Destined for a King (23 page)

Wolf cast back her hood. A pair of heavy golden braids, glimmering faintly in the twilight, framed honed cheekbones and a pointed chin. Some might call that face elfin, but it also managed to exude fierceness, along with a beauty that settled uneasily on Calista's stomach.

“He's mentioned me?” Wolf asked.

Calista couldn't help raising her chin. “He neglected to mention you're a she-wolf.”

Wolf's lips stretched into a smile far too knowing for Calista's comfort. “So this is the woman your Stone has brought you. Tell me, has she proven her worth?”

Before Torch could answer, Calista spoke up. “Have you?”

Torch shot her a warning look before addressing Wolf. “She has more than proven her worth.”

“Oh, in bed, naturally.” Wolf shrugged. “But what of where it counts?”

Calista fingered her wineskin. Should she mention she carried enough poison on her to wipe out Magnus's entire army?

“She's proven herself on all accounts.” At last, Torch's tone held a note of menace. It was about time. “If not for her, we'd still be in the dungeon at Blackbriar. The Usurper sent his justiciar to deal with us.”

Wolf took a step back, all her former assurance melting from her expression faster than the last snow of the spring thaw. “Hammerfell? He is here?”

“He now holds Blackbriar in the Usurper's name.”

Wolf pressed her lips together. Despite the dark, her complexion paled noticeably. She fixed her gaze on Torch, and her eyes narrowed as they focused on his bare throat. “Where is your Stone?”

Torch stared straight back. “I lost it.”

“Lost it? How can this be? You need—”

“Not now. I'm sure you have more important news for me.” Wariness crept into his speech. Naturally he was dreading the answer, for Wolf could certainly supply him with the details of his brother's death.

“We'll talk about it inside,” Wolf agreed tightly.

Curse it, there went Calista's hope that Wolf would meekly return to her guard duty. Not that Wolf gave the impression of ever doing anything meekly. But with Wolf along on this final leg to Torch's sanctuary, Calista couldn't ask her husband to clarify that particular relationship. And, damn it all, she needed clarification.

Torch released his grasp on the reins. Wolf patted the beast's proudly arched neck and leaned close to whisper something in its ear. The confounded animal shook out its mane and bowed its head—almost as if it was nodding in agreement. Then it trotted off into the trees.

Calista turned a wide-eyed look on her husband, but his lack of reaction told her all she needed to know. And hadn't she once heard something of the Avestari speaking the language of their beloved horses? No doubt Wolf had given the steed explicit directions to the stables, along with instructions for finding the richest oats.

Then they set off, following a winding, rocky way along the river. The waterfall loomed ever closer, a faint glow of white in the starlight, until its roaring filled Calista's ears. At the foot of the falls, sharp rocks stuck out of the stream like jagged teeth. Cold droplets spattered her face.

Torch took her hand. “This is the tricky part where we disappear.” He had to lean close so she could hear him over the pounding of tons of water. His breath wafted comforting warmth beneath her ear. “Careful now. The stones are slippery.”

She stepped where he stepped, approaching hard on the cliff face next to the sheet of water. Ahead of them, Wolf had already disappeared. Ducking his head, Torch nipped around a hidden corner. Calista followed, receiving a cold dousing for an instant, before she came out on the other side.

Before them yawned the mouth of a cave, completely hidden by the falls. The faint flicker of firelight danced on the stone walls, lighting the way within. Soon the passage opened into a wide chamber packed with men.

Some lounged on the stone floor. Others huddled around a cheering blaze, doubtless to break the evening's chill and humidity of the cavern, while a haunch of meat turned on a spit. A man drew a whetstone the length of a blade while another polished rust from a mail shirt. All of them bore the same mish-mash of arms and gear that Torch had the day he took Blackbriar.

A few turned their attention toward the newcomers. One by one, they hailed Torch, and he returned the greeting. Soon Calista felt the curiosity of hundreds of pairs of eyes, and a wave of self-consciousness passed through her. She refused to duck her head, though. No, she held her chin high, and pretended she was still dressed in cloth-of-gold, rather than muddied and bedraggled tatters.

She looked from face to face while realization dawned. These were the refugees of the battle she'd dreamed—Torch's diversion that would draw forth Magnus's forces and permit him to take Blackbriar. So many of them.

But that made no sense. They'd lost that battle—hadn't they? In the dream they certainly had.

Torch led them toward the back of the cavern to an alcove of sorts. Here, a rough roll of linens indicated this space served as his bedchamber.

He turned to Wolf, and a few others who had joined them. “Since I am here, you've likely guessed I've lost Blackbriar.” He grimaced. “I didn't even hold it for a month. But I would hear your news.”

“Our news also is not good,” Wolf admitted. “The battle against the Usurper's forces did not go as we'd hoped.”

Torch's expression hardened. “I already know about Swift. The Usurper was all too happy to notify me of my sister's capture. Kestrel has taken it upon himself to rescue her.”

One of the newcomers opened his mouth to speak, but Torch held up a hand. “And before you tell me of Griffin, I already know that also. I swear on my father's blood, I will avenge that death.”

“What death?” Wolf shook her head. “Griffin is here.”

“Griffin is alive?” The question slipped from Torch's lips on a wave of shock and confusion. The ground seemed to give way beneath his feet, and he reeled on the spot like a drunkard. “How—” No. How was not important now. “Take me to him.”

A set of firm fingers curled about his elbow, solid support amid his chaotic emotions.

Calista.

She understood. She'd lived the dream with him. That cursed dream that had seemed so real. That lie. It had duped them both into taking irrevocable action that may have damned his sister.

“He's been injured,” Wolf admitted.

Of course he had. And wasn't it like a lie to flirt with the truth just enough to appear plausible? “How badly?”

“Bad enough.”

Torch had to see. He had to know to what extent he'd been fooled.

“I'll tend to him,” Calista's quiet confidence shored him up every bit as much as her hand at his elbow.

“You?” Wolf questioned.

“She's a healer.” Torch infused his statement—his order, really—with all the authority he could manage under the circumstances. Less than usual, but apparently sufficient.

“He's in the Antechamber.”

Beyond the main grotto, this cavern possessed a series of smaller chambers. The Brotherhood had given several names to distinguish them from the confusing maze of passages and galleries that wound back beneath the cliff. No one had ever explored their farthest reaches, for fear of becoming lost in the depths.

As Torch made his way to the smaller chamber, the atmosphere seemed to thicken until he labored under the impression of fighting his way through a clinging fog. It was merely an extension of the muddle in his mind.

He'd never in his life had to parse what was real, but the magnitude to which the Stone had tricked him made him question every last one of his actions from the outset.
Had
he indeed been destined to take Blackbriar? To wed Calista? To regain his rightful throne? Or would his fate see him continue his existence as an outlaw, a leader of brigands, until one day death caught him unawares? And where did that leave a finely bred lady like his wife? She had certainly not been born for that life.

In the Antechamber, an ashen-faced Griffin lay on a makeshift pallet, his silver-white sword of Adamant still sheathed at his belt. His eyes rolled beneath closed lids, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. A large swath of bandaging covered his upper chest and right shoulder, yellowish streaks marring the expanse of white.

“He took a sword thrust,” Wolf explained.

Once again, Torch felt the agony of cold steel spearing through skin and sinew and bone. The hot spout of blood against his flesh the instant before all went black. “To the chest?”

Wolf cast him a curious look. “It glanced off and caught him in the shoulder. He was fortunate in that. We've done what we could.”

Calista knelt at Griffin's side, her nimble fingers tearing at the bindings. Torch watched those hands work. Lovely, smooth, white hands that felt so good on his body, but they served now, their touch efficient and impersonal. Still, he longed for their comfort. But that yearning only added to his confusion. The Stone had brought him Calista, but the Stone had been wrong.

When the linen swaths refused to give, Calista drew a dagger from her belt, and cut them away. A swollen, ugly gash, partially healed but inexpertly stitched and seeping pus, sliced across Griffin's shoulder, deep into the muscle.

“I shall require water of life, dragonwort, and tansy.” Calista voiced her order to no one in particular, but three of the Brotherhood jumped to attention. She laid two fingers on the pulse point in Griffin's neck before her touch strayed to his forehead. “Willow bark to calm the fever. And I'll need to reopen the wound, draw out the infection, and sew these stitches once more.”

She raised a steady gaze on Torch. “Was this his sword arm?”

He nodded.

She pressed her lips together. “Then pray I can help him, or he may never be able to lift a weapon again—as long as infection doesn't finish him first.”

Calista ran a clean cloth dipped in cool water over Griffin's brow before sitting back on her heels. After burning and raving for a day and more, his head turning fitfully, his fists clenching and unclenching, he rested easily. A while ago, his fever had finally broken.

She scanned his features, so similar to his brother's, so familiar from that one vivid dream. Beneath his clean, white bandage and the poultice to draw out the infection, tiny, precise stitches held together muscle, sinew, and flesh. The only scents that rose from him were herbs and unguents. No longer a hint of putrefaction, no stains of pus or blood.

She'd done everything she could. All that was left was a prayer to the All-Mother for healing, a plea to the All-Father for mercy on a fearless warrior. But others could say those words as easily as she.

Wearily, she staggered to her feet. The extent of her exhaustion settled into her bones. Never in her life had she felt so wrung out, like an old rag limp from too many washings. She only wished to find a place to collapse, and sleep for the next sennight.

“How is he?” Torch hovered in a stone arch that led to a slightly larger gallery off the Antechamber. Since their arrival, he'd adopted it as his quarters, the better to remain near his brother.

“He's resting peacefully,” Calista said. “As I must now.”

Torch made no reply but simply opened his arms. By all the gods, had he read her very thoughts? She went to him gladly and let him gather her in. A tiny sound of pleasure escaped her throat as she rested her head on his shoulder and breathed him in.

Torch swept a few stray curls back from her forehead. “Will he…will he recover?”

“His life is in no danger,” she murmured against his neck, but she knew what he was really asking. “As for the use of his arm, that will depend on many factors—how deeply the wound scars, how soon he begins to move it of his own accord so his shoulder does not stiffen. I've done all I can.”

The softness of Torch's lips brushed her hairline. “I'm certain you've done your best.”

“Even the most experienced healers cannot mend every wound.” She struggled to get the words out. His confidence had warmed her through, but that warmth played with her conscious mind. She was fast fading. She gave in to the feeling and let herself drift…

Her dreams were of voices yammering nonsense. Upon awakening, she found them real. Someone—Torch, no doubt—had carried her to bed. She was all but alone on the pallet he'd arranged next to Griffin's quarters—just her and the voices.

“You must explain how this can be.” That was Torch's growl. She'd recognize it anywhere. “How can my brother live when I lived his death?”

“I cannot tell you that.” The reply was distinctly feminine—Wolf, but her voice lacked its usual assurance. “In my lands, the men find these things, if they're fortunate. Our women do not touch them.”

“You told me it can show the future,” Torch insisted.

“It
can
show the future. It does not always.”

Brother Tancrid's words echoed through Calista's mind.
None can tell what the future holds…
that is ever changed by our present actions.
Truth, but that truth would not lessen Torch's current anguish.

“But why would it lie to me?” he persisted.

“Has it lied?”

“You told me, once I found the woman the Stone revealed to me, that she would increase its power. That I could summon visions.”

“And did this happen with Calista?”

“I dreamed of the battle at Landsdowne Crossing. I was in Griffin's body when he was cut down. I died along with him. It was all real, I tell you. Completely real. And yet I discover now that he is not dead. I need to know. I need to know how much of this is a lie.”

The anguish in her husband's voice pulled at Calista's heart. The pain was just as deep and palpable as the night they'd woken from that vision and poured their shared suffering into something else entirely. She pushed back the blankets and stood.

Two tall figures of shadow stood in the archway to the Antechamber, one lean and lithe, the other solid and brawny.

“This is beyond my ability to explain,” Wolf said. “I have not the experience. I do know that I've told you not all visions are to be trusted.”

“But this one was so real,” Torch protested.

“In any event, what does it matter now, since you say the Stone is destroyed?” Wolf's tone carried a note of reproach.

“It matters if I wish to separate the truth from the lies. This lie, in particular, pushed me into marrying.”

Calista's scalp prickled. Gods, why did they have to wake her up? She shouldn't listen anymore. She shouldn't. But she couldn't help herself.

“Ah, I see.” Wolf's shadow nodded. At least it maintained a respectable distance. “The Stone led you to your wife, as it was meant to do, I might add. Yet it showed other things falsely.”

“That's just it. How do I know if my marriage is true?”

Wolf's shadow raised a hand to Torch's shoulder. “You need to have this conversation with Calista, not with me.”

Calista wanted to bristle at the contact, but Wolf's advice stopped her short. Wolf turned her head and spotted Calista watching them. “I will leave you now.”

As Wolf slipped off, Torch turned toward Calista. “I thought you were still asleep. You should be resting.”

She came to stand with him in the archway. In the Antechamber, a single lantern sat vigil over Griffin, lying at peace. In the main chamber beyond, shadows reigned. The sun had not yet risen. “So should you.”

“I cannot sleep.”

She wrapped her hand about his upper arm, turning her cheek into his shoulder. “What troubles you? Tell me.”

She waited for his response. The manner of his reply would mean everything. He'd confided in Wolf, after all. Would it be so hard for him to trust his wife with his problems?

“I never meant for matters to take this turn,” he burst out at last.

“No man can predict the future,” she reminded him quietly.

“What I mean is, I wasn't supposed to take you from your home.” He swept an arm out in a gesture encompassing their rough surroundings—the rock-strewn floor, the walls that glistened with the steady drip of water, the humid air, the heavy odor of many men packed into a tight spot. A lair, no more, no less, where safety and secrecy took precedence over comfort. Where function trumped luxury. “You were not bred for this life.”

“My mother always insisted I was destined for a king. Was she wrong?”

“This is hardly a palace.” He faced her and drew his fingertips along her cheek, tucking a stray tress behind her ear. The glow of the lantern from the next room caught the bleakness in his expression. “This is no place for one such as you.”

“I hadn't realized I'd complained. If it's good enough for Wolf, it's good enough for me.” The Avestari rider's name seemed to echo between them. Calista took her courage in hand and steeled herself to ask the question that most plagued her. If she didn't care for the reply, she simply had to stand firm. “What lies between Wolf and you?”

He stepped back and surprise took over his features. “Wolf? What makes you think—”

“I have an excellent memory. I recall you saying she was with you when you found your Stone. She must have ridden with the Brotherhood for a very long time, indeed.”

He shook his head. “Are you…Are you jealous of Wolf?”

She would not admit to that, not in so many words. “Her treatment of you hasn't escaped my notice.” Nor had her beauty.

“Her treatment?”

“She is very familiar with you.”

“Calista.” He pulled her into his arms, and a chuckle rumbled up from his chest.

She stiffened. “I don't find it funny.”

His smile melted away. “Calista, think. Think of everything you know about wolves.”

“They travel in packs. They follow a leader—which so far, I haven't seen your Wolf do. They're loyal.” She crossed her arms as another thought struck. “Clearly she does not shun men.”

“Wolves mate for life.”

“What?”

“They mate for life.” His hands grasped her shoulders. “If there was anything at all between us, I wouldn't have come to Blackbriar seeking a wife.”

Unconvinced, Calista tapped her fingers against her upper arms.

“Many of the Brotherhood have tried at one time or another. None of them has received anything more pleasant than a drubbing for his efforts.”

“Have you?”

“I know better. I saw—” He cut himself off, but she knew what he'd been about to say. His Stone had given him visions of her, not Wolf. And here lay the heart of his troubles. He no longer knew what to trust.

“How long?” she asked quietly. “How long have you seen me?”

“From the beginning. From the very first time I took up that Stone and it warmed to my hand.”

“I heard what you were asking Wolf.”

His expression shuttered. Clearly he did not wish to discuss this with her, Wolf's advice be damned. “Your pardon if we woke you.”

“I heard what you were asking,” she persisted, “and I think I have an answer.”

He did not reply. It struck her that he might actually fear the answer to his question. But why?

Still, she forged ahead. “Maybe the Stone showed us your brother's death to ensure a certain outcome. As its way of restoring the balance, of making things the way they should be.”

Torch pushed his fingers through his hair. “You sound like Brother Tancrid.”

“But don't you see? It means you were meant to marry me. Perhaps it means you were meant to take back your throne.”

“I'm finished with visions and notions of destiny. I'd rather believe in something real. Something solid.”