FOREVER ENCHANTED Page 3

  "Another conspiracy, Tate?"

  Tate gave Tristan a knowing look. "You'll see." And then he put one small hand against a block in the castle wall, and vanished. It startled Tristan, though he should be used to Tate's dramatic exits by now. The little runt had been a servant in this castle for nearly a century now. He knew every secret passage in the place, but refused to divulge the information, even to Tristan. And Tristan suspected he knew many other secrets as well.

  Tate's loyalty was unquestionable. His allegiance, he claimed, was to Rush, and he'd serve whoever ruled, so long as they were good to the kingdom. His ancestors had served in this very castle when the last Sharan had held the throne. They'd witnessed the siege of the fay, and remained here when Bridin's forebears had banished them to the Dark Side of the forest. He suspected some of Tate's clan would be in this castle long after his reign was over, and even after that.

  Pursing his lips, Tristan went to the spot where Tate had vanished and felt the stone blocks, touching, pushing, pulling. Nothing gave or wiggled. No hidden doorways opened. He smiled, shook his head, and began to dress.

  Tristan stood at the head of the long stone table in the lesser hall, and kept his composure despite the looks of disgust on the men who sat before him. Some shook their heads and muttered while others only gaped. It was Vincent, his brother, who met his eyes, his black gaze penetrating. He held up one hand, silencing the mutterers. "Perhaps," he said softly, "my brother has a sound reason for this seemingly absurd request."

  All eyes returned to Tristan. "I do," he said, and was grateful for his brother's faith in his judgment. "But first let me clarify. This is no request, but a command. One I expect to be obeyed."

  "But, Sire," Murdock all but whispered. "Bridin of the Fay is your enemy. About to lead an attack against your kingdom, my lord. 'Tis treason, and punishable only by death."

  Tristan nodded. Murdock was one of those closest to him, a man he trusted almost as much as Tate. The others at the table, well, they adored his brother, and because of that, they'd obey Tristan without question. Vincent had taken on the difficult task of choosing Tristan's closest advisers himself, long ago. And while Tristan had at first questioned some of the choices his brother had made, he'd been glad of the help. At the time, he'd been overwhelmed with his new responsibilities. As it turned out, the men had served him well.

  "Your points are well taken, Murdock," Tristan said slowly. "But already there is rebellion in the kingdom. Many here will never stop seeing Bridin as their liege. If she dies in this battle, she'll become even more beloved to them. A martyr. A legend." He paced away from the table, his boots tapping over the stone floor. "We'll never know peace in Shara if she dies. But..." He turned to face them all again. "If she lives, if we spare her life, those same followers of hers will see us as fair and merciful and kind. And when their princess bows to my rule, they will do likewise. These constant uprisings will end, my friends. There will be peace in Shara at last."

  Vincent rose slowly from his seat, his expression still mild, though Tristan detected the tightness of his brother's jaw. "By sparing her, my brother, there is some risk. I hope I won't be out of line by pointing this out to you."

  Tristan nodded at his brother to go on, and Vincent did. "We might be seen, not as kind and merciful, but as weak, ineffective leaders unwilling to carry out our own laws. Our father taught us that one can only attain peace by conquest. Perhaps we should show these rebels what becomes of those who dare to challenge our rule, and make them cower in fear. I advise you to make an example of this Bridin of the Fay, and deliver a powerful lesson to the rest."

  It troubled Tristan greatly to see most of them nodding in agreement.

  "No." He said it loudly, firmly, as he took his seat at the head of the table. "I am the prince of Shara. When I take a bride one day soon, I'll be crowned your king. And I will not have the woman harmed. Many of you may disagree, and I have the deepest respect for your views." He met Vincent's eyes. "Especially yours, my brother. But nonetheless, this is my decision. When she attacks in the morn, Bridin is to be taken prisoner. And any man who harms her will wish to the gods he had not."

  For the briefest of moments, he saw pure fury flare in his brother's eyes. But then Vincent dipped his head. "As you command, my prince."

  Tristan tried to restrain the urge to sigh in relief. Thank goodness his brother hadn't chosen to argue with him, as he truly would have done had Tate's suspicions about him been true. The very mutiny Tate feared could have taken place right here and now. But it hadn't. His brother wasn't his enemy.

  Bridin was.

  Tristan looked at the others. "And the rest of you?"

  "Your word is law, Prince Tristan," Murdock intoned. "Truly, I believe you are wise in this. I'll inform my troops."

  "Thank you, Murdock. The rest of you, do the same. Be sure every fighting man knows my wishes in this matter. And then rest. At two hours before dawn, you're to have your troops in place to defend Shara. When Bridin's army attacks, they'll find themselves surrounded so quickly and effectively, there may not be need to shed so much as a drop of blood. And if that's so, then it's all the better for the kingdom."

  The men exchanged glances, troubled glances, but no one spoke against him.

  He drew his sword and held it up, high above the table. "For Shara!"

  And each man at the table rose and did likewise. "For Shara!"

  Vincent watched his brother leave the lesser hall, followed by Murdock, and then Tate, who was never far from Tristan's side. He went to the door, as if he'd leave as well, but only remained until his brother rounded a corner and vanished from view. And then he turned back to the two men who remained. Tristan's lieutenants, yes, but placed in that position of trust and power because of Vincent's pull with his brother. They were his men, not Tristan's, though his trusting brother was too naive to realize that.

  "If this spectacle was not enough to convince me of it, nothing ever will be," he said softly, turning to step back inside. "My brother is not fit to rule Shara."

  "Too soft," said Llewellyn. "He'll make our kingdom a laughingstock, and ripe for attack from other enemies even more powerful than the fay."

  Kenniwick nodded. "I agree. But what's to be done, my liege?"

  "He seeks to spare Bridin because of the people's love for her. But the fair Bridin will not be loved by her people much longer," Vincent said, pacing slowly and rubbing his chin as he formulated a plan. "Take some men out tonight, Llewellyn. Only those whose loyalty you can be sure of. Dress them not in the blue and gold of Shara, but in poorly spun clothing of green, such as that forest dwelling band of fay folk might wear. Ride your mounts without saddles. And see if you can round up a golden-haired harlot whose assistance can be bought. She's to ride with you, at the front of your troops, with her tresses fully visible, as you burn at least three of the outlying villages. Preferably those most dense with Bridin's loyal ones."

  Llewellyn met Kenniwick's eyes across the table, then slid his gaze to Vincent's once more. "Sir?"

  "When she attacks Shara proper at dawn, it should be fairly obvious that she led those raids on her way here. Those who live will blame her. There will be none left to defend her when she's captured at dawn. I want her brought to me in chains. Not to my brother, but to me. When I'm forced to kill her in defense of my own life, I will be cheered by the people of Shara. And when Tristan condemns me for my act, as he will, fool that he is, he'll be guilty of treachery against his own kingdom, and his own brother. Particularly when it's made public that he's known of her whereabouts for weeks now, and could have prevented the havoc she's wrought."

  Kenniwick shook his head, looking down at the floor. Llewellyn's face split into a broad grin. " 'Tis genius, my lord. The crown will be yours."

  "As it should have been from the start. The fates were mistaken in allowing my brother to be born first. But we can alter the fates, my friends. And we will." He turned to Kenniwick. "In the morn, as soon as Bridin's army is s
ighted entering the city, you are to distract my brother. Tell him a second group is approaching from the rear and lead him there. In his absence, Llewellyn, you are to order the men to attack Bridin's forces. There will be no mercy, no chance for surrender. I want them dead. All of them."

  Bridin felt a chill of foreboding slide up into her nape as she led her ragtag army right up to the gates of Rush—now known as Shara—and found those gates open and unguarded.

  And she should have turned back, right then. But she didn't. Swords drawn, archers poised and ready, they walked their horses quietly beneath the portcullis and into the city proper. And when the last horse was clear, the portcullis slammed downward and mayhem erupted. Soldiers in full armor seemed to emerge from every door and window. Arrows rained death from the slits in the tower walls, and shouts and cries filled the night air, followed shortly by the stench of warm blood. Horses bolted and reared, screaming in fury. Bridin's mount threw her to the stony ground, and she rolled to her feet in time to duck a powerful blow.

  Her men fought... Gods, how they fought. And then Pog, her cousin, had her in his deceptively slender arms, dragging her out of the fray and through the open door of the castle, into its great hall.

  "Damn you, Pog, release me!" She twisted free, but Pog only closed and bolted the huge wooden door, then blocked her escape with his own body.

  She lifted her sword. "By the gods, step aside, Pog, or I'll do you harm!"

  "No, my lady! 'Tis a trap, can't you see that? You'll be killed, and what good will you be to your people then?"

  A cry cut the night, and Bridin's head came up sharply. "They're dying out there! Pog, let me go!"

  "Too late, lady. There's nothing you can do for them. They'd want you safe, and for Rush, I'll see you are. I swear it! Come, we must find a way out of here." He took her arm, his strength overpowering her as he pulled her through the great hall and into a vaulted corridor opening out to its rear. He was heading for the kitchens, at the far end, she realized, and the door that opened into the rear of the castle. But she couldn't go. She couldn't simply leave her men to die alone. She couldn't—

  She turned, managing to tug free of his grip once more, and tried to run, but a terrible thud and a dull groan brought her up short. "Pog?" she whispered, and turned slowly to see her best friend lying still on the stone floor. Above him, a man whose face was little but purest evil stood holding a torch in one hand, and a bloody mace in the other.

  "You're to come with me, Bridin of the Fay."

  "No!" And she turned to flee.

  "Wait," he shouted, and raced past her, to the door Pog had bolted, flinging the bar away and shoving it wide. And Bridin stared out into the dawn, at the mayhem of the battle.

  "Those men in the courtyard will be killed," the man rasped. "Already many lie dead. They are surrounded, you know. Outnumbered and outarmed. Come with me, and I'll call my troops off. Run, and I'll leave them to die."

  Bridin wanted to run out there and help her people, but his body blocked her escape, and common sense intervened. She couldn't save her men by going out there. He motioned her inside, closing and bolting the door again. She could no longer see the carnage, but she could still hear it. The clanging of swords and the hiss of arrows. The cries of the dying, some of those voices all too familiar. "All right," she cried, lowering her head. "Call them off, please!"

  And the man was turning around, leading her back down the corridor. "A wise decision, my lady."

  A stone in the wall moved, and for an instant Bridin swore she saw a child peering out at her. But then the apparition vanished, leaving her alone with this villain.

  "Call them off," she said, looking at the man again. "Please, do it now. And take me to your prince! I must speak with Tristan."

  "You'll find, my lady, that Tristan will not be of much help to you after today. Better you speak with me."

  Bridin frowned in confusion. The man guided her through a doorway into a small chamber of stone, and then yanked the door closed so that it hit her body with an impact so forceful, her head cracked against the wall. He jammed the torch into a wall bracket, cast his mace to the floor, and drew a sword of black steel.

  She tried to back away from him, but was already pressed to the wall. "You... said you'd call them off."

  "I lied," he said, and he smiled.

  "I don't understand. Who are you? Where is Tristan?"

  "I am Vincent, my lady. Tristan's brother, and soon to be ruler of Shara. But first..." He lashed out with his sword, slicing through the chains of her pendants. Bridin cried out and tried to catch them, but they fell to the floor and lay there, sparkling in the torchlight. "But first, I have a problem to solve." She swallowed hard as she saw both his cruel hands tightening around the hilt, saw him lifting the sword high. And then it was descending on her and she knew the blow would sever her head.

  "In here, my lord! He took her in here!"

  She heard the voice coming from the corridor, and then the door crashed open. Tristan's eyes flashed to hers, and to the blade. All in the space of a heartbeat. Vincent paused with the blade in the air.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Tristan shouted.

  "What you should have done long ago," Vincent spat, and then he swung hard, and the sword descended on her.

  "No!" The word seemed torn from Tristan's throat as he leapt between Bridin and her murderer, and the blow caught him high on the shoulder. She heard the crunch of bone, and saw the blood. Tristan's blood. He sank to his knees in front of Bridin, reached back with the one arm he could still use, and pushed her toward the window. But she was paralyzed with shock and horror.

  "Damn you, Tristan!" Vincent shouted. "Get out of my way!" Vincent lunged forward, one fist shoving Tristan as if to move him aside. But Tristan caught his brother's arm and held him with so much force, his entire body trembled.

  "Run," he whispered, glancing up at her only briefly. Their eyes met, and held. "Run, Bridin, now!"

  Then Vincent glared down at his brother, yanked his arm free, and lifted his sword once more, over Tristan's weakened body this time.

  Pog staggered into the room and grabbed Bridin around the waist, shoving her hard toward the room's single window.

  "No!" she cried, staring back at Tristan, who knelt defenseless at his brother's feet. But Pog was stronger than she, and he shoved her through the small window at the far side and then leapt out after her. The last thing Bridin saw as she was forced to make her escape was Tristan's blood-soaked hand, closing around her two pendants.

  "Guards!" Vincent bellowed from the doorway. He made not one move to help Tristan to his feet, or to stanch the flow of blood from his body. There was a stampede of feet, and then men, his men... his brother's men... crowding into the room.

  "Your prince has betrayed you!" Vincent roared. "That fay woman was here, right in our hands, and he helped her to escape!"

  "Vincent," Tristan attempted, but it was a weak effort.

  " 'Tis true," a voice said, and Tristan looked up to see Kenniwick, one of his most highly placed lieutenants, standing over him. "I saw the whole thing. Tristan attacked his own brother in defense of that treacherous beauty. He's obviously fallen victim to her fay charms and spells."

  "I can't believe it," another muttered. "After what she did! The villages she burned last night? The men she murdered? Even her own, some of them!"

  " 'Tis treachery," said another. "Treachery."

  "Take him to the dungeons," Vincent declared.

  Several men gripped Tristan and hauled him from the floor. He couldn't stand upright. His weak legs wouldn't hold him and his feet slipped in the pool of his own blood. He clasped the pendants tighter in his fist to hide them, and again met Vincent's eyes. "You..." he said. "My own brother..."

  "I'm no brother to a traitor," Vincent said. "Take him away."

  And they did it! They obeyed his brother. Tristan was dragged, bleeding, down into the pitch black dungeons, and tossed into a cell. The barred door was slamm
ed and locked, and he was left there. And he knew full well he'd been left to die.

  Tate had been right all along. His brother had craved the throne, and now he would have it. He lay on the floor, eyes closed in pain, the blood loss weakening him more and more by the second. And in the darkness, he thought of Bridin. The way she'd looked—every bit as defiant and strong as ever—even as his brother's blade swung toward her.

  He'd never known a woman like her. He was convinced now that there simply was no other woman like her. And he hoped to the heavens that her man had got her to safety and out of Vincent's reach. He hoped she was all right.

  He supposed it was foolish to be worried for her safety when his own was in such great question right now. Then again, worrying for himself would be a fairly useless exercise. He wasn't going to survive the night.

  "Gods," he muttered. "Gods, I should have listened to Tate. Why didn't I listen?"

  "Because you're a bloody fool, is why." The scrape of stone from above was followed by a small, lithe body sliding down a length of hemp and dropping to the floor. "But perhaps now you'll listen to old Tate."

  Tristan straightened, staring in shock, first at the little man, and then at the passage opening into the ceiling above him. "How... ?"

  "Never mind how." Tate pulled a small pouch from his tunic, and from it removed a large, rusty-looking needle and a handful of what looked suspiciously like horsehair. "Best find something to bite down on, my friend. This isn't gonna tickle." He crouched beside Tristan and tore the sleeve of his bloodied tunic away.

  "And don't go faintin' like a woman on me, Tristan. We'll be needin' to make our way out of Shara tonight."

  "I can't. I'm too weak, Tate. I'm not sure I'll even survive."

  "You won't if you stay here, that's sure. That brother of yours wants you dead."

  "He'll find me if I leave."

  "Not where you're goin', he won't. And he's not likely to make a big show of searching for you, either. Wouldn't do for him to admit he'd let two prisoners escape in the space of one night."