Remedy Maker (49 page)

She placed her hand in the crook of his arm and they exited from the dark corridor into the bottom floor of the atrium, opposite the great fountain. Not many Centaurs strolled with foals today, not with a party going on outside the cavern walls.

Queen Savella’s uplifting speech of getting along and rocking it hot didn’t surprise her. Unlike Daisy’s disclosure that had nearly caused her to do a back flip. The queen’s single-minded objective to encourage every mythic to work for a common goal, had been the initial link between Patience and Rhy. It was why he’d brought her on board in the first place.

Daisy’s casual comment of wanting to jump a train and head out west to join a copse in California threw Patience into a head spin. Daisy was more of a sister than a best friend, and the thought of Daisy living so far away, across the country—it was
unfreakenbelievable
.

Patience tried to put it out of her mind. She’d get to the bottom of it later.

Bluegrass tickled where it poked through her sandaled flats. Four-inch spike heels with a peek-a-boo toe would have been more fun to parade around in, especially in front of stud muffin, but the thought of yanking the spears out of the dirt with every step dulled the appeal.

“I tell you, I did nothing wrong! And certainly not of which you accuse.” Indignant and slightly whiney, a Satyr with an ill-fitting putty-colored robe tapped small hooves over a patch of flagstone. His size matched his short strides, which was in direct contrast to the huge barrel-chested Centaur guardsmen in true form flanking the incensed man on four sides. “I demand you remove these immediately.”

Wrought iron manacles shackled the angry man’s wrists, a connecting bar made them inflexible.

A tall, dark-haired guard marching to the right of the prisoner turned his head to speak. Patience was surprised to see Kempor Aleksander. After Savella’s speech, she assumed he’d left with the queen to join the festivities. In his hand, he held the tip of a sword directly at the captive.

“You’ll be given the opportunity to prepare a defense—unlike the woman you shot.” Aleksander’s voice seethed with anger, his words clipped and tight. He caught sight of her and Rhycious and a bit of tension drained from his face, though he didn’t slow the march of his detainee.

He nodded a greeting in passing. “Best wishes, you two. Rhycious, old man, sorry I can’t be there. Forgive me.”

She smiled politely, but wasn’t sure what Aleksander referred to. Best wishes for what? The festival? Of course Rhy would blow off hard feelings if Alek had to work, he understood the concept of work coming first. Patience knew that first hand.

Aleksander pushed open a conference room door marked
Room One.
The guard detail and Satyr filed in after him.

“Hey, check it out. There’s Mr. Shaun.” Patience pointed inside the room. “He’s the dude I buy material and stuff from.” She waved her hand. “Hi, Mr. Shaun.”

Mr. Shaun flicked his scowling glance at her as he leaned against the beige wall facing the open door. He wore a button-down blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and dark jeans. One booted foot rested on the stone wall at his back, and his thumbs hooked his front pockets. He didn’t look happy when the small guy with the big whine was shoved inside and hauled to a seat.

“Mr. Shaun? Is that what you call him?” Rhy asked.

“Well, yeah.” When she glanced at Rhycious, his brows were knitted. “You know him too?”

Rhycious nodded. “I know him as Nubbs.”

The two men made eye contact and stared as if they were having a telepathic conversation.

Mr. Shaun broke away to glare hard at the prisoner.

“Who’s the Satyr?” she whispered to Rhycious.

“Albion Yerdank.”

 “The Protectorate of Domains? That’s him?” She cranked her neck to gauge if Rhy was kidding with her. “You’re laying some serious sarcasm on me, right?”

Rhy chuckled. “I shit you not.”

The door closed and they continued on, following one corridor after another. He came to a stop beside a magnificent panel with carvings of Pan and Bacchus, and knocked quietly. Not waiting for an answer, he turned the knob and walked in. His arm slid warmly around Patience’s waist, holding her in front of him.

A rectangular table, draped in white satin, immediately caught her eye. Dendron, the Wood Nymph spirit guide, was busy scattering his potpourri over the floor and table, and lighting scented candles. His pale green ceremonial robe snapped with his strides, fluttering the braided belt tied around his middle.

Not in a million seasons would she have recognized the Centaur priest who closed the door, joining them in the center of the room. Templar Khristos had discarded his signature black gown and skullcap and donned pure white, matching the draped table in satin fineness. His equine form of ebony held the contrast of a domino, shocking the eye at first, then gentling with accustomed exposure.

This was obviously a ceremony of sorts, one in which she felt privileged to be a part of. No one spoke to give a clue what the formal procedure was about, but hanging out long enough she’d figure it out.

Templar Khristos’s heavy hooves clopped to stand in front of the table.

“Rhycious of Aegean, servant of Bacchus and Pan, subject of Queen Savella. Step to the altar and bring with you your chosen.” Khristos beckoned them forward with his hand.

Patience glanced up at Rhy’s solemn face. Something serious was happening in this room.
Crapnuts! Hope I didn’t get him into trouble.
He stood soldier straight, chin level, eyes forward—like someone meeting his executioner.

“To be a true Centaur of the highest degree requires courage.” Khristos slipped a golden noose of soft cotton over Rhy’s head. “To allow destiny to choose your fate requires faith.” The priest twined a lazy loop of the same rope around her neck, leaving plenty of slack. “To bestow the honor of your safekeeping requires trust.” Another length circled her neck, similar to a collar. “To promise the remainder of your days—” The priest met her gaze and held it, “—is love.”

The piercing eyes of the Templar sought the depths of her soul. His hard glint stared without wavering. She didn’t know the reason behind the ceremony, and why in Pan’s hooves she and Rhy had a rope around their necks. Everyone seemed so solemn.

What the heck is going on?

Khristos slid a slow glance to Rhycious before touching a portion of excess rope hanging in swag between their necks. “Wood Nymph Patience of the genus
platanus
occidentalis
, servant of Bacchus and Pan. Are you here of your own free will?”

Okay, now they had crossed the line from utter confusion, into
creeptastic
.

“Yeah, totally.”

 Rhycious kept his eyes front and center. She wished he’d hint at what was going down.

Khristos removed a loop from around her neck, his flowing white sleeve brushing her forehead. “Give me your hand.”

She glanced up.

Yup
, he was talking to her. She stuck her hand out to shake his. The priest let out a forceful sigh and turned it palm up, placing a single coil of rope to curve her fingers around and hold.

“This coil represents the dedication you have for Rhycious of Aegean, the loyalties he holds, and the pursuit of his office of Royal Remedy Maker.”

Dedication she had for Rhy?

The tingle at the top of her spine that started when she had entered the room kicked an ignition throughout her body.
Shit on a cracker
.
Tremblies
gathered and awareness hit the top of her cranium with the power of a thermal pocket of steam.

This wasn’t a ceremony for Rhycious.

This was her wedding.

Oh. My. Gods.

Khristos took up more length of marital line and she held her breath, feeling the blood drain from her face, waiting on his words.

“Forever, from this moment on, until the gods call you to the green valleys of Elysium, it shall be known that you are mated. Rhycious of Aegean, you now belong to Patience of the Wood Nymphs, for all eternity. May your union be blessed.”

The second loop lifted from her neck. In her hand, she held the tail end of the golden rope while the noose remained wrapped about Rhy’s neck, much the same as a holding a haltered horse. Her eyes wandered from the soft cotton twist in her hand, to the proud profile of her new husband.

A little shaken from the falcon speed at which things had happened, her delayed reaction of utter joy took a moment to break through.

Rhycious did this
for her
. He’d arranged everything and kept it a surprise. No one had
ever
done anything as wonderful and loving as this. If she weren’t so tired from the walk to the auditorium, she would have danced a Nymph shimmy around him.

The rope lay in her hand. To test its strength, she gave it a light tug.

Rhycious immediately turned to face her. A ridiculously happy smile crooked his mouth, happiness shone from his eyes. “My
polytima
.”

She giggled. “I can’t believe you set this all up.”

“Not mad, are you?”

“Only madly in love, stud muffin.” Patience wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “I’m so
thankfulgetic
I met you and that you’re in my life.” Every other word punctuated by a kiss.

“Congratulations.” Templar Khristos shook Rhy’s hand, and then turned to Patience. He took a deep breath and looked down at his fore hooves, lifting one up and setting it down. When he met her eyes, he apologized for his temperament earlier in the week. “I can only ask that we start anew, as Queen Savella would urge.”

Khristos’s obsidian image blurred. She blinked the moisture away and nodded, smiling.

Dendron stepped forward, a broad grin creasing his friendly face, blue eyes sparkling. “But we’re not done yet, sapling.”

Beneath the white folds of the alter cloth, Dendron brought out a small plant in an ornamental planter decorated with pewter foil accents. A seedling sycamore, having only seen each season once, reached its vibrant green leaves upward and strained to catch the sun.

“
Holy doodles
,” she said in awe. “It’s so cute. Who belongs to it?”

“Well,” Dendron drawled out. “That largely depends on you.”

“Me? What gives?”
Did everything have to be a riddle today?

Rhycious pulled the wedding rope from around his neck and set it aside. “I know what’s causing your illness.” He hesitated, appeared to think better of it, and went on. “And you’ll not get better with time—only worse. But there’s a cure, if it works.”

Patience looked to the Wood Nymph who held the office of Evoker of the Spirit, and Dendron nodded sagely in agreement.

Rhy ducked his head to catch her eye. “I believe I found the tie that will bind your taproot soul to this tree.”

She pulled her gaze from Rhy, his eyes begging her to accept his words as truth. Gods, she didn’t want to be anyone’s guinea pig—not even her own. She glanced at Khristos. His features remained placid while stroking his beard. He studied her beneath his hooded eyes.

“Dendron, is what Rhy
suggestimates
possible? Can I be cured?” Though her stomach threatened a raging storm, her breath quickened and hope sprouted. Roots of possibility spread, unleashing the dreams of her childhood.

To be amplified for another century. She could be healthy, and with Rhycious no less.
Dare I hope?

Dendron held his hand out, sleeves rolled to his elbows. “May I see the leaf you carry with you?”

She caught Rhy’s quizzical look as she reached into the pocket of her dress and removed her yellow-green leaf, tinged brown along the edges, protected inside a small vinyl envelope.

“You always carry that?” Rhy asked.

“Almost always.” She handed her leaf to Dendron, watched him remove the bract from its protective cover, and cup it in his palm. Held next to the healthy sapling, her leaf seemed ready for autumn. The evidence of illness made her realize just how tired and weak she really was.

“I’ll need a few drops of your blood,” Dendron said, and added, “Just a few, that’s all.”

“No
problemo
. Anybody have a pin?” She glanced over the items lying on the altar: small container of clear water, the wedding rope, potted sycamore, and a bowl of potpourri. No pin to prick her finger.

Rhycious unclipped a
gargantuous
knife, whose very size seemed to shrivel the palm of his
humongous
hand. She swallowed the squeak of protest that rose to the surface.

He wants me to trust him. I trust him.
Gods, she just didn’t trust that knife!

“I won’t hurt you. I promised, remember?” Warm molasses eyes searched hers, uncertainty written in their depths.

“I believe in you.” She offered him her hand. “Completely.”

“I love you, babe.”

The point of the blade pricked her finger in a lightning fast move, the knife so sharp she never felt it. Rhycious turned the pad of her index finger upside down and squeezed out two drops of blood for each of the pointed spires of her dying leaf. The droplets followed the center vein and rolled inward to the heart of the frond, pooling near the stem.

Dendron moved the offering toward Rhy. “Your turn, son.”

Rhycious used the knife to draw blood from his own hand, and the three of them watched the crimson lines drawn, following the pattern previously set.

Dendron held the container of water suspended over the sapling sycamore and slowly poured the contents over her leaf, washing the mixture of Nymph and Centaur blood into the potted soil.

“Accipe sanguinem . . . .”
Take this blood . . . .
“et vitam proferre.”
And bring forth life.

*    *    *

As Evoker of the Spirit, Dendron held a special position with the Wood Nymph people. He prevailed as spiritual advisor and doctor rolled into one. In their last conversation, Dendron mentioned that over the years he and Patience had spent many hours together discussing her health and working on arbitrations. The older Nymph held Rhy’s new wife in the highest regard.