Constance gave him an almond-eyed look. “Give me an ice pick and you’ll find out for yourself.”
Gwen gasped.
“Go!” Aaron ordered, jerking the blueprint from under the cat so that he could wave it at his ex-wife. “Leave. Begone. You are not wanted here.”
“But I want to see the ex—”
“Leave before I feed those beasts to my Piranha!” he roared.
Constance opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before leveling him with a look that Gregory felt could well have brought down an entire skyscraper. “Fine! Take all my fun, you selfish, irritating man! Come, my children. We will seek out Daddy’s shoes and piddle in them!”
“I do hope she’s talking only about the cats and not herself,” Gwen said sotto voce as Constance spun on her heel and marched off accompanied by most of the cats.
“There are days when I have my suspicions,” Aaron said darkly, then frowned at them, seeming to recollect why they were there. “Since my executioner is at present busy making a new knee strut, and also since you can’t make yourself useful to me by working on the Piranha, then you shall have to do so by other means.”
“What other means?” Gregory asked, suspicion gripping him in its sticky embrace.
“You’re a thief,” Aaron said, frowning slightly at the plans as he read them over. “You will steal for me.”
“I’ve told you: I’m not a thief. I’m a Traveller.”
“And Travellers steal time,” Aaron said without looking up. “So it should be no problem for you to take a few things that I want. After all, they were mine to begin with.”
“What things?” Gwen asked, leaning against the table, one hand stroking the nearest cat.
“My dog, my deer, and most of all, my bird.”
“Your what now?” Gwen’s nose wrinkled in a delightful manner that wholly enchanted Gregory. He wanted to kiss her nose. And her lip. And, if he was honest with himself, the rest of her.
Aaron looked up and gave her a dissatisfied look. “My bitch, my white roebuck, and my lapwing. They were stolen from me by that fiend Ethan and his trickster brother.”
A memory smote Gregory alongside his head. “Ethan? Would that be Amaethon ab Don?”
“That’s the fellow, the devil blast his hide.” Aaron’s expression turned highly incensed. He shook the blueprint at Gregory. “He stole them and then when I tried to get them back, he declared war against me. Me! Have you ever heard of anything so devious?”
“Yes, but I admit that I’ve also heard about this. My partner was reading me something about Anwyn before I came here, but I could have sworn he said it was mythology.”
“Bah. Where do you think the myths come from?” Aaron snorted, tossing aside the plans. “I want my things back, and you can just steal them for me.”
“I’m not a thief.”
“If you don’t get them back”—Aaron’s voice turned sly—“you’ll spend the rest of your not inconsiderable days in my dungeon. As for you—”
He turned to Gwen. She looked startled. “You said you didn’t need an alchemist.”
“I don’t, but my soldiers at the front inform me that you’re one of Ethan’s warriors who wanted out of his service. I will grant you a place with my contingent.”
Gwen looked like she was going to protest, but evidently she thought better of it, because she just looked thoughtful for a few seconds before saying something that took Gregory by surprise. “All right.”
“You can’t be serious,” Gregory said.
“Why can’t I? I’d rather be a warrior than be stuck in a dungeon.”
She had a point, damn it. He considered stealing enough time to keep them from being captured in the first place, but knew that down that path lay only grief and sorrow.
“Very well. Since Gwen doesn’t mind being forced into a role that isn’t by nature hers—”
“Hey! I could be a warrior if I wanted to!”
“—then I will do likewise. I accept your offer of an exchange for our freedom if I return to you the three items stolen.”
Aaron made a notation in a leather journal. “I don’t believe I made any mention about granting you freedom.”
“Then mention it now. Those are our terms,” Gregory said firmly. He put his arm around Gwen again in order to give her support, but mostly because he just liked the feel of her tucked up next to him. “They are not negotiable.”
Her frown was potent, but she didn’t object to the fact that he spoke for her.
Aaron’s face was stormy for a few seconds, then cleared up as he shrugged. “Very well. You will have your freedom once you return what was stolen from me and the other one has served the span of a moon in my army.”
“Two days,” Gwen countered. “I’ll be a soldier for two days.”
“A fortnight,” Aaron countered.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “A week. That’s my final offer.”
“Done. You may go to the stables and tell the grooms to give you a horse. You may leave immediately.”
He returned to making notes in his notebook, clearly dismissing them from his thoughts.
Gregory didn’t stay to argue; with a slight pressure on Gwen’s waist, he started back up the hill to the castle with her.
“One thing . . .”
They stopped as Aaron’s voice, suspiciously silky, reached them. They turned together to look back.
The king’s gaze was filled with portent. “The mortals have a saying. Perhaps you’ve heard it? Hir yw’r dydd a hir yw’r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn.”
“I don’t speak Welsh,” Gregory said.
“I do.” Gwen hesitated, then translated, “Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting of Arawn.”
“The mortals think that refers to the events of the past, but really, it touches on the fact that I always, no matter how long it takes, have my revenge for a betrayal.” Aaron smiled. “Something to remember, yes?”
EIGHT
“Have you ever wanted to take a vacation from your own life?” I asked Gregory as we walked up the hill to the upper bailey.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Count yourself lucky.” I couldn’t help but sigh as another orange-coated tour guide herded a group of what looked like Catholic schoolgirls, complete with matching uniforms and attendant nuns in full traditional garb, past us. Faint echoes of “The brewery is renowned for its popular From Hell Ale, made with honey gleaned from Anwyn’s happy little bees. We’ll have a sampling right after we visit the armory, where the blood-encrusted weapons of Anwyn’s brutal past are on display” followed us.
The schoolgirls cheered. The nuns murmured happily about the ale.
I wanted to alternately sit down and weep and run screaming away from the castle.
“Are you allowing that talk of execution to distress you, dulcea mea?”
“Dulcea mea?” I asked, distracted from my general sense of worry, concern, and befuddlement. “What does that mean?”
“It’s Romanian for ‘my sweet.’ And before you say it—and yes, I know you were about to—I used the endearment because your kisses were very, very sweet.”
“Kiss,” I said, jerking my hand away from his. I didn’t even remember holding his hand! What on earth was going on that I could hold a man’s hand without consciously thinking about it? “We had one kiss. Just one.”
“And it was a superb one.”
It most certainly was. Just the memory of his mouth made me feel restless, like I wanted to run a marathon, or rip his clothing off. With an emphasis on the latter. “That was an error of judgment on my part. I should never have kissed you. I can only guess that I was feeling guilty about you having been beaten up and wanted to make sure that your mouth still worked.”