Page 7 of The Maiden

“I am your king,” Rowan bellowed, all of his anger behind his voice. He looked up to see his own knights approaching. “Get them out of here,” he ordered, motioning toward the two Zerna boys. “Xante will tear them apart.”

Rowan’s knights charged the two young men and sent them racing.

Rowan looked down at the boy he held. He was a handsome youth, about seventeen and as mad as a cat in water.

“You are not my king,” the boy screeched. “My father, the great Brocain, is king.” He spat a mouthful of saliva in Rowan’s face.

Rowan wiped his face then slapped the boy in an insulting way, like a man might slap a woman whose quick tongue was more than he could bear. He jerked him upright. “You’ll come with me.”

“I’ll die before—”

Rowan turned the boy to face the approaching Irial troops, who were now very close. They were a formidable sight of muscled men, muscled horses, and weapons gleaming in the sunlight. “They will kill you if you try to run.”

“No Zerna fears an Irial,” he said, but his face had lost all color.

“There are times when a man uses his brain instead of his right arm. Act like a man now. Make your father proud.” He released his hold on the boy, and after a moment’s hesitation, the boy stood where he was. Rowan could only hope the boy had sense enough not to do something stupid. No doubt the Irials would take great pleasure in killing this Zerna boy.

The Lanconians surrounded Rowan and the boy, their horses sweaty, nostrils open, the men with their black brows drawn together, weapons at the ready. They were enough to make Rowan want to turn tail and run.

“Good,” Xante said, “you have a captive. We will execute him now for trying to kill an Irial.”

Rowan was proud that the boy did not waver or show any signs of cowardice at Xante’s autocratic words. Rowan’s anger, momentarily exorcised by his tussle with the boy, came to the surface again. Now was the time to establish his right to rule. He pushed his anger down and looked up at Xante. “I have a guest,” he said pointedly. “This is Brocain’s son and he has agreed to travel with us and to direct us through his father’s land.”

Xante snorted as loudly as his horse. “It was this guest who shot you?”

Rowan was aware of the blood streaming down his arm but he would not back down now. “I cut myself on a rock,” he said, his eyes challenging Xante’s.

Cilean urged her horse forward, placing herself between the two men. “We welcome a guest, even though he be Zerna,” she said as if she were welcoming a poisonous snake into her bed. Her eyes were on Rowan, watching him as he glared up at the formidable Xante. Not many men dared challenge Xante and she never would have believed this soft blond Englishman would do so. But she had watched him ride against the Zerna, rather amazingly dodge an arrow, leap from his horse onto the boy, and now the Zerna boy stood close to the Englishman as if this blond man could stay the hands of the Irials. And now this Rowan was daring Xante in a way she had never seen before. Perhaps this man was a fool but perhaps there was more to him than they thought.

Rowan’s knight Belsur held the reins to Rowan’s horse. Rowan mounted then offered his hand to the Zerna boy to mount behind him. As Rowan turned his horse to start back to the camp, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Keon,” the boy said proudly, but there was a catch in his throat, betraying his fear at his narrow brush with death. “Son of the Zerna king.”

“I think we’d better give your father another title. I am the only king of this country.”

The boy laughed in a derogatory way. “My father will destroy you. No Irial will ever rule a Zerna.”

“We shall see, but for tonight, maybe you’d better consider me Zerna and stay near me. I’m not sure my other Lanconians are as forgiving as I am.”

Behind them rode Rowan’s knights and then the cluster of Lanconians, Daire, Cilean, and Xante in front.

“Is he always such a fool?” Daire asked Xante, looking at the back of this man who was supposed to be an Irial but who treated the Zerna boy as a friend. “How have you kept him alive?” he asked in wonder.

Xante was looking at Rowan and the Zerna boy thoughtfully. “Until tonight he has been as tame as a pet dog. His sister has shown more fire than he has. And, until tonight, he has spoken only English.”

“If he continues riding alone against the Zernas, he will not live long,” Daire said. “We should not try to prevent him from whatever foolishness he wishes to try. Judging by what he did today, he will open the gates of Escalon to any invader. Lanconia could fall under a ruler as stupid as he is. No, we will not try to prevent his riding alone against the enemy. We will be well rid of him. Geralt will be our king.”

“Is he stupid?” Cilean asked. “If we had attacked those boys and killed Brocain’s son, we wouldn’t know peace until Brocain had killed hundreds of our people. And now we have an important hostage. Brocain cannot attack us for fear of killing his son. And you say this Rowan has not, in weeks of travel, let you know he speaks our language? Come, Xante, I am surprised at you. What else does the man know about us that you do not know about him?” She urged her horse forward to ride beside Rowan.

All evening Cilean watched Rowan and his sister and his nephew and his men, encircled by darkness around a fire in front of Rowan’s beautiful silk tent. The Zerna boy, Keon, sat near them, quiet, sullen, watchful. Cilean imagined that Rowan’s ways were as strange to him as they were to the Irials. Rowan held his young nephew on his lap and whispered things that made the boy laugh and squeal. No Lanconian child of that age would be held by his father. By four the boys were already being taught to use weapons and so were the girls who had been chosen for the Women’s Guard.

Cilean watched the way Rowan smiled at his sister, heard him ask after her comfort, and she began to wonder what it would be like to live with this man of contradictions, who rode alone against three Zernas and two hours later cuddled a child and teased a woman. How could such a man be a fighter? How could he be a king?

Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the alarm horns were blown by the guardsmen standing watch. Instantly, the Lanconians were out of their light sleeping blankets and on their feet.

Rowan came out of his tent wearing only his loincloth, giving the Lanconians their first sight of the body of the man they had thought soft. Muscle like Rowan’s had been created by hard, heavy work.

“What is it?” he yelled in Lanconian at Xante.