In a Wolf's Eyes Read online

“The Wolf. Would you like him for your own?” Broughton gazed past me toward the gladiator. “My father is giving him to me as a birthday present.” His face darkened momentarily, a murderous look that caused me to step back before I could stop myself. “My father didn’t want to part with him, but as it’s my birthday…I persuaded him to give Wolf to me. It is time Wolf retired from the arena and stand at stud. I will give him to you as a wedding present. He’ll keep you satisfied in bed while I am—busy—with affairs of state.”

  Brutal suddenly looked at me keenly. “You are no virgin, yes?”

  His talk of Wolf and the fast shift to his question threw me off balance. I could not answer, only gape at him like a fool. My mouth opened, but no words made my tongue move.

  Brutal smiled at my discomfort. “I only ask because some silly countries demand their women remain virgin until marriage. I happen to know yours is not so silly. Neither is mine. Women should be as men are: free to sleep with whom they choose. Until marriage, that is. Then the man must know his heirs are his, beyond a doubt. But I will not hold you to that, my dear.”

  “You are extraordinarily kind,” I said.

  “Too kind, I think,” he answered. “But it is of no moment. You may have Wolf as your bed pet. Think of him as my wedding gift to you.”

  Once again, he bent suddenly and took my hand. Raising it to his lips, he kissed my fingers, his dead eyes watching my face closely. I quickly, artfully, arranged my expression into an appropriately vapid smile, batting my lashes at him. While I had not the skill of batting my lashes as many girls did, Prince Brutal seemed to find it entrancing, for he smiled another rather sweet, shy smile.

  “Why, I thank you most kindly, Your Highness,” I murmured.

  I hid the rising disgust with both him and myself by lowering my lashes and dropping into another deep curtsey before it showed in my eyes. The very last thing I wanted as a wedding gift was a bloody slave. Why could he not give me a horse from his stable instead?

  Brutal nodded, seemingly pleased with my thanks, and half turned away to watch the gladiator again.

  “I cannot satisfy you as a husband should,” Broughton went on, his eyes still on The Wolf. “A woman as young and beautiful as you shouldn’t lack for attention. After our marriage, feel free to indulge your fancy, my dear.”

  “What about your heirs?”

  Broughton waved a negligent hand. “We shall worry about that another time. I know you women have secrets, secrets of preventing pregnancies. When I need an heir, you shall give me one. Meanwhile, Wolf shall be yours.”

  I stammered another thank-you, quite unnerved by his words.

  “I may borrow him from time to time,” he mused.

  I looked at him sharply. Inhuman lust replaced the absent, distant look in his mild brown eyes. I saw in them a lust for another man, a man stronger than himself, a man who in ordinary circumstances could protect himself. Brutal’s lust for, not another human being’s attractiveness or beauty or sexual appeal, but for his horrid lust to break the man’s spirit. This savage lust that had naught to do with sexual pleasure, but everything to do with blood and violence and death.

  If he astounded me with his comment, Brutal stunned me with his next words.

  “It’s a shame I’ll have to have him flogged.”

  “Flogged? Whatever for?”

  Brutal gazed down at me, his complete lack of emotion more frightening at that moment than Wolf’s eyes at their coldest. “He touched you. We flog slaves if they dare touch or even look a free person in the eye. Flogging is the lesser of what could be done to him.”

  “My lord, he but helped me—”

  “And that churl who knocked into you will be executed posthaste.”

  What kind of maniac was this? He would execute a man for rudeness and beat another for saving me from embarrassment? Holy Lady have mercy on us.

  Wolf is not the dangerous animal, I thought. You are.

  * * *

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. The instant pain brought tears to my eyes and a swift crushing of the impulse to speak. Sitting atop my buckskin stallion, Mikk, I watched as Crown Prince Broughton commanded grooms to saddle and ready his mount for the day. After careful consideration of the horses at his disposal, he chose the one horse, the one horse, I knew would be too much for him. And his reason for that choice? He picked this animal because only the day before I admired him openly.

  He was a tall, big-boned piebald stallion with a spirited lift to his head and a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. While he had a keen intelligence, he was also young and inexperienced. Qualities I liked. Qualities that spelled disaster for one of Brutal’s riding ability. No matter Broughton would one day lead his armies into battle, he had no doubt ditched most of his riding lessons.

  Adequate was the best word at my disposal to describe Broughton’s riding skills. While he had a natural sense of balance and a decent seat, he had no patience. He tended to dig in his spurs and haul back on the reins at the same time. A heavy leather riding whip hung from his wrist, one he freely used whenever he felt irritated. Any young horse subjected to this treatment might well-nigh revolt.

  Broughton needed a horse with a quiet disposition and a “been there, done that” attitude. There were several in the royal barns that were perfectly suited to Broughton’s abilities, or the lack thereof. I knew that should I speak up, I would be on the receiving end of an icy stare and a request for me to mind my own business. I know. I’ve tried it before.

  Broughton mounted easily with the aid of a groom, but his whip snapped close to the stallion’s hindquarters. I half-expected him to get unloaded at that point and I braced myself for impact. The piebald bore the incident with an equanimity that spoke of a good nature, but the tense set to his ears and his high head informed me he had mischief, rather than whips, on his mind. I bit my lip this time.

  In the saddle, Broughton reined him around, the piebald’s mouth opening in protest against the sharpness of the bit and his rider’s callous disregard of his pain. Broughton then spurred him sharply to my side.

  “Well, my girl,” Broughton said brightly, his openly smiling face bringing an unwilling smile to my own lips in response. “Shall we go ride awhile and talk?”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” I replied, lowering my eyes in what I hoped was a demure feminine fashion.

  “We have not had much time alone together, you and I,” he said, his hand warm on mine. “We should get to know one another better, don’t you think?”

  His sweet, almost boyish smile brought yet another smile from me. Maybe Kel’Ratan is wrong, I thought. Broughton seems to be like any other royal bridegroom, anxious to please me, eager for my attentions and above all, happy. His pinched, thin cheeks appeared almost vivacious, his usually dead-looking brown eyes alive with a cheery good humor that inspired me to laugh with him. Maybe this marriage could work after all, if I gave it a chance.

  “Come, my sweet Ly’Tana,” he said, bending across his saddlebow to plant a sweet kiss on my cheek. “The day is ours and eagerly awaits us.”

  I found myself wanting to like him. The myriad of rumors and hearsay of his cruelties and brutal killings that earned him the nickname Prince Brutal seemed very far away. I still distrusted him, for none talked but of his wanton torture of anyone who displeased him, of his affinity for rape, and the reason for the pet name most had for him. Did I judge him too soon? After all, I had not actually witnessed any of the rumored tortures and horrible murders. Perhaps I judged him guilty without proof.

  As I listened to his inane chatter of the wedding plans and walked Mikk side by side with the piebald, I wondered if perhaps those rumors were simply that: rumors spread by his ruthless enemies. Anyone with any power at all had enemies. Even I had a few, scattered here and there.

  Surrounded by his bodyguard of twenty purple and gold troopers and my own three warriors I assigned as my Kel’Hallan escort, we rode out the stable yard and into a large green park attached to th
e palace. Broughton leaned out of his saddle to pluck a wildflower, a pale purple flower that trailed pink at the edges of its petals. He tucked it behind my right ear after brushing aside my hair.

  “A beautiful blossom for a beautiful girl,” he said gallantly.

  I laughed. I knew the flower looked good on me, for I caught fleeting admiring glances from no few of the royal escort. Rannon, to my left, nodded and gave me a thumbs-up sign after making me show him my prize. Yuri and Yuras both grinned openly.

  We spoke together and jested, like two young lovers in love, and planned our wedding. The young prince and the young princess riding across a green pasture, the stuff fairy tales are made of. Yet, despite my best efforts to ignore them, Kel’Ratan’s words to me less than an hour before returned to haunt me.

  I hadn’t had time to think on the information he discovered, as on the heels of his telling, the summons came from Prince Broughton. With no privacy and his troopers hustling me to the barn to fetch Mikk, I had not the time to digest what he had said.

  “I learned a bit since yesterday,” Kel’Ratan said as I buckled my sword belt across my chest, to keep my blade out of the way for riding.

  “Learned what?”

  “A bit about Brutal. Why he is the way he is.”

  “He’s a bloody lunatic,” I muttered, fussing with the way it hung. “What more do we need than that?”

  “Ah, but that’s what makes it so interesting,” Kel’Ratan said, sitting down in my chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. He smiled at my irritation. “With knowledge comes power.”

  Spare me, I thought, rolling my eyes. “Get on with it,” I said aloud. “I’m busy.”

  “Well,” Kel’Ratan went on happily, “it all began with when Brutal was born.”

  “If you don’t get to the point, I’m going to stab you with my point.” I waved the tip of my sword under his nose. Witraz walked by, eyeing my sword out of its sheath and evidently threatening my cousin’s life. Kel’Ratan grinned impudently, raising both hands in surrender. I scowled.

  “As a child,” Kel’Ratan continued, as though my threatening to stab him was as common as dirt, “Brutal watched his grandsire and sire wantonly executing any who oppose them. Everything would be above board and all under the law, of course. Arrest them on false charges and have them executed, their lands and property under attainder and now belonging to the High King. He learned at a young age that life has no meaning, no value. And, of course, being spoiled rotten didn’t help matters. He was told over and over he can do no wrong.”

  “How does this help us?” I asked, blowing my hair off my brow in a huff. “What does it bloody matter?”

  “Just hear me out, is that too much to ask?”

  I waved for him to continue, knowing he’d never let the matter rest until he’d had his say. He was too much like my father, damn it all. The two were as thick as thieves.

  “Brutal learned to find pleasure in violence,” Kel’Ratan went on, more seriously. “He can’t find pleasure in simple beauty, or love. He can only commit rape or murder in order to find pleasure or satisfaction. He watched his grandsire torture people for his own pleasure. Lionel, too, found more creative ways to kill people. Brutal grew into adulthood with a savage sexual perversion. It’s fairly common knowledge he rapes slaves and criminals, but it’s been rumored, only rumored now, that he invites nobles to dinner and rapes their wives. No one will speak out against him, out of fear of his reprisals. Remember his magical friend?

  “I also heard he holds great feasts and executes criminals between courses. While that in itself is quite legal, consider the effect that might have on his dinner guests. Worse yet, his evil is cold and calculating. He is unable to see the rights of others. Your father had no idea of this when he sent us here.”

  My irritation with him died. “I’m in deep trouble.”

  “Aye, we all are,” Kel’Ratan said seriously. “Brutal melds his violent tendencies with his sexual addiction. He can’t think beyond his next victim in his bed.”

  “It’s more serious than we thought, is that what you’re saying?”

  I stood up, pacing about, ignoring those eavesdropping on our conversation. While I tried to hold the gossip of our group to a minimum, I didn’t much care who gossiped about the danger we all were in. About a dozen pairs of eyes followed me as I paced.

  “I can’t just be his wife and bear his heir?” I asked, running my hands through my tresses. “I’m not going to be a Queen, and keep Kel’Halla safe from invasion? That is the only reason I agreed to this wedding: to keep Kel’Halla safe. If I did not marry Brutal and the Khalidians won the wars, Kel’Halla would cease to exist.”

  “Now—” Kel’Ratan began, but I cut him off.

  “You know as well as I do that should Lionel best us, our people would be enslaved and Kel’Halla plowed under. We may hold them off for a few more years, but eventually they will overwhelm us under the weight of sheer numbers. Without any allies to aid us, someday, maybe not for ten years, but someday they will win. They will grind us into dogmeat. That’s why Father sent us here. My marriage is not just to answer his god-rotted edict, but to keep the Khalidians out and Kel’Halla intact. That’s not going to happen, is it? He’s going to kill me and bloodshed will go on, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Ly’Tana, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  I ceased my pacing, knowing every task in every hand nearby also ceased. Every warrior in the room waited to hear what I would say, knowing their own lives were also at stake. I stared at Kel’Ratan, stared at my cousin, my best friend, my sworn protector. Neither of us knew what to say.

  I opened my mouth, but a sharp pounding at the door forestalled whatever I might have said.

  Sele opened it, admitting two troopers in their royal purple and gold uniforms. They approached me and, as one man, dropped to one knee. They saluted in unison.

  “Your Highness,” one intoned. “His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, bids you attend him in the stables. There you are bid ride with His Royal Highness and discuss high matters.”

  Was he really told to say all that? I kept my eyes from rolling with an effort. “I’ll be along shortly,” I replied, wanting another minute with Kel’Ratan.

  “Excuse me, Your Highness,” the man said diffidently. “Please come with us now.”

  His tight expression told me of his fear of what would happen should he report and tell the Prince I would be along shortly. Bloody hell, I thought, sheathing my sword. I picked up my bow and quiver of arrows. The troopers eyed my armament in dismay, but at least said naught.

  “Rannon,” I growled.

  Rannon, a tall warrior with strawberry fair hair to his waist and a mustache that drooped past his chin, snapped to attention immediately.

  “You, along with Yuri and Yuras, will accompany me. Let’s go.”

  Left and Right, the twins, caught my attention with identical scowls. Since neither of them ever spoke a word, anyone attempting to communicate with them had to interpret their expressions. Their scowls told me they felt they should accompany me. As they thought of themselves my personal bodyguard, they disliked me to go anywhere without them. I hated to disappoint them, since their doglike loyalty was absolute, their love for me total, but no one had appointed them my bodyguard. They long ago appointed themselves and jealously guarded their position. For me to request someone else to guard me amounted to a slap in the face. To salve their wounded pride, I gestured to the two young brothers.

  “They need the experience and you need the rest,” I said.

  Yuri and Yuras rose from the floor where they sat, playing dice, their passion. When not fighting, riding or attending to their duties, they gambled. Both had dark blond hair hanging past their shoulders; a thin braid from their temples to the backs of their heads kept the unruly mass from their faces. Lively blue eyes dancing in high cheekbones, Yuri, the elder by four years, had several days growth of beard on his cheeks. Yuras, not out of hi
s teens yet still an accomplished fighter, had but downy fuzz on his jaws.

  “You have guarded me for three days without a break,” I said to the scowls. “Get some sleep.”

  The scowls vanished.

  The royal troopers rose to their feet and bowed low as I swept by them, my escort of three Kel’Hallan warriors behind me. Thus attended, I hurried to the stables, not wanting my delay to effect someone else. Especially if my delay meant someone got hurt. I tried not to let Kel’Ratan’s words worry me, but I worried anyway.

  Kel’Ratan has to be wrong, I thought, biting my lip. I half-listened to Broughton’s plans to weld Kel’Halla to Khalid, but Kel’Halla would retain all rights as an independent monarchy, subject to no laws but her own. In return, Khalid became her overlord, protected under the banner of the High King. Kel’Halla’s king would return military aid should Khalid require it. I rule as Queen, my son ruling the Khalidian Federation after Broughton. My second son would inherit Kel’Halla. There were smaller details as to trade agreements and ambassadors and such. Yet, all in all, it was not such a bad deal if it kept Kel’Halla free and independent.

  Suddenly the piebald snorted. That was his only warning. Half a heartbeat later, the piebald dropped his head between his front legs and brought his powerful hindquarters up. It happened so quickly, so violently, I myself might be unhorsed.

  His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Broughton, hit the ground, hard, with a resounding thud I felt in my toes. His breath whooshed from his lungs with a sound that made me cringe. Around us, our escort in their purple and gold uniforms dismounted amid exclamations of horror, rushing to the aid of the fallen Prince.

  I slid down from Mikk’s back, leaving him to stand unattended, as I, too, hurried to aid Broughton. Cursing inwardly, I knew I should have spoken up when I had the chance. I could have said anything, I could have lied and said the animal was lame. Broughton might actually have believed me.

  He sat up, coughing and choking, his black and white mount still madly bucking and careening across the meadow, two troopers galloping in hot pursuit.