A Man Betrayed (63 page)

Melli was thrilled
beyond words. This magnificent creature would soar upon her bidding. "I
name her Aravella." Tears prickled, fast and unexpected. After all these
years she was still moved by the sound of her mother's name.

"Beautiful,
miss. Beautiful," said the falconer. "A name worthy of
greatness," said the duke.

Melli looked up
from the hawk and found herself staring into the duke's eyes. She was overcome
with feelings of sadness and joy. "Thank you," she said. "In all
my life, I have never received anything as precious as this."

"I would give
you everything I own," he said, "if you would only be my wife."

Baralis was
walking across one of the many deserted courtyards of the duke's palace. He had
just paid a man to travel to Bevlin's cottage and tear the place apart, and was
about to calculate how long it would be before he was in possession of the
wiseman's library when a sharp pain stabbed at his chest. The sensation was so
sudden and so violent, it stopped him in his tracks.

Closing his eyes,
he sought out the blackness of selfawareness. His heart raced ahead of his
thoughts; beating wildly it conveyed a silent warning in the rhythm of the
blood. Words barely remembered amid so much else that had been said in Larn
flashed across his mind like lightning:
"Two days ago one of our seers
spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a girl with a knife
at her side. "

Struggling to keep
his feet, Baralis looked around the courtyard. A sandstone bench resting under
a leafy trellis gave him something to aim for. By the time he made it there, he
had calmed himself. A body heavy with the weight of foretelling slumped against
the stone. Only it wasn't foretelling, exactly-the seers of Larn had done that
alreadybut more a sign that it was coming to pass. Somewhere, right now,
someone's fate was in the balance, and the racing of his heart meant the
outcome would surely affect him directly.

As he rubbed the
sweat from his brow, he racked his brain trying to imagine who the girl with
the knife could possibly be.

"Easy, boy.
Easy," whispered Maybor, running a hand over his dog's bristling snout.
Shark growled deep in her throat, a chilling sound that told of deadly intent.
She had caught a whiff of the enemy and her hackles rose to the scent. All the
baiting had paid off. Eager to attack the man sitting alone in the distance,
she strained against the leash like the killer she was. "Good boy. Good
boy."

Maybor had
recently discovered that the combination of fine clothes on his back and a fine
animal at his side turned heads, especially women's. With this in mind he had
taken to walking through the palace grounds each day, leading Shark on a fine
leather leash. He enjoyed the admiring looks from the ladies and the envious
glares from the lords. This afternoon, however, he had spotted something more
interesting than a blushing maiden: Baralis secretly engaging the services of a
journeyman. A messenger, judging from the leanness of his horse.

The meeting was
near the stables. When Maybor had first come upon them, he had toyed with the
idea of setting Shark loose. But there were too many stablemen around, any one
of whom might have spotted him nearby. More importantly, one of them might have
stepped in to save Baralis and taken an ax to the dog. Maybor was growing
rather fond of Shark and hated the idea that she might get hurt. So he had
stayed where he was, watching the two talk from a discreet and shady distance.
He wasn't in the least bit surprised when the meeting ended with the journeyman
receiving a heavy purse; money was the only way Baralis could ever get a man to
do his bidding. As he watched, the two parted and Baralis began to make his way
back to the palace.

Never one to take
traditional routes, Baralis slipped down alleyways and slid under bridges,
taking a path less peopled than any normal man might choose. Feeling rather
pleased with himself, Maybor trailed him all the way. Shark stalked her prey
well, never once letting Baralis from her sight. Eventually they had come to a
fair-sized courtyard. Deserted at this time of year, it was probably a haven
for romance in high summer. Trees and shrubs were beginning to show their
green, and flower beds were hoed and ready for planting.

Maybor was just
about to follow Baralis across when the man suddenly doubled up on the spot. He
clutched at his chest and then turned an unpleasant shade of puce. Maybor
immediately sent a prayer to Borc, thanking him for sending a seizure to his
enemy. Unfortunately, Baralis seemed to recover. He stumbled over to a bench
and sat whilst he caught his breath.

Shark's head was
moving from side to side, and when Maybor looked down he saw that she was
wearing away at the leash. She chewed with chilling determination. Time and
time again, she had ripped apart bags filled with the remains of Baralis'
undershirt. The man's scent was burned upon her soul. Now the time had come to
strike her prey.

"Easy, boy.
Easy."

Maybor looked
quickly through the bushes to the place where Baralis was sitting. Deep in
thought, the man didn't look as if he'd be moving for some time. Maybor then
whirled around and searched the surrounding masonry. Aha! Just the thing. Near
the bottom of the wall was some fancy stonework: cherubs aimed bows at demons,
whilst nymphs frolicked with lions. The arm of one of the cherubs was styled in
relief, jutting out from the wall at an angle, its elbow forming a shape that
was as good a loop. Maybor threaded Shark's leash through the stone and tied a
fine soldier's knot in the leather.

Shark growled with
anger and began to pull against the leash. Her whole body thrashed violently
from side to side, but knot and stonework held.

Maybor was careful
to pick his distance before kneeling down by the dog, making sure that he was
at least a leashlength away. Shark had worked herself up to an eye-bulging,
muzzle-frothing frenzy. "Ssh. Easy now." The dog calmed a little.
"That's a good boy." Maybor risked bending forward a little. He took
a deep breath and then hissed: "Kill,
Shark,
kill!"

The words had a
profound effect on the dog. Her ears pricked up, her hackles rose, and she
began to chew with terrible intensity upon the leash. Her teeth tore at the
leather as if it were silk.

Maybor knew the
time had come for him to make a quick exit. ln less than two minutes, Shark
would be free, and he couldn't risk being here when she ripped out Baralis'
throat. He paused a second to admire the deadly slant of the creature's teeth,
briefly imagined them covered with blood, and then cut a hasty path toward the
stables.

The duke had
commanded the falconer to leave with the hawk. Melli was hardly aware of the
man taking the bird from her wrist. Her head was reeling. Marry! She couldn't
believe her ears. Had the duke lost his senses? She risked a quick look at his
face. Gray eyes met hers without a blink.

"You think I
jest, Melliandra?" His voice was as serious as his expression.

The door closed
with a discreet sweep and click. The falconer leaving with his bird.

Melli stood up and
walked over to the window. She needed time to think. However, the duke appeared
to have a different plan, for she heard his footsteps behind her, and then felt
the weight of his hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm. Firm enough to draw
her round.

"Melliandra,"
he said, "I am not a man who speaks lightly. I told you the other day how
I felt about you. Could you not guess at that time that I would want to marry
you?" His hand slid down the length of her arm and caught at her fingers.

His palm was dry,
she noticed. "You purchased me as if I were a sack of grain, and now you
want to marry me?" It didn't make sense. The duke was a proud man, yet
here he was proposing marriage to a girl he believed to be illegitimate. Such a
union would only bring him shame. Unless, of course, he was too in love to
care. Melli's pride rose up like a lid over a boiling pot. Why wouldn't he be
in love with her? Many others had been before. Castle Harvell was full of men
who had fallen at her feet-though she was quite sharp enough to know that it
was her father's money, as much as her own personal charms, that sped the
bending of their knees.

Unlike the vain
and pimply noblemen of the kingdoms, the duke knew nothing of her family or
wealth, yet he still wanted to marry her. Surely that must count for something?
Melli returned the pressure of his hand.

The duke took the
gesture as his cue. "Melli, if you agree to marry me, I swear that you
will not be just a bedmate. We will play, hunt, and politic together. You will
be by my side, but not as my lover or my wife, but as my equal." He
grabbed hold of her other hand. "Imagine it, Melliandra: you and I, the
duke and duchess of Bren, walking arm and arm through our palace, talking
policy and power one moment, and love and life the next."

Strange, thought
Melli, the words themselves were tantalizing, but they were spoken with little
emotion, like an actor running through his lines for the first time. Still, the
duke was a dispassionate man, and by his own admission, he had gone many years
without strong feelings toward any woman except his wife. Perhaps the quality
of natural reticence, combined with old-fashioned nervousness, made him speak
the way he did. "And what about my past?" she asked, desperate to
give herself time to think. "Many would scorn me because of it."

"If anyone
dared to scorn you, Melliandra, I swear I would kill them." There was
emotion in his voice this time: the huskiness of threat and the tremble of
anger. "I will not tolerate a single word spoken in mockery or
contempt."

Melli's heart
thrilled at the sheer power of the duke. He would kill anyone, she didn't doubt
it for an instant. It was pleasing to think that such a man would be actively
defending her honor. Not wanting to betray her thoughts, Melli pulled away. She
threw a question to test him. "How do I know you speak the truth about
involving me in affairs of state? It could be a ploy to tempt me into
agreement."

The duke walked
over to the sideboard and tested the jug for wine; finding it empty, he spun
around to face Melli. His sword sent light flashing across her face.
"You're not the type of woman to sit quietly and embroider all day,"
he said, a dry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Gardening, gossip,
and housewifery are not pursuits that will engage your interest. Indeed, that
is what I love about you-you're spirited, you're independent, and you're not
afraid to speak your mind." His smile was full now and bright with
admiration. "You could certainly teach the ladies of Bren a thing or
two."

"Not how to
put on cosmetics, that's for sure."

The duke laughed.
"I had wondered what those marks on your cheeks were."

"One of your
vintage reds," she said, secretly hoping that she didn't look too
embarrassing.

"I would
stick to drinking it next time."

"Hmph!"
Melli picked up a pillow from the bed and threw it at him. The duke's sword
was out in an instant. The pillow never reached him. The blade sheared it in
two, sending goosedown flying into the air like snowdrops. He looked
magnificent standing there, sword held aloft, muscles tensed, skin dark against
a flurry of white feathers. Slowly, he looked toward her and smiled.
"You'll have to be faster next time."

"No. I think
I'll just blunt the edge of your sword when you're not looking."

"I like a
woman who can think on her feet." -

"I like a man
who looks good covered in goosedown." They both laughed merrily. The sound
of shared laughter acted like a charm upon the room, changing the atmosphere,
making it lighter, less serious and, as the sun broke free from distant clouds,
bringing sunshine to accompany the joy.

The duke put down
his sword and walked toward Melli. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. He
came and knelt by her feet. "Agree to marry me now, Melliandra, or as Borc
is my witness, I will lock you up in here until you do."

"And will you
make me pick up the feathers one by one?"

"With
tweezers, no less."

Melli took a
moment to look at the duke. He was a handsome man; the lines of his face told
of experience and the hook of his nose told of power unchallenged. She liked
the way he dressed-plainly, like a soldier-and she liked the way he carried
himself--turning every movement into a simple statement of pride. Unlike
Kylock, he laughed and had a sense of humor, and although Melli was sure that
he could be cold and calculating, she was also sure he would never be cruel.
And in that respect, he was a world apart from Kylock.

"What say
you, Melliandra?" The duke's voice was soft. Melli reached out and brushed
the goosedown from his shoulders. The muscle beneath her fingertips was hard as
stone. "I agree to marry you, Garon, duke of Bren. I am willing to become
your wife."

It was time to
leave this place. His heart had recovered from the shock of foretelling, and
the wind that blew across the courtyard cut straight to the bone. Under his
robe, his hands were curled up like nestling birds; he would need to bring drug
to lip before they could be straightened once more.

Just as he tensed
his muscles to raise himself from the bench, Baralis felt a sharp pain in his
chest. His heart stopped dead. A dull ache raced up his left arm. Even as panic
gripped his soul, he knew a second telling was its cause. Stronger than before,
much stronger, it overrode all communication from eyes and brain. A vision
filled the void of a not-beating heart.

Seen in his belly
as much as his head, it was a girl with dark hair. Her lips shaped words that
he could not hear, and the man whom she spoke to was a shadow without form.
Baralis felt a stirring in mind and groin. He knew this woman. He had seen her
naked, emerging from her bath, candlelight resting on the welts on her back. It
was Maybor's daughter. Melliandra.