Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (19 page)

“Your touch is amazing,” he panted, looking almost drunk with sensation. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His frank sensuality made her bold. Just once—over his clothes—she rested her hand on his bulging nether regions and stroked him. With a naughty smile, she sent her knight’s long, rigid lance a pulse of the same warm, glowing energy that she had used so many times to heal.

She had not meant to bring him to climax. But she found—triumphantly—that she had. He surrendered to her ministrations with a gasp of such sweet agony she realized too late that he had been trying with all his might to hold back. But it seemed the paladin
was
capable of losing a battle, after all.

And then he was adorably embarrassed—though he laughed and said his bad day had certainly taken a good turn. And
then
, with an azure gleam in his eyes, he claimed his wicked revenge by paying her back in kind.

Several times.

Well, they needed it, she supposed. Both of them had so much hunger pent up inside from a lifetime of trying so hard to be so very good.

As she moved under him, still fully dressed, she could hardly wait for him to take her in their marriage bed. Tomorrow night seemed too far away. But slipping a finger, and then two, inside her, he satisfied her for now beyond her wildest dreams.

When she was spent, dazed, breathless, and emptied of all care, he held her in his arms for the rest of the night and kept her warm while the rain drummed on. She cast her arm across his chiseled abdomen and slept, her head nestled on his bare chest. It felt like the most natural place in the world for her to be.

Elysium, indeed.

Chapter 8

Oracle

T
he white tower gleamed in the brilliant midday sun, dominating the plain below the ridge where Thaydor halted the wagon for a moment.

Having set out from the cave early this morning, their half-day’s journey was almost at an end.

They had reached the outer edge of the many thousands of acres controlled by the Ilian church and were approaching its official headquarters. The Bastion comprised a tiny, semi-independent city-state within Veraidel, and was under the kingdom’s protection.

But given that His Majesty’s spies were probably already posted around the perimeter awaiting his arrival, he and Wrynne were wearing their simple gray pilgrims’ cloaks with the hoods drawn up to prevent them from being recognized. Thaydor had even put Avalanche under harness beside Polly to try to make his famous warhorse blend in as well.

His enemies would no doubt expect him to come here sooner or later, seeking guidance and practical support from his strongest allies in the church hierarchy. Perhaps he had beaten them here, he mused as he scanned right and left. If not, he should be able to slip in unnoticed. Either way, he was not unduly worried. Not even Reynulf would launch an attack on holy ground. All they had to do was get there. It wasn’t far.

A world away from the troubles that besieged them, the busy, sprawling complex around the white marble Lux Aeterna Tower on the plain below bristled with lofty spires and soared with seemingly weightless flying buttresses.

Countless gargoyles kept watch from the eaves of an ornately carved collection of large, honey-colored sandstone buildings in the Gothic style, many with stained glass windows to dazzle the eyes of the faithful and lift their aspirations to eternity.

In the center of it all, the massive white marble tower reached toward heaven. Swans drifted across the large lake that cast the tower’s mirror image up to the ever-watchful eyes of the Almighty and his armies of angels.

Wrynne and Thaydor exchanged an intimate smile at the sight of the place where they would soon be wed. The Bastion had shaped and molded so much of who they had become, from the university halls with their cloistered dormitories to the chapter houses of both their confraternal orders, from the military training fields where he had learned to fight to the sprawling physick gardens where she had learned to nurture and grow the apothecary herbs used in the healing arts.

They’d be safe here at least for a day or two, until the oracle told them what to do next. No one in all of Veraidel’s long and colorful history had ever dared attack the Bastion, for even those who did not believe in Ilios were unwilling to risk waking the golden dragon who lived at the bottom of the lake.

None in living memory had seen the mighty Talath, but in bygone centuries, she had been known to rise up out of the depths in all her terrifying glory and roast any forces sent against the place. As ancient guardian of the Bastion, the mighty beast answered to no one but Ilios, Thaydor supposed. If she was real.

In any case, Thaydor knew the Golden Master himself would grant them sanctuary—and not even Lord Eudo would chance a public confrontation against the old holy man of Ilios. Still, neither he nor Wrynne wished to risk provoking any sort of political retaliation against the church for harboring them. So while they would seek brief solace here, they’d be on their way again as soon as possible.

He glanced at his alluring companion, eager to get her to safety. “Shall we?”

She nodded with a smile of relief.

He clapped the reins over the horses’ backs and drove on past the green swathe of crops, pastures, and orchards. They passed the stables and the dairy farms, where the nuns’ famous cheese was being made, and the vineyards and the winepress and the acres of hops being grown for the monks’ award-winning ale, past the quaint brewery.

Nearer in lay the impressive Ilian hospital and the tidy rows of almshouses for the elderly poor, as well as the orphanage, with the little play yard for the children. Closer still to the busy, golden beehive of the Bastion’s inner circle stood the several palaces of the highest-ranking clerics in the church hierarchy, known as the Venerables.

Other buildings housed the orders of teaching monks and nuns who ran all branches of Veraidel’s only university, also here at the Bastion. Other divisions of church scholars kept the great library and worked tirelessly in the scriptorium, penning beautiful illuminated manuscripts. The most erudite order of clerics worked as observers and cataloguers of nature. They spent their time studying creation, researching everything from the stars shining through the domed observatory to the lowliest of life forms growing in the dirt.

Everywhere was order; everyone had his place. And given the chaos of his life over the past few days, Thaydor welcomed the return to sanity with all his orderly, disciplined soul.

Driving along the edge of the meditation gardens further lifted his mood. The gardens were most beautiful, with colonnades, terraces, and fountains. Winding paths through the exquisite, ornamental acres offered contemplative walks, with regular stopping points to sit and think or pray.

As they went by the chapel beside the gardens’ gateway, swirling strains of polyphonic chorus floated to them on the breeze, ethereal and bright as the sunlight itself. Wrynne looked over at him and took his hand. Seeing wonder mingled with anxiety in her beautiful gray eyes, he suspected she was thinking about their wedding.

He regretted that it had to be so hasty, that their families couldn’t come. Ingrid would wring his neck when she found out she had lost the chance to be a bridesmaid, and what Wrynne’s mother would say, he barely dared wonder.

For his part, marrying a girl without first asking her father’s permission bothered him exceedingly, even though she was of legal age to make her own decisions.

But as much as this seemed out of order, he knew it would not be proper for them to continue traveling together in their current state—especially now that they had lost the fight to keep their hands off each other. Besides, it would not be safe for their kinfolk to be around them until this storm blew over, anyway.

He took his hand back from Wrynne’s light hold in order to turn the wagon to the right at the intersection ahead. This put them on the broad, triumphal avenue leading straight up to the foot of the tower and the heart of the complex.

As the main approach to the little city, the so-called Avenue of the Sun was lined on both sides with tall white banners bearing the golden sunburst crest of Ilios. Sunflowers were planted along the parade route, as well, as a secondary symbol of the Light.

At last, he drove into the cobbled courtyard of the chapter house of the Sons of Might and reined the wagon to a halt. He let out a sigh, pulled down the hood of his cloak, and looked around.

“Anybody home?”

* * *

“Thaydor!” a deep voice shouted.

Wrynne looked over to find a burly, bearded friar striding toward them, a hearty grin on his beefy face.

A thick-bodied bear of a man, he wore a brown robe with a rope-belt cinched across his potbelly. With a burst of carefree laughter, he held his arms up at his sides. “Welcome, brother! We’ve been expecting you!”

“Brother Piero! Ah, it’s been too long!” Thaydor jumped down from the wagon and clasped the friar’s outstretched forearm. The man greeted him in the same fashion.

Though Brother Piero was fat and rather messy looking, something about the wild glint in his dark eyes told her he must be one of the warrior monks. Sturdy as he was, he looked like he could do some damage once he put his armor on.

“I take it you’ve heard my interesting news?” Thaydor drawled.

“What, that you’re suddenly the kingdom’s most infamous outlaw?” Piero laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “What tripe! Aye, I saw one of those
Wanted
posters. Took it with me to the garderobe this morning and used it to wipe my arse. Er…beggin’ your pardon, lady.” He pressed his hands together as in prayer and bowed to her.

Wrynne’s lips twitched. “Don’t mind me. Greetings, brother.”

“Who is your companion, lad? Ah, one of our fair Roses, I see,” the friar said with a broad smile, gesturing to her necklace.

“My lady, Brother Piero has been a fixture at our chapter house since the days when I lived here as a student,” Thaydor explained.

“You make me sound so old!”

“You
are
old.”

“I am not yet fifty, you impertinent whelp! I daresay I can still trounce you with the quarterstaff.”

“Maybe with the quarterstaff,” Thaydor conceded. “I never had much patience for it.”

“You always liked a bladed weapon better.”

“That’s true.”

“Ahem,” Wrynne said in amusement. “Pleased to meet you, Brother Piero. I am Wrynne du Mere and I would like to either get down from this wagon or continue on to
my
chapter house. So what are we doing, hmm?”

She gazed expectantly at Thaydor, but something about her rather wifely tone of voice must’ve startled Brother Piero.

He looked from Wrynne to Thaydor in astonishment. “Are you two…?”

“She saved my life,” Thaydor said with a nonchalant grin, then changed the subject, clasping the older man’s shoulder. “I crave your patience, brother, but we need to consult the oracle and receive whatever counsel the Venerables can bestow about our situation.”

“Of course! Come. Fret not, children. We will look after the both of you.” He beckoned to Wrynne, and Thaydor handed her down from the wagon. “Oh, and Bartholomew! See to the horses!” he called to someone in the chapter house stables. “Ha, Avalanche!” Piero patted the steed’s neck. “How’s he doing?”

“Very well,” the paladin answered. They followed the friar into the chapter house. “But I’m afraid I have bad news about my latest squire.”

Piero winced as he held the heavily carved oak door open for them. “Not another one, man!”

“Eadric of Hazelmore has gone to Elysium,” Thaydor said quietly.

Genuine sadness filled his dark eyes. The burly monk paused, shook his head, and looked at the ground. “Ah, well, so may it be. Ilios sees all. I figure he knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m counting on it,” Thaydor agreed. “I do wish they’d stop sending me squires who aren’t ready, though.”

“They all volunteer! They want to
be
you.”

Thaydor harrumphed.

Wrynne poked his stomach. “Maybe your new fame as the Villain of Veraidel will dim their hero worship.”

“That would be one good thing, at least.” He cast his arm around her shoulders and pulled her near in chummy fashion.

Piero seemed intrigued as he glanced from Wrynne to Thaydor, both of them looking much too happy for two people who were being hunted.

“Fear not, you two,” he resumed. “These lies of the darkness cannot withstand the Light shining upon them. We just have to figure out how best to do that. And we shall, never you fret. This way.”

He led them up a dark, carved, turning wooden staircase. “Your rooms are up here. Sister, I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of accommodations for ladies, but we do have one bedchamber for visiting female relatives.”

“I can go to my own chapter house—”

“No. You’ll be much safer here,” Thaydor interrupted as they stepped into the upstairs hallway. “We don’t know who else might be working with the king in this. I want you within shouting distance of me at all times.”

She shrugged. “As you wish. But I would at least like to visit them before we leave.”

“Of course. Later.”

The corridor was lined with doors to the private quarters of the Sons of Might members currently in residence. They followed Brother Piero to the door at the end of the hallway. He opened it. “Here you are, my lady. Our female guestroom. I take it you’ll want the room across the hall from her,” he said to Thaydor, gesturing at it.

Thaydor nodded and went into her room, where he glanced around to make sure everything looked acceptable. After spending the previous night in a cave, the well-appointed chamber was more than Wrynne expected.

“Thank you,” she said, setting her satchel down on the nearest chair. “This will be perfect.”