its prey.
From the shelter of the forest he watched, biding his time. Faucon still lived. His minion’s announcement hadn’t been needed. He’d felt it in his heart. The gut-wrenching taunts rustled in the leaves—he lives, he lives.
Glaring across the open expanse of land separating Taniere’s walls from the dense forest, he lifted his gaze to the keep. The beast had killed the most important person in the world, and her son. For that Faucon would pay.
For now Faucon drew breath—safely locked in one of the towers. But soon—very soon the devil’s heart would cease beating and his breath would come no more.
When Faucon lost his life only one person would be held to blame. Lyonesse.
For five years he’d planned Faucon’s death. The time had stretched like an eternity before him. An endless, lonely eternity. Lyonesse made a grave error by taking the murderer captive instead of dispatching him to his master. For that she would suffer the pangs of hell.
Rhys stared through the arrow slit and watched the sun sink from view. His heart fell in unison with the light of this remarkably strange day.
He cursed his forced inactivity. The idle solitude permitted unbidden images to form in his mind. Memories that he had not previously allowed to disturb, or interrupt his life, now threatened to overwhelm him.
The rushing thoughts were so vivid he could hear and see them. Shapeless thoughts from years past transformed into actions of now. Rhys groaned at the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. His groans turned to a strangled gasp of horror when the screams of a dying infant and mother invaded his senses.
A sword cutting through his flesh would not be as painful as the piercing wails that rang relentlessly in his own mind. He could hear her accusations and her laughter.
She’d taken a naive, eager boy to husband and had effortlessly crushed his hopes and dreams with her vileness.
“By the Rood, cease.” His growl bounced off the bare walls of the empty cell.
He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of his tower jail. The act did little to comfort him. Nor did it provide the action his body desperately needed to quell the unwelcome memories.
The arrow slit silently beckoned to him. Drawn to teasing thoughts of freedom, Rhys paused before the narrow opening and gazed down at the baileys and walls below.
He watched two lone figures on the closer wall. Unable to hear their words, he could only assess their moods by the posturing of their bodies. The quick motions of his captor expressed her agitation and impatience. While the tense, stiff movements of the man conveyed tightly leashed anger.
They took turns glancing up at this tower while continuing their animated discussion. Obviously, he was the topic of their argument. With a dismissive shrug, Rhys let his attention wander. He looked beyond the outer wall.
A large expanse of cleared land lay between the keep and the woods. No force of men would be able to approach the keep unseen. Not even his own.
The outer bailey of the keep drew his attention. Fires burned inside the thatched huts. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d enjoyed the contentment of hearth and home.
The lingering warmth and joy shared at his parents’ hearth had once made him long for a wife and children of his own. A bitter marriage and too many deaths had driven that childish longing to an early grave.
He rested his forehead against the damp stone wall. What unholy saint drew those thoughts from the bowels of hell?
A key grated in the lock of the tower door, drawing him away from the arrow slit and away from his building gloom.
A young page carried a wooden tray laden with food and set the tray on the floor before turning to Rhys.
The boy looked up at him and asked, “You are the devil Faucon?”
Rhys smiled at the child’s boldness. Only by keeping his voice low was he able to contain his laughter. “Aye, ’tis what some call me.”
The lad squinted. “Why do you not look like a demon?”
Rhys crossed his arms against his chest, then looked down his nose at the imp. “What should a demon look like?”
An innocent knowledge of devils rushed from the child’s mouth. “You should have horns and a tail. How do you wear boots over hoofed feet?” He paused to point down at the tray. “A true demon would not eat this food. It is already dead.”
Rhys kicked his foot toward the tray, forced a growl to his voice and asked, “How do you know I will not eat you instead of this rubbish?” He took a step closer to the boy. “Should you not run for your life?”
The child drew his small shoulders back, held his ground and tilted his head up a little farther. He pointed at Rhys, insisting, “A true demon would not have been captured by—”
“Michael!”
The accusation was cut short by a shout from beyond the door. Michael instantly scampered out of the room.
Lyonesse stood in the doorway. “That child is innocent.” She glowered at him and ordered, “You will leave him be.”
Rhys’s mouth twitched with sorely suppressed humor. He lifted one shoulder briefly. “A child is a delicacy that I have not tasted in many weeks.”
Lyonesse paused. Not one muscle in her tense face moved. Then a look of uncertainty settled on her face.
Rhys provoked the confusion even further. He assumed an air of nonchalance, bargaining, “If you will turn a blind eye to my ungodly appetites I will promise to stifle the child’s screams.” He picked at an imaginary speck of dirt beneath a fingernail and waited for her.
“Have you not yet killed enough innocent people to satisfy your taste for flesh and blood?”
“By all the Saints’ bones!” Had the woman no sense of humor? “I was but jesting.”
She stepped into the chamber, the hem of her overlong mantle trailing across the floor behind her. “Your humor is ill-received here, Faucon. I found nothing humorous in committing Guillaume to his grave.”
“No, you probably did not.”
“’Tis all you have to say?” She closed the door behind her, shutting out the guards. “No apology for the havoc you have brought to my life? No regret for killing an innocent man?”
Every fiber of his being warned him of danger. “I have never taken an innocent life.”
She smiled. “You lie so well.”
The warning grew stronger. Rhys narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
She unclasped the brooch of her hooded mantle, letting it fall to the floor. Rhys’s mouth went dry. Her hair, worn loose, cascaded over her shoulders and down her bare arms. Pale, silken flesh mounded gently above the deep-cut neck of her sleeveless overgown. The bliaut hugged her body like a second skin. She wore no chainse beneath—nothing but flesh showed through the tightly laced openings on either side.
The
