Rejar

  “She’s not the only one whom you shocked, your Highness. Tell me, was it unwise of me to place my trust in you? Did you debauch my niece?”

  The Prince was seated on the edge of the settee, observing Lilac, concern etching his features. He stopped watching her to look past his shoulder at Agatha. Smiling faintly, he shook his head no.

  Agatha nodded approvingly; her assessment of him as a man of honor had been correct. “I didn’t think so. Now tell me, my boy, how did you know about the birthmark?”

  Lilac moaned as she regained consciousness. Rejar fixed the cloth on her forehead.

  He gave Agatha an intriguing smile. “You would not want me to reveal all of my secrets, would you, Lady Agatha? I believe a woman such as yourself needs a mystery to solve every now and then.”

  Agatha snorted at the silly statement; but she was chuckling when she said, “Better leave before she wakens to see you here. Best leave it to me to lay down the law to her. After all, what else can I do? She’s been compromised!” Grinning, she showed Prince Azov out the door.

  Lady Whumples let out a sigh of relief. Lilac would be wed.

  Through the years, the girl had always kept her company, but it had been a great fear of Agatha’s that, should something happen to her—as it inevitably would, she being an old woman—her niece would have no one to care for or about her. She would be all alone in the world.

  In a society which could be extremely cruel to unprotected women, Agatha wanted more for her beloved niece.

  Now her fear was laid to rest. By the look of the strapping Prince, Lilac would soon have her own family. If Agatha was any judge of character, Prince Azov would take care of her very well. She had not missed the look of tender concern on his sincere face when Lilac had fainted. The lad was besotted.

  It was a better start than most marriages of the ton, she reasoned prosaically before steeling herself for an argument she had no intentions of losing. Her niece would be wed.

  She was engaged.

  Lilac wasn’t sure how the bounder had managed it, but he had.

  There wasn’t much she could do about it; her aunt had been adamant. She would brook no refusal. Lilac had ranted and raved, pleaded and begged. Auntie Whumples crossed her arms over her ample chest, flatly declaring that the honor of the family was at stake; the matter was closed.

  Well, he may have tricked her into marrying him, but she’d be damned if he was going to get any satisfaction out of it!

  She adjusted her leather glove with a short, angry pull. Through happenstance (and several coins passed to a bellman at the Clarendon) she had been able to ascertain the Prince’s whereabouts this afternoon.

  It had been reported that he was seen with the bow window set at White’s Club. Weeks later, Brummell was still delighted with the Prince’s lark at the museum and had invited the Prince to join him at his favorite pastime—being on display to the ton at the bow window of White’s.

  Had the young lady heard of the Prince’s amusing prank? asked the kind bellman.

  Gritting her teeth, Lilac assured him she had.

  Lilac stood on tiptoe and peered through the bow window into the famous establishment. A man his size should be easy to spot… There he was! Right between Brummell and Alvanley.

  White’s was exclusively a male establishment; there was no way she could go in there and drag him out by his perfectly shaped ear. Lilac knew she would have to wait for him to look her way, then try to lure him out under false pretenses.

  She had an itinerary. Not only was she going to tell him exactly what she thought of this farcical marriage of his, she also intended to set him straight on matters of the boudoir! At least, as much as she understood of such things, which admittedly wasn’t all that much since she lived with a maiden aunt who never broached such subjects.

  While Rejar sipped his tea and chuckled over something Brummell said, his thoughts strayed to the love-mark he had discovered this morning during his bath. It was just above his left breastbone; a small darkened spot where Lilac had drawn on him with her mouth.

  A little passion gift from Miss Devere.

  He smiled with the memory. Women often gave him such marks but this one was special to him. It denoted a sensualistic passage.

  Idly, he gazed toward the window, surprised to see the object of his ruminations smiling sweetly at him, gesturing for him to come outside. Excusing himself, he immediately went to her.

  Like calling a puppy, Lilac thought.

  As soon as he came through the door, she launched into her prepared speech, all pretense of sweetness gone. “I wish to speak to you, your Highness.”

  Her sudden change of demeanor wasn’t lost on him. He viewed her obliquely. “Yes, Lilac?”

  “Since it seems I am forced to comply with this farce of a marriage, I insist on a marriage of convenience.” There, that was to the point.

  Rejar blinked slowly. “A marriage of convenience…What, pray tell, is this?”

  Lilac blushed; the man was irritatingly obtuse. Surely a man of his proclivities should have a clue. The sapskull. “A marriage of convenience sets aside…intimacies.”

  It took Rejar a full minute to completely comprehend what she was saying—so bizarre was the suggestion. When he did, he threw back his head and laughed; a rich, throaty sound. He grinned wickedly at her. “Do I look like the type of man who will set aside intimacies?”

  No, he didn’t. Lilac swallowed. Somehow, her prepared speech was not going the way she imagined. Damn the man, anyway! He never did what was expected!

  “I—I must insist—”

  Rejar narrowed the distance between them.

  Lilac froze as his hand came up to casually brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. As if he already owned her and had every right to do so! His fingers slid lazily across her skin, a smooth, sultry stroke.

  Taking his time, he bent forward to lightly graze his chin against her cheek in an action that was almost feline.

  Silent, he held her to the position.

  His deep, silky voice teased against the folds of her ear. “I will not leave you alone, you know. Not for a minute.”

  It was several seconds before the true meaning of his words pierced the lulling quality of his gentle actions. When Lilac grasped what he was actually saying, she stepped back from him in horror.

  “You’re despicable! I will never allow—”

  His powerful hands captured her. Clasping her shoulders, he brought her firmly against him. “Not for a minute, Lilac. I will be at you morning, noon, and night. In fact, I intend for you to forget what it feels like to not be entangled with me.”

  She paled. “Let go of me!”

  He ignored her, pressing his sensuous, velvet lips against her heated forehead. “And what is more, my Lilac, you will love every minute of it. You will crave my touch, my kisses, my…” he paused meaningfully. “Well, I think you get the idea.”

  “You delude yourself! You are arrogant beyond belief, your Highness—why, your conceit knows no bounds!”

  “It is not conceit. My kind have no need for false promises.”

  “Your kind? What—libertines, rakes, and rogues?”

  He only grinned the grin that never failed to make her nervous.

  “You will find out.”

  Aviara

  Yaniff climbed the rocky pathway that led inexorably upward. For an old wizard such as himself, it was an arduous journey. Wind constantly grabbed at his crimson robes, pulling them this way and that, its sound a low, mournful dirge through the crags and peaks of the Sky Lands of Aviara.

  Some journeys were not of one’s choosing, he acknowledged philosophically, and not for the first time. Nevertheless…He rounded a bend in the path.

  There on a promontory, perched on the edge of two worlds—sky and land—sat Traed ta’al Yaniff. His son.

  Captured in silhouette, Traed seemed a part of this wild, turbulent land. Yaniff could see a certain symbolism in the way Traed gazed out over the hor
izon, his booted legs hanging dangerously over the edge of the cliff, his sights inward. Normally tied tightly back, his waist-length hair now flew unrestrained on the keening moan of this Sky Land wind.

  The powerful emotions he kept under such tight control found some kind of ally here in these raw, untamed peaks. Even though Traed was not facing him, the old wizard knew his eyes were closed.

  Yes, wild and turbulent. The real Tread kept well hidden from others. A man of deep passions.

  It said much to Yaniff, who watched silently some distance away. This kind of son let the wind speak to his spirit.

  By Aviaran law, Yaniff had claimed Traed to his line just before the disturbing death of his natural father, Theardar, a powerful mystic who had turned renegade. In his madness, Theardar had disowned Traed.

  Not only had Traed been the victim of his father’s twisted desires and hatred, but Theardar’s rash actions had set into motion events which could well affect the lives of generations of his people.

  They were headed for busy times.

  Yaniff stopped to rest. He leaned heavily on his staff, his thoughts more weighty on him than the difficult journey. Traed would not yet know of his approach.

  “Why do you come here, Yaniff?” Traed’s sure voice carried to him above the keening.

  He sees.

  Yaniff had suspected but now he knew. Traed’s power is strong. How long did he think to hide it from me? From the Guild. Traed’s sire had been a sixth-level mystic. There were not many who achieved that level.

  Yet, Traed had always believed it was his father’s power which had driven Theardar mad.

  And power often flowed in lines of descent.

  So, too, Traed believed, did madness.

  It was a gift that tortured him.

  The situation was as complex as the man; Traed denied his heritage as well as his power. He condemned the Guild of Aviara for their actions against his father, actions that in turn had unwittingly punished him.

  Yaniff could not totally blame him for his attitude. Though he would not speak it out loud, the old mystic thought Traed had just cause. The boy had suffered greatly at the hands of his cruel father.

  The repercussions of the Guild’s unthinking actions were coming home to roost. Traed refused to acknowledge their entreaties to take his rightful place within the Charl.

  Yaniff sighed. Should the Guild discover the extent of Traed’s power, they would force the issue. A power such as this was extremely rare. They would never allow such a gift to lie fallow.

  It was a situation that, if left alone, could cause much grief.

  Traed was not one to be forced into anything. Better the man make his own discoveries.

  “Can I not choose to visit my son without a reason?” Yaniff narrowed the distance between them.

  The corners of Traed’s mouth lifted very slightly. He knew Yaniff too well. The old wizard never did anything without a reason.

  He opened his eyes and stared at Yaniff standing above him. “What would you have of me?” he asked, casting aside pretenses.

  Yaniff chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “I think I am getting too transparent in my old age.” He sat next to him on the rocky ledge. “Interesting view.”

  “You did not make this climb to speak to me of scenery.” Traed was direct, if nothing else. His was the blunt honesty of a man who walked alone for most of his life. Under the present circumstances, it was a trait which worried Yaniff.

  “No, I did not.” Yaniff replied truthfully. It was best to approach Traed directly. “You must go to Rejar.”

  Traed’s pale green gaze shifted to the vista beneath them. “Why?” he asked calmly.

  Patience had always been one of Traed’s finer points, Yaniff thought. An important quality for a high-level mystic. Especially for a high-level mystic who refused to acknowledge his abilities. “You are Chi’in t’se Leau to Rejar.”

  Traed looked at Yaniff inquiringly.

  “There is danger around him. His kind heart will lead him into trouble.”

  Traed’s expertise with the lightblade was well known. He had been called an artist of the blade. But others could make the same claim. “Is there no one else?”

  “It must be you,” was all Yaniff would say.

  Traed did not relish the idea of leaving his mountain retreat. He was not sure he was ready to; as far as he could tell, he had come to terms with nothing. When last he saw Krue there had been shadows in the older man’s eyes when he looked upon him—the man who, by right of law, would have been his father had the Guild not interfered. Their ruling, made well before Traed’s birth, forbid Krue to acknowledge him as his son of the line.

  It pained Traed for he loved Krue greatly.

  Hence, for Krue and Krue alone, Traed said, “I will go.” For the first time in his life he would wear the cloak of his family’s honor. Ironically, the unacknowledged son would protect a favored son. As was his wont, Traed reflected on this aspect dispassionately.

  “I expected no less. Guard him and guard him well, Traed. Nothing must happen to him. If it comes to it—your life for his.”

  Traed nodded curtly. For Yaniff to ask such a thing was enough for him to know.

  “I hear you, Yaniff, though I do not know if it falls to me, as you say. I will not be the cause of further disruption in the house of Krue—I will consult with Lorgin first.”

  “Do so. The outcome will be the same.”

  Traed stepped off the platform into the gardens of Lorgin’s home.

  It was place of uncommon beauty. The peaceful surroundings filled him with a rare serenity. Sounds of enchantment surrounded him: crystal chimes, trilli singing in the trees, a gentle waterfall.

  He walked over to the open doorway; there did not seem to be anyone inside. Was anyone here?

  Since no one could observe him, Traed closed his eyes, concentrating on his inner vision until he saw a picture of Lorgin seated on a bench. He was behind the main trunk, several levels below by the small pool.

  Traed made his way there.

  Lorgin, concentrating at the task at hand, did not hear him approach. Traed had never seen him so absorbed. “What is it you are doing?”

  At the sound of Traed’s voice, Lorgin looked up, a huge smile on his face. “Traed! When did you return from the Sky Lands?”

  “I have only just arrived, Lorgin. You need not prepare yourself to rant at me for failing to visit with you.”

  Lorgin grinned. “Actually, I am glad you have come back on your own. Now I will not have to drag you out of there.”

  Traed’s raised eyebrow said, as if you could.

  “I vow, Traed, you choose the most inhospitable regions in which to lose yourself.” Lorgin teased him. “First Zarrain, now the Sky Lands…Perhaps next time, you can take pity on me and go to a place more amenable. Mayhap an island in the Placid Lagoon?”

  Traed snorted. “That is not humorous.”

  “Come, Traed, if you must torture yourself, at least think of me.” He gave him a patent look. “The one who is always sent to retrieve you.”

  Traed looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead, his green eyes glittering with suppressed amusement. Usually it was Rejar who had this effect on him. When Rejar set his mind on mischief, there were few who could resist his beguilement. One corner of his mouth curved. “I will think on it.”

  “Ah! Then mayhap I will sleep tonight!”

  Traed actually chuckled. “So what are you doing?” He nodded to the small piece of wood in Lorgin’s hand. It looked as though Lorgin was carefully mutilating it with the blade of his Cearix.

  “It is called a toy. Adeeann says the children of her world play with such.” Lorgin lopped off a chunk from the bump at the top. “It is for the babe.”

  Traed stared at the lump of wood. “What is it supposed to be?”

  Lorgin proudly held up the piece. “You of all people should know since you lived on Zarrain so long! It is a prautau.”

  “A prautau?” He squin
ted, trying to see a shape in the hacked up mess. “Where is its head?”

  “Here.” Lorgin pointed to a protrusion bulging out on one side.

  Traed was skeptical. “Then where are the feet?”

  Lorgin pointed to six misshapen spindles sticking out from the other end.

  “Prautaus do not have spindly little legs like that! Give it to me.” Lorgin gingerly handed over his creation. Traed removed Yaniff’s Cearix from his waistband and began to expertly whittle away at the wood. “Why a prautau?”

  “Let us just say it has a special meaning for Adeeann and me.” Lorgin smiled slowly at the fond memory.

  Traed paused briefly to look over at him, then resumed carving. “Where is Adeeann?”

  “She went with Suleila to the village.” Lorgin leaned back against the trunk of the tree, lacing his hands behind his head. “She will be back for the evening meal. You will join us.”

  It was a Lorgin invitation: one part request, three parts command. Traed nodded.

  They sat in silence for a time; Traed working at the carving, Lorgin watching him out of the corner of his eye. Waiting.

  Finally Traed spoke. “Yaniff has asked me to go to your brother.”

  “Then you will go.”

  “In your stead. I realize you cannot leave your zira now when she is so near her time. As your friend, I—”

  “No.” Lorgin was going to put a stop to that type of thinking immediately. “In your stead. You have a responsibility to Rejar as I do to you. You are his brother of the line. If need be, you must stand for him. This is your place, your honor. You are his brother.”

  Traed exhaled noisily. “Krue does not acknowledge me as such.”

  “He cannot. But I acknowledge you. And so does my brother. We know who you are. In our minds and hearts, we are your family.”

  Traed was deeply moved by Lorgin’s words. He could not speak.

  Lorgin gazed into the pool. “I vow Traed, this request of Yaniff’s unsettles me. Rejar is well equipped to defend himself. In some respects, because of his Familiar abilities, he is more able than either you or I. The danger to him might be of the kind one cannot touch. This concerns me.”