The Fire Lord's Lover - 1 (9 page)

   Dominic knew something had gone wrong the moment he reached the Fire and Water Inn. It should have been filled with the king's advisors and court. Only an old man and a drunk sat at the wooden tables.

   General Raikes called for the innkeeper, who emerged from the back room, wiping his hands nervously on a cloth, a tremor in the jowls of his cheeks.

   "Where is he?"

   The innkeeper bowed his head. "I know not, my lord. His rooms have been prepared, I assure you."

   Dominic waved a hand dismissively. "There must be rumors. There are always rumors. What have you heard?"

   The portly man glanced up, his eyes flitting nervously from Dominic's face to the sword at his side. The pistol in his belt.

   "They say…" His voice broke. "Arumph. They say that the king refuses to leave Bath. His court is quite comfortable there and he has no desire to take up residence in London."

   Dominic's lip twitched. Surely the king realized he had little choice in the matter. But Imperial Lord Breden obviously supported him, making their victory as difficult as possible or just extending the game. Only the lord of Dewhame knew what that game might be. The elven lords had a unique sense of what relieved their boredom.

   Dominic spun. "Mount up," he barked to his troops, heading for the door.

   "But my lord," called the innkeeper, "night is falling, and your horses—"

   If the man hadn't sounded so genuinely concerned for the beasts, Dominic would have ignored him. The roads to Bath were notorious for their ruts and deep pits, and a horse could easily break a leg traveling on a dark night.

   Dominic raised a hand and lit the ceiling of the inn with cold white fire. The drunkard fell off his chair and the old man covered his bald pate with his thin arms. The innkeeper squinted at the brilliance that would light any road the general chose to ride.

   "Don't forget whom you are speaking to again."

   "No, no, my lord, most assuredly I won't."

   But the innkeeper had done him a favor, for the light revealed a small figure huddled in the corner, her brown eyes wide and her lovely hair curling about her cheeks. Dominic couldn't tear his own eyes away from hers.

   "Innkeeper," he barked as he neared her. "See that my new bride is well cared for."

   "Oh… oh yes, my lord. Of course, my lord."

   Lady Cassandra rose, as if fully intending to follow him despite his words. He gave her a cold look that should have frozen her in place. "You will stay here."

   She looked confused, as if she couldn't fathom why he would deny her company. "But Sir Ro—the king. Perhaps I can help convince him to come."

   "I will do the convincing," snapped Dominic, completely out of patience. "Something is afoot and I will not allow you to be caught up in an elven game. And you
will obey me this time." He couldn't affor
d a drain on his power if he faced a battle in Dewhame but he had to be sure of her safety and held up his palms, surrounding her in a ring of dull gray fire.

   Her mouth dropped open quite becomingly; he could just make out her features through the gray flames. She held out her arms and touched the walls of her prison, and then shoved at them. Gray fire wouldn't hurt her but it would remain impenetrable until he snuffed it, which he would not do for several hours. By then his men would be well on the road to Bath and she could not follow.

   Dominic gave a grunt of satisfaction and strode out of the inn, mounting his horse in one smooth leap. When darkness fell he lit their way with white fire and they made good time on the road. Halfway to Bath he called a halt, sudden winds buffeting his horse and men.

   Ador landed just beyond his magical light, a black gleaming shape in a dark meadow. Mor'ded slid down from his perch and waited for his son to come to him.

   Dominic remembered to release the spell of gray fire from around Cassandra, wishing he could have been there to see her face, then quickly dismissed her from his mind as he reached his father. He glanced at Ador and the dragon blinked one red eye at him in acknowledgment.

   "Where are you going?" demanded Mor'ded.

   The general stiffened. "The king is not in Devizes. It is said that he refuses to leave the comfort of Bath."

   "Interesting. So Breden wants to extend the game."

   "So it seems."

   Mor'ded almost smiled. "I wonder what is on his clever mind. Too bad it can't be anything on a grand scale. He knows better than to interfere directly in the game."

   "He can only support the king's folly, nothing more. I will take care of this, Father. Your presence here might be misconstrued." The Imperial Lords rarely consulted with their commanders once a game had begun. It broke their rules of giving the orders and watching the humans try to follow them. For them, that was the most amusing part of the game. But Breden had technically started a new one, so Mor'ded had a right to discover the nature of it and perhaps issue a few new orders.

   But it would look better among the elven lords if he allowed his champion to decide what action to take. Mor'ded nodded and returned to his dragonsteed, mounting in one fluid motion.

   The horses and his men looked better for the halt and they made good time for the rest of the journey, arriving in Bath with the dawn.

   His men narrowed their eyes against the glare of the sun's rays as they rode through the cobbled streets. It always appeared brighter in Bath, indeed, in the entire sovereignty of Dewhame, due to the reflection of the light bouncing off so much water. Small fountains of flowing urns and spouting creatures decorated every doorstep. Larger fountains stood within every square, their spray a loud hiss in the quiet morning, a cold spatter against Dominic's face. The buildings lining the streets had been painted in muted tones of blues and greens, and they all lacked a single straight line, the walls and roofs rounded like the swell of a wave.

   But they could not compare to Dewhame Palace, the home of Imperial Lord Breden. As Dominic and his men approached the looming structure, he marveled again that something so seemingly
soft coul
d be so impregnable. The walls surrounding the palace had been crafted to resemble ocean waves, one rolling atop the other to create one large barrier. Elven magic made the waves appear to actually flow, but the palace walls themselves really did move with water. It erupted from the top turrets of the palace to cascade down the ridged walls, a translucent shimmer of color in the morning sunlight.

   A flood of water drenched Dominic as they passed through the open gate and he didn't get any drier when he reached the waterfall-surrounded courtyard. Water rained down from the palace walls and splattered from the waterfalls and swirled about his horse's hooves. The general's wool coat stuck to his shoulders and back and made him itch. He scowled. Wet wool stank.

   And the king didn't want to leave this place?

   Dominic's scowl faded a bit though, as a welcoming party splashed forward to meet him. Two liveried footmen held an enormous umbrella shaped like the wings of a seagull over the wigged head of a heavyset gentleman. His bearing struck Dominic as someone of importance, and as he neared, the piercing intelligence in the man's darkish-colored eyes confirmed it.

   "Lord Raikes?" the man inquired, his voice raised to a shout to be heard above the waterfalls.

   "
General
Raikes," Dominic replied. He had no aspirations to be a lord. Although he supposed that because of Cassandra his children would have that distinction—He cut off the thought.

   "Yes, of course. Well met, General Raikes. Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Robert Walpole, at your service. My most humble apologies, sir, to both you and your men, for having to come an additional distance to fetch your king. But we would be most honored to have your escort to Devizes, and then, of course, on to Firehame Palace."

   "Indeed? The king has reconsidered his attachment to Bath?"

   Something flickered in those intelligent eyes, but too quickly for Dominic to guess the emotion behind it.

   "Not quite, General Raikes. However, I have packed up the court and we await you at the side gate."

   "And the king?"

   "You will find him in the Royal Bath. Down this street a ways. A large statue of Zeus fronts the building."

   The general raised a brow.

   "His royal carriage will be waiting for him by the time you… escort him forth."

   "I see. It's a pleasure to meet such a sensible man, Sir Robert."

   "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. I've heard much about the champion's exploits on the battlefield."

   Dominic nodded his head brusquely, tired of the polite speech, the hidden implications. He turned his mount and sloshed back through the courtyard into the relatively dry streets, easily finding the large statue of Zeus. His men circled the front of the building, his lieutenant ordering half of them to surround the back exits without having to be told.

   Dominic expected Breden's army, or what was left of it, anyway, to appear within moments. His men readied themselves, drawing forth their pistols and frowning, wondering if the shot was still dry. Most of them drew their swords.

   Dominic waved off the men who tried to accompany him, entering the building by himself. A mosaic of Zeus decorated the floor, sea monsters and mermaids frolicking about him. Not a single guard stood attention at the door to the baths and with no opposition Dominic strode into a marbletiled room.

   A very small old man sat up to his neck in the waters, two women his only companions, one thin and the other heavyset. Dominic didn't waste time with words—he already knew what the situation required. He reached down and pulled the king out of the water, grateful that propriety required a bathing costume. He did not relish having a man's naked buttocks so close to his face.

   He set the king on his feet, gave him a respectful bow, and before the old man could protest, slung him over his shoulder.

   The king cursed at him in heavily accented English, then switched to his native German. The two women scrambled from the bath and followed, screaming for help throughout the now long walk across the mosaic hall.

   Dominic hesitated before he stepped outside, fully expecting to hear the sounds of battle. But only his troops waited for him and as promised, the king's gilded coach. Dominic handed his burden off to Sir Robert, who waited inside. The two ladies quickly followed their monarch and the general slammed the door behind them and nodded at the driver to move.

   His troops surrounded the ornately decorated coach as it made its way through the empty streets. The men who had covered the back of the building joined them.

   "Nothing?" asked the general.

   "No, sir. I don't like it, sir."

   Dominic felt the same way, waiting for an ambush as they journeyed back to Devizes. But when that failed to happen it set him to wondering. Why had Breden allowed the king this ridiculous little rebellion if the elven lord didn't wish to engage in a last desperate battle? Perhaps he hadn't expected Dominic himself to fetch his prize, and the Imperial Lord couldn't afford to lose any more men in another battle with the champion. It would take Dewhame another generation of breeding before it built its army back up enough for a decent invasion.

   Still, Dominic refused to take any chances, escorting the king's carriage directly back to the inn, not waiting for his court to catch up. His Majesty could wait for the rest of them in Devizes.

   It took them twice as long to make the journey back, arriving far after midnight. The innkeeper met him in the doorway, twisting his pudgy hands around a mop cloth, ignoring the arrival of the king and approaching Dominic first.

   "She's been taken, my lord," he said without preamble, "along with several of the other ladies."

   He didn't need to ask to whom the man referred. He should have kept her imprisoned in gray fire. A deathly calm settled over Dominic. Now he knew Breden's game. Firehame would gain the king, but Breden would deprive them of their champion's new bride.

   "Lieutenant," barked the general.

   "Aye, sir."

   "Get us fresh mounts." Dominic turned to the best tracker in his company. "Captain Wilkes."

   "Sir."

   "Go with the innkeeper; find their trail."

   "Yes, sir!"

   Dominic clenched his fists. Cassandra belonged to him. Damn what Mor'ded might say about the matter; he would get her back.

   Damn if he would allow Breden this petty victory.

   Fire bled from between his fingers and he took a deep breath, dispelling that telltale flame and slowly uncurling his hands. His rage didn't come from caring about the girl. That had nothing at all to do with it.

Six

Cass woke to the sound of weeping and the smell of stale urine. She blinked at the single ray of sunlight that shone through a tiny window far above her head, slanting across the room to fall on the barred door. She rose and tried the handle.

   "It's locked," said Lady Agnes, a bit unnecessarily.

   "Where are we?"

   The lady shrugged, her arms around another woman who wept rather piteously. "There's several old castles in the area. I imagine we're in the dungeons of one of them. It could be worse. At least we're a bit aboveground."

   Cassandra nodded and studied the ladies in the room. Like her, they all wore their nightgowns. She couldn't remember their names; indeed, she doubted they'd ever been introduced to her. They had purposely kept her out of their circle. Since it appeared that only Lady Agnes had kept her presence of mind, she directed her words to her husband's mistress.

   "Who has taken us? What do they want?"

   Lady Agnes glared at Cass. "How should I know? I just woke up myself. To a dreadful headache, mind. They must have drugged us with something."

   Cassandra swallowed. Indeed, her mouth felt full of cotton, her limbs weak and shaky. She began to pace the cell, trying to flush the rest of the drug from her system. Had it been put in their wine or last night's meal? She couldn't be sure. After Dominic had released that wall of dull gray fire about her, most of the nobles had already retired and she'd been given dinner in her room by a lackey.

   After that, she vaguely remembered a bumpy wagon and being smothered in hay.

   She plucked a piece of straw from her hair. She supposed when they got out of here, her husband would be able to ferret out who had drugged them. If they got out of here.

   Cass stopped pacing and addressed her words to the entire room. "What magical skills do you have?"

   They all looked at her with shock and disdain, refusing to answer, but at least they managed to stop weeping. Lady Agnes smiled triumphantly. Rather foolish, given their current situation. "Do you propose that we try to save
ourselves?" she asked
. "With our paltry magical gifts? My dear, we shall do what any proper lady would. We wait for rescue."

   "Surely we shall be ransomed," agreed the woman sitting next to her.

   "They wouldn't dare harm a lady of the court," said another.

   Cassandra hoped they were right. But if not… she couldn't perform a death dance in front of them if it came down to a fight. It would expose her to too much speculation. "I apologize. I'm sure Lord Mor'ded will never allow the ladies of his court to be harmed. It's well-known how much the elven lords care for their people."

   The ladies suddenly looked worried.

   "That is, if he's not too busy with the king," continued Cassandra. "But if something
were
to happen to us, we shall be comforted in the thought that another war will be fought in retribution. They might even name their new game after us."

   A tall woman stood, the feathers adorning her nightdress trembling with the movement. "I can sing. But I doubt that would be much help." She waved a hand at each woman. "Lady Somers can make fiery sparkles in the air. Lady Ursula can shape clay into any form and animate it for a few minutes. Viscountess Rothermere can play the harpsichord so beautifully you can barely see her fingers move. Lady Agnes…"

   The blonde tossed her head. "I don't need any magic. I have the elven beauty."

   And she was right. Even bedraggled with bits of hay stuck in her hair, she looked stunningly beautiful.

   Cass sighed, trying to keep the disappointment from her face. Their elven gifts might manage to distract their captors but she didn't think it would help them escape.

   The tall woman stepped closer. "I am Lady Verney, the Marchioness of Verney. Perhaps we can put our heads together and think of some way to use our skills to best advantage?"

   Cassandra looked up at the taller woman with a smile, thinking it might be difficult to bridge the distance between them to put their heads on a level. Lady Verney appeared to read her mind, for her eyes sparkled with understanding.

   "Indeed, we can try," started Cass. "If we made some sort of commotion—" A door slammed and they all jumped, staring at the small barred opening of their own cell. Laughter, the sound of booted feet making their way toward them. Two men, possibly three.

   Lady Verney backed up against the wall and two of the women started weeping again. Cass shushed them and ran to the door.

   "Heh, ye got it right, Martin. If we has to kill 'em anyways, we might as well have us some fun first."

   The ladies gasped in unison. Cass turned. Lady Agnes clutched her throat and Lady Verney's feathers shook.

   The men's laughter rang against the stone walls.

   "I'll go with them," whispered Cassandra, wishing she had a belt… a string holding her nightgown closed… anything. But alas, she had worn to bed a filmy gown with only a petticoat beneath for warmth. Asking for one of the ladies to share a part of their wardrobe would have raised questions that would jeopardize her secret. "It should give you more time to think of a way to save yourselves."

   Lady Verney's eyes widened. "We can't let you sacrifice—"

   "Oh, yes, we can," interjected Lady Agnes.

   The other ladies nodded, and they had no further time for discussion as two dirty faces peered into their cell. Silence reigned as the men studied them.

   "I like the blonde," pronounced the man with a scar running from eye to jaw.

   "And I likes the little brown-haired one. Lookee her eyes. She'll put up a good fight. I likes them lively."

   Cassandra wrinkled her nose. Their body odor drifted through the bars into the room, and the one who liked her smelled the worst.

   "Let's flip for it then," said Scar Face. "Toss a shilling—we gots plenty to spare after this job, eh?"

   Their faces disappeared for a moment. The lock on the door jiggled, and it slowly opened. The stinky one entered the room and Cass gave a sigh of relief.

   "Come along, little 'un," he said, waving a pistol at her face.

   Lady Verney made a strangled sound, but the rest of the ladies stayed mute as she followed the man out of the cell. When she stood in the dank corridor outside the room, he gave her a quite unnecessary shove and Cass pretended to fall, landing in a heap of material. She quickly tore a strip from the hem of her petticoat.

   "I'll be back fer ye," shouted Scar Face into the cell door, and Lady Agnes yelped. Both men laughed.

   "Get up," said Scar Face, giving her a kick when she didn't move quickly enough. Cass rose and glared at him, balling up the strip of cloth in her hand. She then stuck her nose in the air and headed down the corridor.

   "Tol' ye." Stinky Man chuckled. "No snivelin' from this 'un."

   Lady Cassandra preceded them down the corridor, up winding stairs and into another long hall, this one with stones missing in several places, giving her tantalizing glimpses of freedom. She felt the gun on her back as an itch that grew worse with each passing footstep. She took a deep breath. She'd been trained to dance to kill an elven lord; two ordinary men shouldn't present her with much of a challenge.

   But she'd killed a man only once. Thomas had told her it was necessary to make sure she could follow through with her task when the time came. He'd chosen a man slated for the gallows for killing his wife and five children. Thomas told her she'd done the man a favor.

   Cass had still felt sick afterward. It had taken her weeks of prayer and meditation before she'd managed to eat a full meal again.

   She told herself to stop thinking, to concentrate on the thrum of blood in her ears, on the sound of their boots on the floor. They had a rhythm, and she immersed herself in the beat, allowing the song of a dance to take over her body and awaken the magic in her blood. Hoping the torn cloth balled up in her hand would be long enough for the deed.

   "Stop here," said Stinky Man. "Open the door."

   The door opened with a wobbly swing onto a filthy room with a pile of straw in the corner. Her captor motioned her over to the makeshift bed with a jerk of his pistol. Cass's feet refused to cooperate, her body swaying with invisible music.

   He pushed her hard this time, clear across the room and into the crackly grass. Cassandra truly fell, her head meeting the ground with a sickly thud. Her vision sparkled with starlight, and if it hadn't been for her graceful roll she would have been knocked senseless.

   "I'm first," panted Stinky Man, shoving his gun in his belt while he walked over to her.

   Cass suppressed a grin at his action, fisting her hand around the torn strip of cloth, adding the sound of his soft footsteps to the dance already flowing through her. He stood above her, unbuttoning the flap of his breeches. Then he glanced at his mate. "Turn around."

   Scar Face rolled his eyes but turned his back, as if this wasn't the first time he'd complied with such a request.

   This time Cass couldn't suppress her grin. If they continued to make it easy for her, she might not have to kill them. The dunderheaded stinker smiled back at her. "Decided ye'd like it, eh?" He shoved up her skirts and then lowered himself on top of her. She held her breath against the stench and slapped his face. But not too hard, just enough to distract him while she shook out the cloth in her hand.

   Scar Face chuckled to the wall. "Ye said ye wanted a fighter, Martin. Sounds like ye got one."

   Martin's eyes lit up with evil glee as he rubbed his red face. Before she could blink, he hauled his fist back and punched her. The room spun for a sickening moment. Cass started to sob—loudly, covering the sounds the stinker made as his excitement rose.

   "See, Martin. Thass why I don't like fighters— they's too noisy."

   Cassandra's gown had gotten tangled up, and Martin ignored his friend, swearing and grunting in his efforts to find her legs while supporting himself above her.

   The dance shivered in her blood and lent strength to her arms. Cass wrapped the strip of cloth around his neck and pulled. It took him a few moments to even realize what had happened. When he finally managed it, he didn't have the breath to cry out. She sobbed louder to cover his harsh gasps for air.

   And then her makeshift garrote ripped.

   And several things happened at once.

   She returned his favor, punching him in the throat, making him choke, allowing her to use leverage to roll him off her. Scar Face either sensed something wrong or felt impatient of his view, for he turned around. His muddy-colored eyes widened and he drew his pistol.

   Cass pulled Martin's pistol out of his belt and pointed it at the other man. They fired at the same time, both of their shots going wild. But she'd expected that, for guns were notorious for their misdirection even at close range.

   Scar Face grinned and drew his sword while Cass took Martin's sword… and knife.

   "Don't make me kill you," she said.

   He laughed and lunged at her. Martin must have recovered his senses because he grabbed her leg at the same time. Lady Cassandra could no longer consider her options. She let the dance consume her, allowed the magic full rein. Time slowed as her senses heightened, her muscles strengthened. As her body performed the steps with no conscious thought of her own.

   Martin's knife hit Scar Face square between the eyes. Martin's sword relieved his own head from his body.

   Cass could not stop dancing for several minutes.

   When the magic finally released her, she looked with regret at the two dead men. She covered Martin's face with straw, used Scar Face's soiled neck cloth to cover his. Then took a deep breath, knelt between the two of them, and began to pray for their souls. "Please, God, forgive them for their sins. And forgive me for what I was forced to do—although I took this path knowingly, so perhaps that's asking for too much."

   Lady Cassandra sighed with fatigue from using so much of her magic, but bent over Martin and recited the Our Father, then went to Scar Face's still body and prayed the same for him.

   That's where Dominic found her when he burst into the room.

   He didn't say anything at first, thankfully allowing her to finish. When she looked up at him she blanched, for his eyes looked so deadly cold, and fire flickered up and down the length of his bloody sword.

   "The others are in the dungeon. D-down that corridor."

   The general nodded and turned to his men, motioning them onward, then turned back to her. "Are you harmed?"

   Cass touched her face, the area already starting to swell from Martin's blow. "Not much."

   Suddenly his cold eyes flickered with anger. An anger directed not at her, but at the man who had harmed her. For just a moment she saw fear mixed with that emotion, as if he had come to her rescue because he had truly cared for her safety. Then the look faded, and he cleaned his sword on Scar Face's shirt before sheathing it with deadly calm. "What happened to them?"

   Lady Cassandra glanced from one dead man to the other. What could she possibly say? That she knew more death dances than she did any other? That the Rebellion had taught her from secret information they had gleaned with their spies? He would have to kill her where she stood.

   Over the past few days she'd pushed her true task to the back of her mind, forgetting their relationship was naught but a falsehood. She had lost herself in his loving, in his beauty and kisses and the sheer pleasure he brought to her body. She had no other goal than to win him over.

   He waited for her answer patiently, with that inhuman elven calm. Her beloved enemy.

   "They… they fought over me… to see who would be first. They wanted to…" Cass covered her face and sobbed, surprised to find that this time her tears were real. She felt so very tired. She hadn't wanted to kill them, truly. She might have been able to render them unconscious, tie them up, and then escape. But she'd been trained in the dance too well; they hadn't given her time to consider her options…