FIONA SAW THAT the exertion of eating the broth and of speaking had wearied him. But he looked so serious and so intent that she knew there was no hope of persuading him to rest before exerting himself more. She drew the stool nearer to the bed, perched on it, and spoke quietly.
“I am called Fiona. I told you once. Do you remember?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Bitterbloom Cottage,” he muttered after a moment.
“Yes, at the edge of the Dark Forest. I found you in the clearing, left for dead by the men who attacked you. They were Duke Borlis’s men, I gather, since they stole your brooch. Why does the duke want you dead?”
“I’m the one asking the questions, angel.” He forced out the words despite his fatigue. “Who else knows I’m here?”
“No one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, but—”
“How far are we from Raven Castle?” he interrupted with a frown.
“Not far.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “I would like to know why I am harboring a man sought by the Duke of Urbagran.”
At that he looked into her eyes. “Because you have a kind heart.”
“That isn’t what I mean. Why does the duke want you dead?”
“Let’s just say he and I are at . . . cross-purposes. And you and I—” He broke off wearily, his head sagging back against the pillow. Frustration showed in his face. “How long . . . until I am stronger? Strong enough to get out of this bed—to ride, to fight?”
“The broth you drank will do you good in very short time. It is an especially potent brew. Perhaps by tomorrow, or the next day, you can rise and begin to move about, but as for fighting—” She shook her head. “I would advise you to wait.”
“Some things can’t wait.” His mouth was a thin line. He wasn’t usually an indecisive man, but at this moment, stuck in this damned bed, too weary to even lift his head, and with the wound in his chest beginning to throb anew, he hesitated to tell this lovely girl the whole truth. He knew that she was beautiful, and brave, and that she’d saved his life, but that was all he knew—other than that she’d vowed to protect Branden.
If he told her the truth, right now, how would she react? Would she panic, run away to give warning? Or would she wait to hear him out? Could she possibly believe the fantastic tale he was going to tell her? If not, she could cause great harm.
And he was too weak to follow or stop her.
No, he couldn’t risk it. Not yet. Not until he had more strength, enough to handle her, to control the situation, no matter how she received his words.
He turned his face toward the ceiling, and she saw his shoulders and the muscles in his neck relax, as if he were willing himself to do so. “I am Cade of the Hill Country beyond Nevendale. I was sent here . . . to help you. Not that I can do a very good job of it at the moment,” he added bitterly.
Fiona’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Sent here to help me do what?”
“To do what you have pledged.” He looked at her directly now, that sharp gaze of his seeming to penetrate her very soul. “To protect the boy who is the next high king of Grithain.”
Fiona went perfectly still, as if his words were a spell, turning her to stone. Be careful, a tiny voice inside her warned. It might be a trick.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” she began, but he interrupted her roughly.
“The high king himself sent me—and so did Ariel. They instructed me to come here, to find you and Sir Henry and to take charge of Branden’s protection. I have a troop at my back—they should reach Urbagran within the next days—and soon the army of Grithain will be headed here as well. Until then, we three must keep Prince Branden safe.”
Fiona went pale, staring at him. Despite what he’d said, she needed to be cautious. “I . . . don’t know anyone named Branden. I believe you have fallen victim to rumor. There is no one here by that name, no one who could possibly be the high king’s son, not in Urbagran—”
His arm flashed out and seized hers, dragging her closer, practically down atop him on the bed. Her face was only a breath away from his.
“Think it through, angel. I know about you. I know about Sir Henry. And I know about Gilroyd. How would I know, if not for being told by King Mortimer himself? No secret has been so closely guarded as this one.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, and saw her cheeks go pale as moondust. Something tightened inside his gut as those exquisite silver-gray eyes searched his, desperately, frantically, trying to read truth or falsehood in their depths.
“I am a friend to the boy—and to you,” he said grimly. “You need not fear me.”
Fiona’s head was spinning. Hope flickered in her heart. Was it true, he was here to help? An ally? How else would he know so much, if he didn’t have the trust of the king?
There was one way, she thought with a gulp. If the spies of Duke Conor or King Plodius or some other petty king had broken the secret at last and sent him to murder Gil.
“Ariel is the sister of Hynda, the witch who raised you,” he continued in a steady tone, still imprisoning her arm. “She instructed me to tell you that she has spoken to her sister in the afterworld, where she has gone. Hynda wishes you to know that she watches over you still—”
Fiona gasped. Tears filled her eyes. Could it be true? she wondered, caught halfway between hope and grief.
“I can see you loved her.” He gave a slight nod. “That is as Ariel said.”
He was a man who, beyond all else, knew how to rein in his passions, but he found himself unexpectedly touched by the emotions rushing across the girl’s face. He let go of her arm and with his finger dried the single tear that slipped down her cheek.
“I am glad I could bring you word of her.”
Her eyes shimmered, wonderingly, and again he fought against unfamiliar sensations. There is no time for this, he told himself sternly. No time for gentle talk, for sympathy or softness.
And yet, for a moment, he found himself fascinated by the woman who had saved his life. He almost . . . envied her. All that she felt was betrayed now in those striking eyes. Sorrow, pain, hope, joy. Love. How strange. He had never loved anyone. Nor had anyone loved him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how it would feel—to love.
Then he steeled himself. In his world, in his life, he had no time for such things. Nor did he have the inclination for them.
“What else did Ariel say?” she whispered.
Weariness was dragging at him. He fought it as he’d fought everything in his path for the past ten years.
“She said that it is time now for you and Sir Henry to join forces with me. All that you two have done for Branden in the past has served him well, but now he needs a defender—a champion. Someone who would fight to the death for him.”
“You’ve almost fought to the death already, only a few days ago,” she murmured, thinking of how courageously and desperately he had fought against the five men in the clearing.
“And I’ll do it again, if need be. But I’d rather escort him to safety without the need for a fight. Things are coming to a head. The king is dying—he may be dead already.”
“Oh, no. Not yet—”
“Duke Borlis is Branden’s enemy.” It was becoming more difficult to talk. His chest hurt. He tried to take a deep breath, to push on, but the exertion of both eating and talking was taking its toll.
“That is one thing I have recently learned on my own. He and Plodius of Ril are plotting together, though I don’t know exactly what they intend. You must get word to Sir Henry. He must come here, meet with me, and we can decide how best to protect the boy until—” He paused, took a deep breath, and she could see the fatigue passing across his face, turning his skin a pasty gray.
“We’ve lost . . . too much time . . . all these days when the fever raged . . . and . . . I don’t even have a sword. But the danger, it’s growing . . .”
“You’ll be better able to face it if you sleep now.” Fiona drew the blanket up around his shoulders, hoping he couldn’t see that her hands were shaking. “Rest. Let the healing broth do its work. Tomorrow you’ll be better, and I’ll bring Sir Henry to hear . . . what you have to say.”
He was watching her, clearly struggling against the weariness that engulfed him. “In the morning . . . early . . . you must bring him.”
“Yes. Sleep now.” She took a deep breath and hoped he couldn’t see how shaken she was by all he had told her. If it was true, by the stars and the moon, the danger to Gilroyd was great and all too imminent.
If it was a lie, then this man was Gilroyd’s enemy, and that spelled danger too. “Whatever awaits, Cade of the Hill Country, you cannot face it yet,” she said as calmly as she could. “First, you must rest.”
“It doesn’t seem . . . I can do much of . . . anything else . . . for the time being,” he muttered, and she sensed the frustration edging his words. But even as he spoke them his eyes closed, and she saw him drifting, drifting into sleep, no longer able to resist the exhaustion dragging at him.
Fiona stood back, studying him as he slept, frantically trying to decide if he was telling the truth. Her instinct told her yes, but she didn’t completely trust her feelings. Something about him drew her in a way she couldn’t explain, a way that had nothing to do with reason or with proof. She liked him. He seemed . . . decent.
No, more than decent. And it wasn’t merely because he was dark and strong and handsome as a knight out of some wonderful romantic legend, she told herself, though he was all three. It wasn’t because of that intriguing black stubble along his jaw, or because of the keen intelligence that gleamed from his eyes, or because he had wiped her tear from her cheek with such gentleness. She sensed something in him, something solitary and cool and, yes, decent.
There is more in him than he would have anyone know, even himself, she thought suddenly.
She prayed she was right about him. Prayed she wouldn’t rue the day she’d saved this man’s life, bringing him to the cottage, working night and day to heal him—only so he could threaten Gil.
Her stomach clenched painfully at that possibility, and for a moment she felt so ill she nearly swayed. She grasped at the wall, bit her lip to steady herself, and at last stole off to her own bed.
But it was a long while before she slept, for her thoughts were full of fears. She sensed that she’d found the Midnight Mirror again now for a reason—that it was playing some role in her destiny, perhaps in Grithain’s destiny, finally, after all these years. She sensed that danger was creeping closer to Gilroyd with each passing day and that events were about to change forever the happy, peaceful days she and Hynda and Sir Henry had known with the boy for these many years.
These events had already begun. They’d started on the night she’d seen the vision in the mirror. And now she could only wonder where they would lead—and what part the stranger would play in them.
She must not trust him, she warned herself, as the moon drifted through a misty purple sky toward morning. She must watch him closely. And do whatever was necessary to protect the boy.
Tomorrow I will get word to Sir Henry that I must speak to him. I’ll have him come to the cottage and meet this Cade of the Hill Country, see if he knows him, if he can help me question him. We need to know if this man is who he claims to be.
When she finally slipped into sleep, her dreams were restless. She awoke three times in the night, bolting straight up in her bed, thinking someone had called her name. It sounded like Hynda.
But there was only silence in the cottage—except for the steady rush of the wind at the windows and her own hurried breathing.