Feringal stared questioningly at his wife.
"I'm not wanting it," Meralda answered that look with an honest answer. "I'm not wanting to think at all of that night, er, time." She bit her lip as she finished, hoping that her slip of the tongue had not been detected.
To her relief and continued surprise it was Priscilla who stayed close to her, who escorted her to her room. Even when they were out of earshot of Temigast and Lord Feringal, the older woman's gentle demeanor did not waver in the least.
"I cannot guess your pain," Priscilla said.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
Priscilla patted her cheek. "It must have been too painful," she offered, "but you did nothing wrong. My brother was still your first lover, the first man to whom you gave yourself willingly, and a husband can ask no more than that."
Meralda swallowed the guilt she felt, swallowed it and pushed it aside with the justification that Feringal was, indeed, her first true lover, the first man she'd lain with who had honest feelings for her.
"Perhaps we will come to some agreement when the child is born," Priscilla said unexpectedly.
Meralda looked at her strangely, not quite catching on.
"I was thinking that perhaps it would be better if I found another place to live," Priscilla explained. "Or took a wing of the castle for myself, perhaps, and made it my own."
Meralda squinted in puzzlement, then it hit her. She was so shocked that her previous peasant dialect came rushing back. "Ye're thinking o' taking the babe for yerself," she blurted.
"Perhaps, if we could agree," Priscilla said hesitantly.
Meralda had no idea of how to respond but suspected she wouldn't know until after the child was born. Would she be able to have the baby anywhere near her? Or would she find that she could not part with an infant that was hers, after all?
No, she decided, not that. She would not, could not, keep the child, however she might feel after its birth.
"We plan too far ahead," Priscilla remarked as if reading Meralda's mind. "For now we must make sure you eat well. You are my brother's wife now and will give him heirs to the throne of Auckney. We must keep you healthy until then."
Meralda could hardly believe the words, the genuine concern. She had never expected this level of success with her plan, which only made her feel even more guilty about it all.
And so it went for several days, with Meralda believing that things were on a steady course. There were a few rough spots, particularly in the bedroom, where she had to constantly assuage her husband's pride, insisting that the barbarian who had savaged her had given her no pleasure at all. She even went to the extent of claiming that she was practically unconscious throughout the ordeal and wasn't even sure it had happened until she came to realize that she was with child.
Then one day, Meralda encountered an unexpected problem with her plan.
"Highwaymen do not travel far," she heard Lord Feringal tell Temigast as she joined the two in the drawing room.
"Certainly the scoundrels are nowhere near Auckney," the steward replied.
"Close enough," Feringal insisted. "The merchant Galway has a powerful wizard for hire."
"Even wizards must know what to look for," Temigast remarked.
"I don't remember his face," Meralda blurted, hurrying to join them.
"But Liam Woodgate does," said Feringal, wearing the smug smile of one who intended to find his revenge.
Meralda worked very hard to not appear distressed.
Chapter 21 THE BANE OF ANY THIEF
The little creature scrambled over the rocks, descending the steep slope as if death itself were chasing it. With an outraged Wulfgar close behind, roaring in pain from his reopened shoulder wound, the goblin would've had better odds against death.
The trail ended at a fifteen-foot drop, but the goblin's run didn't end there as it leaped with hardly a thought. Landing with a thump and a rather sorry attempt at a roll, it got back up, bloody but still moving.
Wulfgar didn't follow; he couldn't afford to take himself so far from the cave entrance where Morik was still battling. The barbarian skidded to a stop and searched about for a rock. Snatching one up, he heaved it at the fleeing goblin. He missed, the goblin too far away, but satisfied that it wouldn't return, Wulfgar turned and sprinted back to the cave.
Long before he arrived there, though, he saw that the battle had ended. Morik was perched on a rock at the base of a jagged spur of stones, huffing and puffing. "The little rats run fast," Morik remarked.
Wulfgar nodded and fell into a sitting position on the ground. They had gone out to scout the pass earlier. Upon returning, they'd found a dozen goblins determined to take the cave home as their own. Twelve against two-the goblins hadn't had a chance.
Only one of the goblins was dead, one Wulfgar had caught first by the throat and squeezed. The others had been sent running to the four winds, and both men knew that none of the cowardly creatures would return for a long, long time.
"I did get its purse, if not its heart," Morik remarked holding up a little leather bag. He blew into his empty hand for luck (and also because the mountain wind whistled chilly this day) then emptied the bag, his eyes wide. Wulfgar, too, leaned in eagerly. A pair of silver pieces, several copper, and three shiny stones-not gemstones, just stones-tumbled out.
"Our luck that we did not encounter a merchant on the path," Wulfgar muttered sarcastically, "for this is a richer haul by far."
Morik flung the meager treasure to the ground. "We still have plenty of gold from the raid on the coach in the west," he remarked.
"So nice to hear you admit it," came an unexpected voice from above. The pair looked up the rocky spur to see a man in flowing blue robes and holding a tall oaken staff staring down at them. "I would hate to believe I'd found the wrong thieves, after all."
"A wizard," Morik muttered with disgust, tensing. "I hate wizards."
The robed man lifted his staff and began chanting. Wulfgar moved quicker, skidding down to scoop a fair-sized stone, then coming up fast and launching it. His aim proved perfect. The rock crashed against the wizard's chest, though it harmlessly bounced away. If the man even noticed it, he showed no sign.
"I hate wizards!" Morik yelled again, diving out of the way. Wulfgar started to move, but he was too late, for the lightning bolt firing from the staff clipped him and sent him flying.
Up came Wulfgar, rolling and cursing, a rock in each hand. "How many hits can you take?" he cried to the wizard, letting fly one that narrowly missed. The second one went spinning into the obviously amused wizard's blocking arm and bounced away as surely as if it had hit solid stone.
"Does everybody in all of Faerыn have access to a wizard?"
Morik cried, picking his trail from cover to cover as he tried to ascend the spur. Morik believed he could get away from, outwit, or outfight (particularly with Wulfgar beside him) any bounty hunter or warrior lord in the area. However, wizards were an entirely different manner, as he had learned so many painful times before, most recently in his capture on the streets of Luskan.
"How many can you take?" Wulfgar yelled again, hurling another stone that also missed its mark.
"One!" the wizard replied. "I can take but one."
"Then hit him!" Morik yelled to Wulfgar, misunderstanding. The wizard was not talking about taking hits on his magical stoneskin, but about taking prisoners. Even as Morik cried out, the robed man pointed at Wulfgar with his free hand. A black tendril shot from his extended fingers, snaking down the spur at tremendous speed to wrap around Wulfgar, binding him fast to the mage.