Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (48 page)

It was strange how quickly love could turn to hate, like a flower tossed carelessly along on an ill wind. The warmth of their love felt like another lifetime.

Somebody else’s. She felt cast aside, used up and rejected.

Well, you were never good enough for the paladin in the first place,
her fears whispered. Really, what had she expected? For Thaydor Clarenbeld to content himself with
her
? A mere merchant’s daughter? Her own sister had barely believed it. He was, after all, the son of an earl, a national hero—and now the king.

He could do a
lot
better than her on his worst day. No wonder he had locked her up here so he could go and find himself a proper queen…

Such were the fears tormenting her at every hour of the day. She tried to put him out of her mind like the doctors had told her to, but thoughts of him kept creeping back in, the snake. Continually, she wrestled with herself over what she would do to him if he were in the room. Have her way with him again because he was
so
good, and then run him through?

The fool would probably
let
her kill him. She plotted his death in various ways even though he was king. Succeeding would cost her her life, but if they hanged her or sent her to the executioner…

Ha!
So what?
she thought in black humor. Life was nothing but a stupid game, anyway. She hated it, she hated him, she hated everyone—herself most of all.

Still, she tried to keep herself amused as best she could throughout the day.

Whack!

She slapped her scroll of Jonty’s rolled-up music sheets down hard on the table, but Silvertwig flew out of reach again with a little shriek.

The bard sighed. “Wrynne, stop trying to splat the fairy.”

“Mind your own business. The little pest is bothering me. Why won’t it go away?”

“Silvertwig is your friend,” he said, sweetly strumming his mandolin.

“It’s not her fault, Silvertwig,” Jonty reminded the tiny, silver-winged fairy, who now crouched in the rafters with a wounded gaze and watched Wrynne pace back and forth restlessly across her sun-filled chamber.

Her
jail
was more like it.

“I don’t understand this. Why can’t I leave? Why is everyone treating me like a rabid dog? Don’t they know I happen to be the rightful Queen of Veraidel? Why the hell won’t anyone listen to me?”

“You’re not yourself,” he said gently as his clever fingers skipped up and down the neck of the instrument. “But Novus is working on a cure. We must be patient, love.”

“You do love me, don’t you, Jonty? You’re the only one who hasn’t abandoned me.” She stopped pacing and gazed out at the window, where the monks were tending their hops vines in the warm, golden light of afternoon. The murmur that escaped her was bitter. “I used to cure people.”

“Yes,” Jonty said encouragingly. “Tell me about that. All the people you used to help…”

“I cured Thaydor once. And this is how he repays me,” she uttered bitterly, staring out the window. “Putting me in jail.” She whirled around. “I got
you
out of jail, and all you do is sit there and play that blasted—thing! Would you stop and do something useful? You’re driving me mad!”

“It’s not me making you mad, Wrynne, it’s the firechoke venom. But I’ll stop if you wish.” He put his instrument aside, rose, and walked over to her, laying his hands on her shoulders. “Thaydor loves you, lass. That’s why he had you put here where you’ll be safe. Try to understand.”

“But it’s so boring.” She pouted, gathering a handful of his shirt and pulling him closer. “I know a way you and I could pass the afternoon. Come on, bard. It’ll be fun. Take my pain away, my wild poet,” she whispered, pressing herself against him. “I’ll bet you’re a wonderful lover.”

“Aye, that goes without sayin’.” He pried her away with a frown. “But you belong to Thaydor, who is my friend and also happens to be king.”

“Don’t mention him to me! I despise him!” she hissed.

“No, you don’t. You adore him as much as he adores you. Me, I’ve written many a love song, Wrynne, but I’ll never know the kind of true love you two have. Yours is a match made in heaven—literally.” He tapped her on the nose. “You must hold on to that somewhere in your heart, where you’re still
you
. The man needs ye, lass. Now more than ever.”

“I don’t care what he needs. Stupid Clank!” she scoffed, though she ached at the memory of his face. “The great hypocrite. He probably spends all day at Fonja now!”

“Ach, don’t tell yourself these lies. He’s always faithful to you. Even now.”

“Of course you’d say that. You work for him now, don’t you? That means you’d lie for him, too. Why are you all against me?” she wailed.

He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Let’s try something else.” He changed instruments, tuned a string, and then sang to her as he played. The lyrics seemed oddly familiar:

“When the nightingale sings,

The woods waxen green,

Leaf and grass and blossom springs,

In April, to be sure;

But love is to my heart gone

With one spear so keen,

Night and day my blood it drinks,

Until my soul cannot endure…”

Wrynne felt herself pale, remembering where she had heard them before. She suddenly burst into tears.

Jonty kept playing, singing the next verse. After all, her falling into hysterics was nothing new. But this time was different. Thaydor and his little poetry book…

She remembered him reading these very words to her in their brief time at her woodland bower. The memory of discovering his sweetness, discovering love for the first time, made her cry harder. She withered onto her bed and drew her knees up, curling into a ball. It was as though her very heart shattered.

“Help me. I’m losing myself, Jonty. It won’t stop,” she sobbed. “Everything’s all jumbled up inside. I don’t know where I am. It hurts. I want my husband. Where is Thaydor?”

He didn’t answer, because
he
knew that
she
knew exactly where Thaydor was, and had only asked the question out of her madness. She clutched her head.
What is happening to me?
She used to be so calm even in a crisis, but now she could not control her wild moods, could not stop weeping.
I’m disintegrating.

Ilios!

But if the god she had been so sure of all her life answered now, his words could not get through the black walls that had imprisoned her within herself, like a maiden trapped in a tower.

Silvertwig flew down cautiously and stood across from her in somber concern, but Wrynne was alone in the dark. As she lay curled up sobbing on the bed, bewildered and utterly in pain, Jonty played on, as though, in his wisdom, the bard knew his music was the only medicine they had right now for her.

No matter how much it hurt to take it.

Aye, the song brought back exquisite memories so sweet they made her want to die. Something about floating over a winding brook on her Aladdin stretcher with the blue-eyed man who had taught her the meaning of love.

“Where is he?” she asked, dragging her tear-filled eyes open to gaze in agony at her friend. “I need him. I need him. Tell him to come to me. I’ll die if he won’t see me.”

“Do you promise you won’t try to kill him?” Jonty asked softly. “Because we need him, too, Wrynne. He is our king now. We must protect him. People who get what you have usually try to kill Thaydor.”

“Oh.” The reminder came like a punch in the gut.

But she remembered Lord Eudo and King Baynard and how they had set Thaydor up to die, and in the fading ray of light that Jonty’s song had allowed into her darkened mind, she nodded desperately. “Of course. You’re right. Keep him away from me. I love him so much, Jonty. Keep him safe. Don’t let him near me.” Her fists clenched. “I want to hurt him.”

“I think that’s enough music for now.” He put his lute aside and stood, walking over to offer her a handkerchief. “Dry your eyes, love.”

She rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling in despair. “Jonty, I don’t want to be the Mad Queen.”

“I know. Don’t worry. You’ll be better soon.” Gazing down at her, he offered a hand up, but she just lay there, too depressed to move.

“Hmm.” He and Silvertwig exchanged a worried glance. “Why don’t we see if they’ll let you walk in the garden a bit? That used to make you happy. I’ll bet it still would.”

“Can I?” She sat up with a sniffle and looked at him hopefully. “My hands in the dirt…but I suppose that’s not very queenly.”

“At this point, who cares?” he mumbled. “Silvertwig.” He pointed to the rafters.

The fairy flew to safety while Jonty left Wrynne briefly unsupervised, stepping out of her chamber to check with Brother Piero and Mother Superior to see if she was permitted to go outside.

Perhaps they’ll put me on a leash.
But she made an effort to dry her tears and thought about gardens, struggling to remember what bloomed this month and how many average inches of rain there would be.

When they finally took her out, there was no leash, but she was well guarded on all sides. Like a mad queen should be. She knelt in her velvet gown in the dirt and focused on picking dead leaves off the flourishing plants.

It was surprising how much better it made her feel. She mumbled the ancient
Prayer of the Nine Herbs
for Jonty as she worked.

But still, she could not resist wrapping her hand around the most beautiful red rose bloom they came across and crushing it in her fist. She welcomed the pain of the thorns digging into her hand, and smiled cruelly as the rose gave off its dying perfume.

“Why did you do that?” Jonty asked.

“Do what?” she asked pleasantly.

He let out a weary sigh, shaking his head.

She walked away, mincing down the garden row alone and holding up her soiled skirts, when, suddenly, amid the many herbs, her gaze happened upon an old friend.

Deadly nightshade.

She stared at it, then bit down gently on her lower lip, a secret, murderous thrill of inspiration running through her.

As she had told Thaydor in her garden up at Mistwood, used in small doses, it was a key ingredient in several common medicines. In large doses, it could kill a man.

Even a king.

That’ll teach you to get rid of me.

“Should I be worried?” the paladin had teased her upon finding it growing among her apothecary herbs.

Oh, yes, darling. Most definitely.

For beside it grew the equally infamous bloodbane.

And then her inspiration was complete. It was much better suited to her uses than the nightshade.

With a furtive glance at her keepers, she saw the annoying monks and nuns were distracted for a heartbeat. Taking care not to touch the residue on the deadly berries, she broke off a sprig of the bloodbane and slipped it into the pocket of her gown.

Chapter 21

Paladin

“A
h, there’s my good-for-nothing son! Finally made something of yourself, eh?”

“Father,” Thaydor answered with a broad smile.

Gray-haired but still hearty and hale, the grizzled old Earl Clarenbeld strode to him down the long, gilded great hall of the palace, where Thaydor, for his part, could not bring himself to sit on the throne for more than thirty seconds.

He still felt like an imposter who didn’t belong there. Especially when the queen’s throne next to his remained empty. He missed her so much sometimes he couldn’t breathe.

“Son.” His father gazed at him with surprising tenderness for a man who’d earned a nickname like War Hammer in battle.

Thaydor embraced him and held on to his father’s brawny frame hard, a lump in his throat.

“I’m so sorry, lad.”

Thaydor took a shaky breath. “We’re working on a cure.”

The brusque old warrior pulled back and looked into his eyes, so like his own. Despite the fact the son was now taller than the father, his sire looked at him with pained, futile protectiveness, as though Thaydor was a ten-year-old boy again, bawling over his beloved horse, Northstar, who’d had to be put down for a terrible leg injury.

“She’ll be all right,” his father whispered, squeezing his shoulders.

But of course, the old man knew exactly what he was going through, or close enough. His own wife had died unexpectedly, snatched away from him when he and his two children had needed her most. Thaydor had no words as his father held his stare in knowing sadness. He didn’t even have a child from Wrynne to keep and comfort him if this infernal poison robbed her of her life.

“Easy,” his father murmured, but Thaydor shook his head and sat down on a nearby bench, overwhelmed.

He was able to keep his emotions at bay when various officials, strangers, needed him for the endless range of tasks and decisions to be made every day. But with those who knew him best, those who could take one look at him and see how much pain he was in, it was hard to keep up the act. He was frankly falling apart and didn’t care to live if his beloved died.

With a downward stare, he braced his elbow on the table beside his chair and held his head in his hand for a moment, struggling for his composure. His father gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and stood in position to block him from view in case anyone came along who should not see their king teetering on the edge of despair.

“Be strong now, boy.”

“She’s everything,” he wrenched out.

“I know. Get up, son. They’re coming.”

“Clank?” a pert voice burst in on them.

He quickly hid his heartbreak as best he could and rose as his sister came running into the great hall, lovely as ever, but woefully lacking in decorum, despite her being seventeen and of age to be making her debut.