Page 22 of The Wand of Lore

Out of options to stall, Vaylor headed back outside to search for his old minder, the devious Greyson. It didn’t take long before a hand reached out from a shadow in the alley, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the darkness.

“You!” snapped Vaylor. In an instant, his sword was at Greyson’s throat. “You crossed one line too many.”

“Did I?” sneered Greyson. “You have been sent by your king on a mission. You dallied for an extra day where you were unneeded—for what? The birth of a peasant brat that wasn’t ever meant to live? Your father didn’t like that update, and he ordered me to send you a reminder: you live by his grace, as does your pet witch.”

“She’s not my pet! And I won’t betray her, Greyson. I can’t. She’s not what we thought she would be. She didn’t start the plague, and she can help prevent it from spreading.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“It’s what I know. I’ve spent time with her, and I understand her now. She could never do something like that, and she’s the only chance that village has to survive the Devil’s Plague. Perhaps the only chance the whole kingdom has—it’s only a matter of time before the plague starts appearing in other villages, and it’s deadly.”

Greyson grabbed Vaylor’s blade with his gloved hand and pushed it away from his neck. He stood tall, looming over Vaylor, and drew his own blade, smaller and more nimble. In seconds, he was inches from Vaylor, the tip of his dagger grazing Vaylor’s chest under his tunic.

“Everything you’re saying now, you said back in Loews Hollow. Maybe I haven’t been clear,” Greyson snarled. “You have been tasked with delivering the witch to the king. You have not been tasked with determining her innocence or administering justice. You have not been tasked with befriending her. If you refuse to deliver her, you will die. Youcould probably kill me, but do you think I am the only king’s emissary watching you? Do you think you can survive a war between you and the crown? Deliver the witch. Regain your title. Live happily ever after. Am I making myself clear?”

Greyson hovered over Vaylor the way he had so often when Vaylor was but a boy. As far back as Vaylor could remember, Greyson had been there, towering, menacing, yelling, beating him over some trifle or another. Vaylor looked into Greyson’s eyes and saw the familiar vitriol. The whites of his eyes were shot with red veins, the dark recesses of his pupils were dilated, and the muscles lining his eyes were tightened as he glared. Vaylor’s body shrank into an old familiar shape. He was six, denying allegations of speaking in front of others, hoping to avoid a whipping. He was ten, hiding from Greyson’s heavy steps, listening to accusations that he had stolen a piece of his brother’s birthday cake. He was thirteen, paying the price for daring to look his father in the eyes, just once and only briefly. He was sixteen and dashing away from the castle through the darkness, not daring to look back.

“I said, do I make myself perfectly clear?” Greyson growled, and Vaylor was thirty-five and under orders to deliver his lover to captivity.

Vaylor looked away and nodded. His knuckles hurt from how hard he was gripping the hilt of his sword. “One day you will die by my hand,” he promised, but the words sat in his throat, the promise unspoken.

Greyson said nothing, but turned away and fled, his dark cloak swishing behind him.

***

Vaylor sat still, listening to his heart racing as he considered his options. He would tell Gwenneth the truth, that he was being strong-armed into delivering her to captivity. She couldturn back and save herself, and Vaylor could escape to the countryside. But no, Greyson had made it abundantly clear that escaping his father’s spies would be nearly impossible, both for him and Gwenneth. Anyway, he remembered how Gwenneth had snuggled into his arms, how she had looked at him when he untied her from the tree. She could never be allowed to see him like this, small and weak under Greyson’s thumb.

Vaylor stood and swore as he chucked a rock at a nearby tree. He would kill Greyson, to hell with the consequences. In the meantime, he couldn’t tell Gwenneth the truth, not while they were being watched. If there was any hope of escaping, it was in fighting back once they got to Gorenth and retrieved the wand. Vaylor had spent so much of his youth hiding in the dark passageways and studying how to be forgotten that he would be able to guide them to the catacombs where the king hid his favorite treasures from prying eyes. He could help Gwenneth find her mother’s wand, and pray that her hunch was right and it really would allow her to channel more power. Then, they could steal away, save her sister, heal his curse, and live a life together far away. Or not together, whatever, he quickly corrected himself. He was a loner, after all, and this partnership would eventually expire.

There was another option, almost too delicious to consider. He could win. He could deliver Gwenneth to his father, as requested, regain his title and lands, and most importantly, the respect of his father. As Prince Vaylor, Lord of Wellwall, he would have something to his name that he could use to protect her. Others would swear fealty to him, and once he had an army flying his banners, he could retrieve Gwenneth and bring her and her sister to safety in his castle. Sure, she may hate him initially, but once she understood, she would love him for keeping her safe. Not that he wanted or needed her love, but still, it would be a nice outcome.

Whatever he did, she could never see him like this, as Greyson’s whelp who did the ugly bidding of the king without question. As a lost little boy unable to find his tongue while shrinking at shadows and threats. Someone denigrated and despised by the king. For one evening, he had been a lover and a hero, and though he would deny it if anyone cared enough to ask, it felt pretty damn good.

Chapter Fifteen: Gwenneth

Gwenneth sat on her bed, fidgeting with the stays of her dress, reliving how Marvin’s fingers had felt on her body. She had been looking forward to getting a room together, but gave her bravest smile when he announced that they were decidedly not together, thank you very much, and that they would take two bedrooms. She supposed it was the more honorable answer to give, and it had the added benefit of being true: they were not wed, and any innkeeper would look unkindly on an unwed couple bunking together. It would give people the wrong idea. It was a wonder that they didn’t get more attention merely traveling together. The obvious choice was to tell everyone they were married and avoid any unseemly questions altogether. Now they got the worst of both worlds: the innkeeper eyed them sideways as she tried to piece together why two unmarried people of the opposite sex were traveling together, yet sleeping apart.

She got up and paced around the room. Warmth crept across her body as she felt his phantom fingers tracing her breasts. She clutched herself self-consciously. How could she have let him in so easily? It had been years since she had been touched like that. No, scratch that, she hadneverbeen touched, not like that. Not with such tenderness that her skin shivered,nor with such skilled attention to her clitoris. It was not her first time having sex of course, but it was her first time having sexlike that. It had been glorious! Doubly orgasmic! But oh! What if things went wrong and she was stuck on the road, counting on him for protection?

And how easy it would be for things to go wrong. She had craved his comfort after the trauma of the abduction. It had happened fast. One moment she had been plucking thistle from the earth, and the next she was flung against a tree and unable to talk or reach her wand. She didn’t know what the man wanted, or why he ultimately left her alone. Perhaps he hoped to do more but was thwarted by the sound of Vaylor running through the trees. Or perhaps Vaylor was right—it was a message from the king’s spies that Vaylor was under scrutiny. She didn’t know, and the uncertainty sent a shiver up her spine. Perhaps it had been wrong to turn to Vaylor for comfort last night, but she had so dearly craved the fleeting illusion of safety that came with being wrapped in the arms of a big, sturdy man like Vaylor. She knew better than to equate it to real safety. After all, though they had struck an uneasy truce, she had almost forgotten that this was the man who had accused her of starting a plague. She knew all too well what villagers did to witches taken into custody, especially during times of hardship. Times of illness and drought. And what did she really know about Marvin? He’d shown up in her village on his fancy horse with his fine clothing and no explanation, except to declare that King Egar had sent him. And wasn’t he shifty? Was it just her, or did he jump at shadows that shouldn’t present danger to any normal man up to normal things? Who was his family? Where did he come from? She should know these things about her companion.

She rubbed her arms, considering just how much she didn’t know about Marvin. Yes, he had been good, no, amazing in bed. But they were going together to the heart of the kingdomto find her mother’s lost wand. She couldn’t even be sure the wand was there, or that it was as powerful as she hoped, but she could count on finding danger in the castle. Plus there was the matter of the curse. She sensed it growing, and could see the black spreading up his leg. How long had he had it? And what enemies could he possibly have that were strong enough to curse him like that?

The curse clearly came from another witch. A witch could throw a curse for many reasons, but they were costly. Gwenneth would be unconscious for weeks casting such a curse, and would certainly risk death. There was one sure way that Gwenneth could think of to so anger a witch that she would be willing to risk the dramatic loss of energy. Marvin had surely threatened a witch’s life, or the life of her family. He was not a good person.

She went to the window, knots twisting in her chest. How could she be so stupid as to get romantically involved with him? He had held her close in his arms, and she had let him, like some silly love-sick maiden. She had chosen comfort over sense. She chewed her lip as she stared out the window, but was distracted from her dilemma when she saw a man exiting the inn and striding down the street. He wore black from head to toe, and his face was obscured by a cloak. Still, she recognized his determined gait even from a distance. It had to be Marvin. Who else was even staying at the inn? But why would he change his outfit to something so garishly mysterious? Perhaps he was getting food, though they had already supped. But no, he walked past the pub and kept going. He didn’t stop at the stables, where Sir Henry rested, or at the general store. Then a shadowy hand came out of an alley and grabbed his arm. He staggered and disappeared into the darkness.

She held her breath and hid behind her curtain. She felt foolish hiding. They couldn’t see her, even if they thought to look at a particular window in the inn a few blocks away. She wasstill peeking out when she saw Marvin finally reemerge. He was walking unsteadily, swaying slightly as he moved.

Gwenneth sat on the bed, her heart racing. She could think of no good reason he would hide himself in a cloak to disappear into an ally with someone in a city they were merely passing through. She was certain that it had not been a chance, random encounter. Marvin had worn black specifically to stay hidden while seeking out the stranger. He had left the inn at a particular time, achieved his purpose, and returned. It wasn’t a coincidence; someone had been waiting for him in the town. A business partner? Someone who operated in the shadows, who didn’t want to be seen, or didn’t want Marvin to be seen with him? Her travel companion was mysterious and dangerous, and she had no idea of his real business. He had said he was a simple servant of the king, but also someone whom the king wished dead. Did most servants wear such velvet cloaks and swing swords with gilded handles? Who was Marvin, really? And why did the king want him dead?

She got off the bed and paced around the room. She had only meant to use Marvin for his body last night, a brief respite from the terror of her abduction. She wasn’t trying to fall in love or anything like that, and she certainly had no intention of actually trusting this man. And it wasn’t as if he had any feelings for her; that much was clear by the way he talked to her. She didn’t know why he was sneaking around Bannister, but nice people didn’t sneak. Good people were clear about their intentions and had nothing to hide. Marvin was simply an untrustworthy enigma. She had to keep her guard up as they headed toward Gorenth and into the heart of the beast.

Chapter Sixteen: Vaylor

Vaylor jolted awake sometime in the hours between midnight and dawn, screaming. His legs were on fire! From the bed, he looked around the room for water or anything to quench the fire, but there was nothing. His heart thudded, and he panted heavily as he tried to extinguish the burning on his legs, but the fire raged on. The high-pitched sound of a dying animal reverberated in the night. Vaylor’s head darted from side to side as he sought the wild animal. Then he realized his jaw was stuck open and the wild sound was coming from him.

The door burst open, and Gwenneth stood in the doorway wearing a long, white nightgown, wand out, hair spilled in an untamed disarray of curls.

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