Rogue's Call Read online

  Of course, his pledged Province was represented in the seal etched into his chest plate. A howling white wolf, like the duchess, Lady Cera’s, bondmate. He’d wear thick silver braided cording on his right shoulder denoting his place in the guard, like all the rest of his brothers, except Leargan. The captain had an epaulet pinned to his armor to signify his rank.

  He dressed quickly, donning his armor last. Alasdair had long learned to put on his own armor, for he’d never taken a squire. With his position within the personal guard, there wasn’t really need of one, although his commander’s second, Niall, had a lad, as did their captain.

  Alasdair was content without one. It wasn’t as if he was ambitious enough to want to rise in the ranks performing heroic acts and gain his own lands from the king. He enjoyed working with the men he’d been raised with, had trained with. Being a part of the Aldern personal guard was an honor he had no desire to forfeit.

  The knights that made up the guard—himself included—had only been living and working in Greenwald three turns, but he’d never been happier.

  Now if his brothers would quit getting married…it’d be like the old days.

  Who was he kidding? Knights were a good catch, especially his brothers.

  Alasdair was too old to still consider himself a troublesome lad. Marriage was normal. A part of acceptable society, of being a grown man. Just not for him.

  Melancholy wasn’t like him, especially on such a happy occasion. His brother was pledging himself to the woman he loved.

  So what’s your issue?

  He shook out his arms and legs, chiding himself to snap out of it. Alasdair plastered on a smile—as if he needed the practice—and wandered to the window that overlooked the inner bailey. He watched the organized chaos of the lasses still preparing the area.

  His eyes scanned what he could see of the main courtyard. The nobles of the castle—the duke, his second, and their wives—stood in a receiving line, along with Leargan and his wife.

  King Nathal’s vast entourage wasn’t even through the outer gates as of yet, but his gaze shot that way, assessing their procession. The king wasn’t difficult to spot, a large, fair-haired giant on a massive white destrier. Next to him rode Sir Murdoch Fraser, the king’s captain and one of the few men Alasdair knew that was close to the king in size.

  He’d trained most of the Aldern guard, and practically all of King Nathal’s knights. Alasdair considered them equal parts a father to him. It’d be good to see them both.

  This procession was larger than the usual fair, but as he studied each rider, he understood why. The queen rode with the men, despite the fact there was also a large carriage.

  “Why would Queen Morghyn be here for Roduch’s wedding?” he mused. It was true Roduch was a distant cousin of King Nathal’s, so perhaps she’d wanted to see a man considered blood wed.

  The queen didn’t often leave Terraquist, and for good reason. Having both rulers away—together—could be dangerous. Everyone would have to be on extra guard—as Alasdair and his brothers, as well as the king’s men, would no doubt be.

  A knock on the door made him jump. “Enter.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to disturb.” A dark-haired lass with a basket of linens and cleaning supplies bowed deeply as she came to stand before him.

  “Nay, you’re not. I was just leaving. The wedding is to start soon.”

  “Aye, I’m to freshen the wing while the men are away.”

  “Ah.” Alasdair caught her eye and winked.

  She was a cute little thing, especially when her cheeks brightened as their eyes met.

  He flashed a grin. “Lasses are scarce in this wing.” Most of the servants Morag sent to clean the soldiers’ and knights’ rooms were male. The headwoman’s greatest fear was impropriety—or even the appearance of it.

  The lass looked embarrassed and shifted on her feet. “The headwoman said—”

  “Lass, I was teasing. I apologize.” Alasdair bowed.

  When their eyes met, her big brown eyes were as wide as saucers. “Sir—”

  “No worries. I’ve not seen you around before.”

  “I’m new. My name’s Elena.” She smiled. Her pride in her duties was obvious. Her white apron was crisp, as was the white kerchief pinned to her dark hair between her pigtails. She looked young, happy, and innocent. “My husband, Henger, is a castle man-at-arms.”

  Husband? The lass looks no more than six and ten.

  “I know him. Good man.” The lad wasn’t much older than his wife. Henger was new to the castle’s soldier roster, and one of the men he’d been training in swordplay over the last few months.

  She beamed and Alasdair couldn’t help but smile back. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Any time, lass.” He nodded and inclined his head. “Good day, Mistress Elena.

  “Are you in need of bathing sheets?”

  They shared a few words about his room and supplies before Alasdair bid her farewell. He had no desire to be caught in his quarters with the lass by Morag, even though she was married. The headwoman knew him to be a rake, yet he’d never tupped a castle maid—no matter the lasses that’d offered. And he’d never touch a married woman—maid or not.

  Married.

  Was everyone married?

  * * * *

  Elissa looked around as she followed Sir Murdoch into the courtyard of Castle Aldern. The castle wasn’t as large as Castle Rowan, but she loved the raised turrets on each corner of the front of the structure. The wide double doors of the main entrance were thrown open—probably due to the wedding celebration.

  “Are you well, lass?” Sir Murdoch smiled as he approached her gray mare.

  “Very much so, Captain.”

  “Not sore from the ride? You didn’t complain once.”

  “Who could complain with such competent leaders?”

  “Who indeed?” The captain winked and Elissa found herself grinning. He grabbed her waist and lifted her off the horse as if she weighed nothing.

  She stared up into blue-green eyes regarding her fondly. “Thank you, Sir Murdoch.”

  “Aye, my lady. Don’t mention it.”

  “Your daughter lives here, doesn’t she?” Elissa asked.

  “Aye. My lass, Ansley, is married to Sir Leargan Tegran, captain of the Aldern personal guard.”

  “A captain like you.”

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far, but aye, the lad’s a captain.”

  One of the men within earshot coughed as if he was covering a laugh.

  Elissa smiled; she’d heard the tease in Sir Murdoch’s voice, even if the older man was trying to hold on to a stern expression. “I’m glad you’ll get to see her, Sir Murdoch.”

  “Aye, me too. They’ve a wee lassie and laddie. Twins.” The captain’s tone was soaked in pride and her heart gave a pang.

  Was she jealous?

  She’d barely been able to digest that she was to marry, let alone contemplate children. Elissa swallowed and tried not to fidget.

  The king and queen had their heads bent together—or rather, King Nathal was leaning down and speaking lowly, so she waited by her horse. She’d not want to intrude on any private royal exchange.

  Soon, the king’s men were calling orders at each other, and started unpacking numerous trunks from the carriage they’d brought—the one she and the queen hadn’t ridden in. Servants from the castle met them and started hauling their things inside.

  She felt out of place and in the way, especially when lads from the stable came and took her mare.

  Sir Murdoch winked and Elissa almost jumped. Then he was gone, bustling around the area with his men.

  Her gaze scanned the inner bailey. The semi-private area opened under a thick brick archway. She wandered that way, throwing a glance at the queen, but her cousin was still conversing with her husband.

  A thick woven garland of flowers hung from the arch, and when Elissa stopped before it, she rested her palm against the stone. It was w
arm from the sun, though the day was not overly hot.

  The inner courtyard was decorated for the wedding, complete with a dais, rows of chairs, and every flower variety she’d ever seen, maybe even some she hadn’t. Magic tingled over the place, even some of the flowers. They’d been conjured, she realized, especially the unnaturally large roses of every possible color. Elissa smiled.

  Serving lasses were still decorating and organizing the area. No one paid her any mind as they worked. They were excited as they bustled, grinning and giggling.

  It looked beautiful. Flowers and woven garlands draped everywhere, and a red aisle runner that made the area appear regal.

  The bride would no doubt be overjoyed when she saw what’d been arranged for her. She didn’t know Mistress Avril, but she was acquainted with the groom, Sir Roduch Grantham. He was a former King’s Knight.

  For some reason, Elissa’s heart sped up. She shook her head and loosened her cloak. It was warmer in Greenwald than Terraquist, but the day was pleasant for a fall day. The sunniness just made the whole place more welcoming. She ignored the sweat on her brow and the tightness of her chest.

  This is not my wedding. I have time.

  She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  Elissa had been born in Greenwald, but she didn’t remember the Province at all. Her father’s holding, which had been sizable, complete with a castle—dubbed with her surname—Castle Durroc, was not too far from Greenwald Main, or so she’d been told.

  No one lived there, but as heir, the property was hers.

  Or her husband’s when she married.

  She tried not to cringe.

  Why the king had left the castle untended was a mystery. The lands were cared for, she’d been told, but no family had ever moved into her former home. She’d never asked what state the property was in, either.

  Why?

  The question reverberated in her mind. Elissa had never been curious about it. Terraquist and Castle Rowan had always been her reality. She didn’t remember her parents or her older brother, who’d been four turns old and killed in the same accident that’d taken her parents from her.

  She knew about the coin the crops from her property yielded. The king’s stewards reported her earnings to her every season, and King Nathal kept her money for her.

  Queen Morghyn had told her about her parents—particularly her father—whenever she’d asked, but it was no more than information that left her heart aching.

  Elissa couldn’t bring them back, and felt guilty she couldn’t even recall their faces now. Logically, she knew she’d been too small, not yet having started her second turn, but not even the small painting of the four of them had ever triggered anything in her mind. The faces of three strangers stared at her when she gazed at it. She recognized her own small face, chubby cheeks and pale hair.

  That only made her even sadder.

  Elissa was grateful she had the painting. Held it dear, and carried it with her even though it triggered no memories. She’d brought it to Greenwald and hoped to hold it later, when she unpacked her trunk and dressed for the wedding.

  Her cousin had told her it’d only been done a fortnight before they’d died, and somehow saved from the fire that had started in the kitchens. Elissa didn’t know how much of her former home had burned.

  She supposed she’d never gone out of her way to wonder about a holding she would be entitled to someday.

  But now…she was going to marry.

  Castle Durroc and the lands were a part of her dowry. Perhaps she could see them again.

  Butterflies were born and flitted about her stomach. Elissa’s grip on the brick beside her tightened until her fingertips throbbed. Suddenly, she wanted to know everything about the place she’d been born.

  “Elissa!”

  She jumped; heat singed her cheeks. Automatically, Elissa turned toward Queen Morghyn’s call and bowed at the waist.

  “Majesty.”

  “Come, lass, I want you to meet the duke and duchess.”

  Her heart in her throat, she rushed to her cousin’s side.

  Chapter Three

  Charis cursed as he entered the dark cave. The protection barrier gleamed at him, as if taunting. He didn’t want to go through the damn ‘wall.’ It wasn’t a real wall, only a thickly woven spell, but it didn’t matter. The unpleasantness of his employer’s magical signature made his stomach roil.

  Dark. Thick. Evil.

  Moist, dank air skirted over his skin, and he fought a shiver as magic slid down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He flexed his hands and chided himself to leave his sword sheathed at his waist. Even if he drew it and brandished it like a madman, there wasn’t anything to kill.

  Spiders.

  The magical keep out felt like spiders creeping all over his skin; clothing gave no protection. He fought through the discomfort, breathing a sigh of relief as the spell faded, kicking him to the other side of the imaginary barrier.

  He frowned and planted one boot in front of the other, glancing over his shoulder. The spell had shoved him, as if placing hands on his back.

  Charis scowled.

  Damn old bastard. And damn Bracken and Nason, too.

  His cowardly men had all too eagerly obeyed his order to guard the vast cavern’s entrance while he went to check in with the old codger pulling his strings.

  Nothing like eating humiliation for breakfast and being called a failure.

  All the worse, because it’s true.

  Despite his magic, he’d failed in his quest so far.

  “Half-breed, is that you?”

  Charis swallowed a growl. He didn’t allow anyone but Drayton to refer to him as such, and that was only for the time being. He’d get revenge as soon as he was done working for the controlling idiot. “Aye, ‘tis me.”

  “Come forward.”

  He nodded even though his wretched boss couldn’t see him yet. On principle, Charis had bound his long hair in a leather strap at the back of his neck and left his wide-brimmed hat with his men. Making sure Drayton would be able to see his tapered ears—a “gift” from his elfin father.

  The old man squinted as he came into what Drayton liked to call his throne room.

  Charis snorted.

  Throne room, my arse.

  The cave was high ceilinged, he had to give the mage that, but other than a huge ornate chair on a dais at the center of the natural room and a few blankets on a pallet off to one side, the wide cavern had a whole lot of dark and wet and not much else. Oh, and stinky.

  Or is that just the old man?

  He didn’t know how the mage could live there.

  Drayton frowned when he noticed Charis’ bare ears. His milky eyes flashed, suddenly lucid; light brown with an odd black ring around the color. It didn’t fix the hanging flesh on his ugly face, from age as well as too much magic use. His black robes swallowed his too-slender frame, covering his hands and feet.

  He was perched on his chair; the only place Charis had ever seen him. But despite the elderly mage’s diminutive appearance, he was powerful. His aura was radiant around his small form, belying his age. It was the aura of a young person, soaked in power. Strength and magic. Magic that superseded his own. But it was also tainted with an onyx ring that screamed evil.

  Charis didn’t fool himself. Drayton could kill him with little effort. Had he been able to handle the physical requirements of the task Charis and his men had been charged with, the mage would never have sought help.

  The old man had probed his magic when he and his lads had answered the call for hire. Drayton had scowled at his ears from the moment he’d recognized Charis wasn’t all human. His magic had saved his life. Had he not been useful to him, Drayton would’ve killed him as soon as look at him, and all because of Charis’ mixed blood.

  Persecution from humans wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with, except for the humans of Aramour, where he’d grown up in a diverse community of elves and humans alike. Ther
e were many of dual parentage in the mountain community. It was only when Charis had set foot into the Provinces he’d started to hide his father’s contribution to his physical appearance.

  Made a man want to hie home to his mama at times, although he’d never admit it out loud. However, for the last several turns he’d spent most of his time in the Provinces. More gold on this side of the border, for sure. On principle, he refused to be ashamed of himself or where he’d come from, but sometimes it was smarter to disguise himself under a cloak and hat—Charis hated to admit that.

  His reputation as a ruthless mercenary was the only thing that forgave his heritage in Drayton’s eyes. And had the bastard not had deep purses and a great deal of magic himself, Charis would’ve run him through for being a bigot the day they’d met. He’d killed men for less.

  “Was it she?”

  Good. No reason to beat around the bush. Indeed, he had no use for small talk with the fellow mage. “Nay, my lord.” Charis could’ve choked on the forced honorific. Drayton was no more a lord than Charis’ boot.

  Drayton cursed in Aramourian, the language of the elves.

  Charis swallowed a guffaw. The wizard’s accent was horrific. He’d claimed to have been trained in the Mountains of Aramour, but Charis didn’t believe him. Even humans from Aramour could usually speak the elfin language with proper inflection. His mother was one, even though she hadn’t been born of Aramour.

  “Did you take care of the lass?” Red anger bathed the old mage’s aura. His wrinkled hands made an appearance from under the sleeves of his robing. Drayton clutched the arms of his chair with white knuckles.

  “Aye, her family, too.” He’d never had the stomach for killing children, so Bracken had had to handle the laddies, same as the other three little ones from the previous failures, in the neighboring Provinces of North Ascova and Greenwald. Too bad guilt was eating at him, even though Charis hadn’t delivered the death blows. He understood the need to wipe out witnesses—they couldn’t risk word getting out that Drayton was on the hunt for the elemental lass. But still, dead babes didn’t sit right in his gut. “She didn’t bear the mark.”