossed was she in studying the sea that she didn't sense someone approaching her from behind until a heavy hand clamped down upon her shoulder.

Startled, she spun around and gazed into the crafty eyes of a burly man. The ferrymaster.

He smelled of brine and the sea and his eyes were as pale and fierce as the cresting waves.

“How much to cross?” Gwynna shouted over the wind.

He shook his head.

“I must cross! What is the fee for passage?”

“You don't want to cross tonight. Nor tomorrow night,” he yelled in a booming tone. “A month from now, she'll calm a bit. No one crosses when she's like this.”

“I can't wait. I'll pay you handsomely to take me now.”

“To Org? Or south to Alyngil?”

His eyes glinted. Whether it was with malice or greed or suspicion, she couldn't say, but their expression sent a chill like an icicle scraping down her back.

“To Org. Now!” Gwynna shouted.

The ferrymaster smiled widely, showing broken teeth.

“Ten coins of gold and you'll have me own boat for yourself,” he said, stretching out the open palm of a gnarled hand.

Peering over his shoulder, Gwynna saw a smaller boat tied
to the planked wharf. It bobbed wildly on the water in a way that made her stomach jerk.

“I want payment first—you'll drown before you reach the Valley of Org,” the ferrymaster said off-handedly. “Or you'll be killed, a tender thing like you, before you even climb the rocks. There are Slegors in the water, and Rock Trolls at the other shore. So ten coins now and be off to yer death. Me, I'm ready for me supper.”

She gazed beyond him at the small mud hut, which looked like it would be washed away by the sea, if not blown apart by the wind. Wood smoke wisped from the chimney, only to be snatched across the sky.

“You won't take me? I'll offer twenty coins!”

His grin widened. She tried not to stare at those chipped and yellowed teeth.

“I want my supper and my ten coins. The Slegors will have me if I try to cross tonight. What'll it be, miss?”

Gwynna hesitated. For a moment she wished herself back in the vast, sturdy confines of Blackthorne keep—even better, at her own beautiful Castle of Callemore, amidst the swans floating upon the placid lake, or the gardens where songbirds played amongst the branches of apricot trees.

But she had chosen this path and now she must follow it as quickly as may be. The longer the delay, the stronger chance that Lise would die. How long could she survive as an empty, decaying shell?

“I'll have your boat. Here's my ten coins and an extra one, as well, if you'll give me a club or sword. I suspect I will need more than my dagger to fight off the . . . what did you call them?”

“Slegors.” He cocked an eyebrow, looking amused. “A little thing like you? Well, I've no sword, but you'll have the oars for clubs, much good will they do you. And if you get to the other side, remember, the Rock Trolls lurk beneath. Not that even a sword would be worth spit against the likes of them.”

So much for encouragement
, Gwynna thought. When she'd counted the coins into his broad, scarred hand, he set about
untying the boat for her as she leaped down into it and grabbed the oars.

The pitching sea foamed around her as the ferrymaster released the last wet length of rope. The boat bucked like a wild horse and careened away from the wharf.

At first she tried to steer, rowing with the oars until the muscles in her arms and shoulders screamed with pain. But the sea had a mind of its own and it pulled her sideways, instead of across. A horrible sickness came over her, and Gwynna swallowed great gulps of salt air, trying to fight the convulsions of her stomach, even as she fought the waves and the lashing water and the cold.

Suddenly, a small, ferret-nosed creature lunged up from the water and tried to jump into the boat. Then another, and another, and a shrill shrieking pierced the air as they bared their teeth and smashed against the boat, trying to leap in, even as their snakelike tongues lashed out, dripping with venom.

“Get back!” Gwynna shouted, thrusting at them with an oar. She had lost all control of the boat, it bobbed with a mind of its own and she could no longer even see from which direction she'd come, nor determine which direction she was headed. She concentrated instead on fighting back the Slegors as they surrounded her, bobbing, hissing, springing toward her as she grew steadily more exhausted by the fight.

“
Arameltor sumn purdonnte
!” she gasped at last and saw a shield of smoke rise about the sides of the boat. The Slegors slammed against it and their fins dissolved.

One by one, they fell back, sinking into the sea in bits, their hissing disintegrating to a low and finally extinguished murmur.

But the boat still rocked violently, wrenching out of all control. Both oars were torn from her hands and she watched as they were carried away on the waves. Clinging to the sides of the boat, drenched and gasping, Gwynna used every ounce of her strength to keep from being flung from it.

But a moment later, as a gale swelled out of nowhere and the sea rose up in a fury, the boat smashed in two and she was flung with the wooden remnants into the sea.

She sank, pushed upward, kicking frantically, and then sank again. Waves washed over her, the sea sucked her down and she couldn't find her way up . . . she was going to drown . . . the sea closed around her, a watery tomb, and the cold numbed her bones as she sank, struggled, sank in a desperate dance that could only end in death . . .

A hand grabbed her arm, wrenched. She was up, pain screaming in her lungs as the steely fingers of an unseen force hauled her up, up, up . . .

She lay numb and freezing, shivering violently on the floor of a vessel.

Gazing down at her was a dark hulking figure, blurry in the fog and damp.

But she recognized the voice that spoke above the roar of the sea.

His voice. Keir of Blackthorne.

“Damned idiot woman. I should have let you sink to the bottom and end up food for the Slegors. What kind of a foul spell have you put on me?”

Then she knew nothing but the cold hard kiss of darkness as the blackness rushed over her and swallowed her up.