For a moment time seemed to stand still. Keon fell to the ground without a sound while everyone stood as if frozen.
Rowan reacted first, kneeling and taking the boy into his arms.
“You will tell my father that I did not die in vain,” the dying boy whispered.
“I will tell him,” Rowan said softly.
Slowly, painfully, Keon put his hand up to Rowan’s shoulder. “I have not lived without purpose. I have died for my king.” His lifeless body collapsed in Rowan’s arms.
“This will mean war,” Geralt said with unconcern as he sheathed his sword.
Jura turned to look at her brother and could see the look of near glee in his eyes. He was glad of this boy’s death, glad of the war to come, glad that Brocain would now kill Rowan. In that moment Jura knew Geralt cared nothing for Lanconia but merely for himself and his own sense of power.
Jura looked at Rowan as he still held the boy, but she could not read his expression. His face may as well have been carved out of cool marble for all the emotion he betrayed. No doubt he too worries about the war, she thought.
Very slowly, Rowan tenderly picked up the boy in his arms and walked with him into the forest.
“We had better ride,” Geralt began. “Brocain will—”
Jura glared coldly at her brother. “You will remain here and you will wait for him, and if you harm anyone, I will kill you,” she said through her teeth.
“But Jura—” Geralt began.
She walked away from him, through the trees toward where Rowan had carried Keon. Cilean called her to leave Rowan alone but Jura wanted to find him. They would talk about what must be done now that this Zerna boy was dead.
She walked for some time before she found him and she did not approach him when she did see him. To her, it was a strange scene. Rowan had stretched Keon’s body on a rock, as if it were an altar, and Rowan was on his knees before the boy’s body.
Jura stood absolutely still but Rowan did not turn to her as he knelt there, his face in his hands. It took her a while to realize that Rowan was crying.
Her body was paralyzed as she watched him. She had never seen a man cry before, had seen very few women cry, but the sounds coming from Rowan were unmistakable. She did not go to him, did not have any idea what one did with a crying man.
She stepped behind a tree and waited and watched. She did not want to leave him, but she did not understand his reaction to the death of a Zerna boy. Was he afraid of the death Brocain had promised him? Did the prospect of war make Englishmen cry?
Her head came up when she heard Rowan begin to speak. He was talking to that God he seemed to believe was his friend. She strained her ears to hear what he said.
“I have failed, God,” Rowan said softly. “I have failed my father, my country, I have even failed my wife.”
Jura frowned at this and listened harder.
“I begged to be released from this task,” Rowan said. “I told You I was not worthy of it. I am a coward and lazy, just as my old tutor said. I cannot unite this country. It is not mine to unite.”
He put his head in his hands and cried again. “Jura saw through me. Jura knew that I would fail. Oh, God, I was not the one to be chosen for this. Better that someone else had been born Thal’s son. Now this boy has died for me, to save my worthless soul. I cannot go on. I will return to England and leave Lanconia to true Lanconians. Forgive me, Father, for having failed You.” He began to cry again.
Jura leaned against the tree and found that there were tears in her eyes also. She never knew he doubted himself. How could he believe himself to be a coward? He had walked against the Zerna alone. How could he doubt that he was the true king after all he had done in so short a time?
How could she have doubted him? she asked herself. What more must he do to prove himself? Why hadn’t she sided with him from the beginning? She prided herself on her logic and clear thinking but she had never thought clearly about Rowan. She had fought him every step of the way.
More tears came to her eyes. Was it because, as Rowan had said, she was afraid of loving him? Had she fought him not out of logic but because of a weak emotion such as love? Had she perhaps loved him from that first tempestuous meeting at the riverside? Maybe then she had known that he had the power to take her soul from her.
Rowan was still crying and suddenly Jura knew she had to do something to keep him from leaving Lanconia. She had a vision of what would happen to her country if Rowan were not there trying to unite the tribes. If Geralt were king, he would plunge the country into war.
And Jura would…She thought she might die without this man. How used to his soft, tender ways she had become. How used to his strength. No matter how she ridiculed him, how she fought him, he always had the strength of his belief in himself. Now she saw that he had doubted himself all along. Why hadn’t she helped him?
She looked around the tree at Rowan and saw the slump in his shoulders, saw the defeat in his body. She had to help him now.
But how? An Englishwoman would no doubt hold him and caress him, and Jura was surprised that that is what she wanted to do. She wanted to put her arms around him and let him cry on her shoulder while she stroked that fine hair of his.
And make him feel worse, she thought. To offer him sympathy would be the worst thing she could do. She had to somehow make him believe in himself again.
Rowan was standing now and looking at the body of Keon. Jura felt tears in her eyes again as she looked at Rowan’s ravaged face. He did care about Lanconia, not just the Irials, but all of Lanconia, that he could grieve so over this Zerna boy. Thal had been right to allow Rowan to be raised out of the country. Thal had been right and Jura had been more than wrong.
And now she had to do something about having been so loudly wrong.
Quietly, she slipped through the trees, away from Rowan, then turned and acted as if she were just coming toward him. She made a great deal of noise but Rowan did not turn toward her as he merely stood there, his back to her, looking down at Keon’s cold face.
She straightened her shoulders. “What are you doing here?” she demanded belligerently. “We must ride to the Fearens.”
Rowan did not turn around, and she almost put her hand out to touch his hair, but she withdrew it.
“What is this?” she asked loudly, gesturing toward Keon’s body. “You mourn a Zerna boy? Or is it Brocain’s wrath you fear? When it comes to war, we Irials will win.”
“There will be no war,” Rowan said softly. “I will give myself to Brocain. I hope I can appease him.”
Jura winced but said, “Good! Then Geralt will at last be king.”
Rowan didn’t react.
“As he should have been all along,” she said, but still got no reaction from Rowan. “But tell me, before your sacrifice, do we go to the Fearens or not? Do we leave Yaine waiting for Brita?”
“It is no longer my concern. I am not Lanconian.”
The sympathy she felt for him was leaving her. She frowned. “That is true. A Lanconian never would have started this absurdity of uniting the tribes. It can never be done.”
“Perhaps by someone other than me,” he said sadly. “I was the wrong choice.”
“Yes you were. Geralt will do a much better job than you. He will have no trouble uniting everyone. He will not cause the death of innocent boys.” She watched Rowan’s face and she thought she saw some sign of life.
He turned to look at her. “Geralt unite the tribes?”
“Yes, of course. He will do a grand job, don’t you think? Brita has already seen his power and she knows how strong he is. Yaine has only to see it also.”
“Brita has seen Geralt’s power?” Rowan asked. “But Brita…”
“Oh yes, I can see it in her eyes. She fears my brother.”
“She means to have him on a platter. She will marry that stupid boy and rule all of Lanconia.” There was light returning to Rowan’s eyes.
“What does it matter to you? You will be d
ead. You will have sacrificed yourself for this dead boy.”
Rowan looked back at Keon’s body and his face fell again. “Yes, that is true. Geralt will make an excellent king, I am sure.”
“If he wins,” Jura said.
“Wins?”
“Being married to a king has given me a taste of power. I shall marry Daire and perhaps we will fight Brita for control of her tribe. Perhaps I shall be queen of all Lanconia yet.” She smiled. “Yes, I like that idea.”
Rowan turned to look at her and the sadness in his eyes began to change. It changed to hate and the hate was directed toward her. “War,” he whispered. “War and power are all you Lanconians think of. You would war on your own brother to gain power. For your own selfish wants you would cause the death of thousands of people. You do not care about Lanconia.”
“And you do? You would leave what you have started behind and sacrifice yourself to Brocain?”
“I must,” he said softly. “I gave the man my word. A knight’s word is his bond.”
“You are English,” she spat at him. “You are English purely and I am glad you go to die. We need no cowards such as you who cannot finish what they start. Go then. Go to Brocain. Go back to England. Go to the devil for all I care.” She turned on her heel and stormed away from him.
She didn’t go far, just until she was out of sight of him and then she stopped. Great sobs began to well inside her, and before she knew what she was doing, she sank to her knees and began to cry. It was as if all the tears that had been denied her all her life were coming to the surface. Her shoulders heaved, her hands clenched. She fell forward into the dirt and cried harder. She would die if Rowan gave himself to Brocain, but she could not tell him that. He did not need sympathy, so she had not given it. He had needed her anger, but she had not been prepared for the look of hate in his eyes.
After a while, she lifted herself and went back to the camp. The others were sitting about quietly and looked up with hope in their eyes when they heard Jura. But when they saw she was not Rowan, they looked away.
They need him as much as I do, Jura thought.
Cilean came toward her and Jura turned her face away. “You have been…crying?” Cilean asked in disbelief. “What have you done to him?”
Jura could tell no one, not even a friend as close as Cilean, of what she had seen. How could a Lanconian understand a man who cried like an infant? Yet Jura had understood. Did that mean she was not wholly Lanconian?
“Merely smoke in my eyes,” Jura said. “He will return soon, I think,” she added.
It wasn’t long before Rowan returned. His hair was wet, as if he had been bathing, and he ordered everyone to prepare to ride. The Fearens stood apart, and Rowan went to them and talked quietly for a long while. Jura saw him pointing out the different people in the group and, Jura thought, no doubt guaranteeing their safety with his own life.
She watched him closely and she could detect a difference in his eyes, an emptiness that wasn’t there before, but he looked as if he were ready to resume command.
She waited until he looked at her so she could smile at him.
But Rowan did not look at Jura.
All day they rode and he never once looked at her. Did he not understand that she had said what she had on purpose to enrage him? That she wanted to spur him out of his misery? Tonight, she thought, tonight she would get him alone and he would touch her again, perhaps even make love to her.
But it was not to be. They camped and Rowan avoided her. She asked him to walk with her into the trees, but he said he had to stay with the Fearens.
“I cannot leave them with your brother,” he said, then looked at her with cold eyes. “Or perhaps I should call him the Rightful King.” Before Jura could say a word, Rowan left her standing alone.
Cilean saw Jura standing there and ordered her to unsaddle the horses and Jura went about the familiar task blindly.
“You have hurt him,” Cilean said.
“I have helped him but he does not know it.” Jura looked across the firelight to where Rowan sat sharpening his sword. “I am—”
“—a fool,” Cilean said, taking her saddle and walking away in anger.
Jura had her own attack of self-pity. Did no one believe she was capable of at last seeing the light? She sat quietly with the others by the fire that night and took her turn at watch near dawn, but Rowan made no attempt to speak to her privately. He gave her duties and orders like he did the others.
No one else besides Cilean seemed to notice any difference because Rowan was treating her as Lanconian men treated their women: as equals. But Jura had grown rather used to Rowan’s protectiveness and the way he thought of her as soft and fragile.
And she also missed their lovemaking.
On the morning of the third day, just before dawn, she saw Rowan slip from the camp and make his way into the trees. Feeling a little tentative at what she was doing, she followed him.
She half expected him to leap from the trees and curse her for leaving the protection of the others, but he did not. He was squatted by the side of a stream, bare to the waist and washing himself.
He did not turn around. “What do you want, Jura?” he asked, his voice as cool as the mountain stream.
She almost turned back to the camp but she made herself go forward to kneel beside him and drink of the water. The sky was just barely pink. “We have not spoken in days and I thought…” She put out her hand to touch his shoulder, but he looked at her hand in such a way that she removed it.
“I was not aware that Lanconian men and women talked,” he said. “I believe your job is to guard my back.”
She frowned, utterly confused by him. “But we are also married.”
“I see. So, it is the bedding that you want from me. I am to carry steel in my hands and between my legs and that is all you want.”
“If that is what you believe of me, so be it,” she said angrily, and left him alone. Was she supposed to explain to him why she had done what she had? Did he really believe she wanted him dead?
Again, tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away. Damn him! Why did she love a man who made her cry?
Chapter Fifteen
ROWAN DID NOT look at her when he returned to camp and Jura stiffened her shoulders as if his ignoring of her was a physical blow. Her head and body ached when she at last lay down to sleep. It was because of Jura’s turbulent thoughts that she was awake when the others slept and she saw “them” come into the camp. At first she thought she was dreaming, for the people were more shadow than flesh and blood. And they moved without sound, slipping through the darkness as silently as a fish through water.
With wide, unbelieving eyes, she saw one of the small, thin, dark-clad figures bend and put something over Daire’s mouth. But before she could rise up in protest, something hit her on the head and she saw no more.
When she woke, she was aware of pain in her head and her back. Before she opened her eyes, she tried to move her hands but couldn’t.
“Jura. Jura.”
Painfully, Jura opened her eyes to look at Cilean. They were in the back of a wagon, under a tall wooden frame and on top of lumpy bags of grain, and what felt to be rocks.
“Jura, are you all right?” Cilean whispered.
Jura tried to sit up, but her hands and ankles were tied together behind her. “Yes,” she managed to whisper through a dry throat. “Where are we? Who has taken us? Where are the others?” She grimaced as the wagon hit a deep hole in the road and whatever was in the bag beneath her dug into her side.
“I don’t know,” Cilean said. “I was asleep, and when I woke I was here.”
Jura struggled against her bonds. “I have to save Rowan,” she said. “He will try to talk his way out of this and they will kill him.”
Cilean gave a bit of a smile. “I think we should worry about ourselves now. If they have taken us prisoner, they must have taken the others. I hear other wagons. I think we should sleep now and try to
keep what strength we have.”
Jura had difficulty sleeping because of her worry about Rowan—and the others, she reminded herself. She prayed to God to protect him. It is too early for him to die, she prayed. He had work to do. And he needed her to protect him. What if he lost confidence again? Who would be there to help him?
She slept at last, but she dreamed of Rowan being dead and, in the dream, she knew his death was her fault because she had never told him that she loved him.
The abrupt halting of the wagon woke her. Rough hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her from the wagon, her head hitting hard bags. More hands untied her so she could stand on the ground.
Ultens, she thought as she stared at the thin little man standing before her, and all the horror stories she had ever heard came to her mind. Stories of the Ultens were told around the fire on cold, stormy nights. Parents threatened their children with Ultens.
No one knew much about them really except that they were filthy beyond belief, sly, thieving, untrustworthy, and as far as anyone could tell, they had no concept of honor. Over the centuries the other tribes had done their best to ignore the Ultens. They lived high in the mountains in the northeast corner of Lanconia and no one had any desire to see their city.
Yet there were rumors about the place. When Jura was a child, an old man with an arm and an eye missing had told of being captured by the Ultens, and he had talked of a city of fabulous wealth. Everyone had laughed at him until he had slinked off into a corner and gotten drunk. Days later he had disappeared, never to be seen again.
Now, Jura stood staring in the darkness at the filthy face of her captor, half hidden under a grimy hooded cloak. The ancient man held out a cup of liquid and a stale chunk of bread to her. Jura took the food, and as the old man pulled Cilean from the wagon, she looked about her. There were four other wagons and about them silently moved more of the cloaked figures, but they pulled no other prisoners from the wagons.
Jura’s throat swelled closed. “Where are the others?” she asked the man.