Jane S. Fancher - Dance of the Rings 2 - Ring of Intrigue

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Ring of Intrigue

Dance of the Rings Book 2

Jane S. Fancher

Dusk was closing rapidly as the small entourage ap-

proached the outer wall of Rhomatum. A strangely deep

duskthe leyroad lights, once bright beacons leading to

the city, glimmered feebly in the distance. Even Tower Hill,

an architectural mountain rising above foothills of concen-

tric rooftops, seemed subdued, fewer lights and dimmer

shining from those oldest, most elegant buildings of the city

of Rhomatum.

Only the highest point in the City gleamed with undimin-

ished silver leylight: the Rhomatum Ringchamber, upper-

most room within Rhomatum Tower itself. Home of the

Rhomatum Rings.

The source for all those other, failing, lights.

Lightning clouds roared in from the north. An hour be-

fore, just as the entourage had crossed the Oreno leyline,

the storm that had rumbled in the distance all afternoon

had suddenly broken pattern, gaining organization and di-

rection, forming a line of blinding ferocity, a constant bar-

rage of ground strikes that chased the open carriage and

its handful of outriders down the valley.

It was a race now to see whether they could reach Trisini

Gate before the solid mass of atmospheric fury overtook

them.

Deymorin had kept the team to their steady, running trot

as long as he dared. Bracing his feet against the forward

rail of the driver's box, he gave the anxious horses the

signal they eagerly awaited, tired as they were.

Fool, he called himself, and worse, as he guided galloping

horses grimly over and around the ruts and potholes of the

cattle trail; fool, for choosing this side track over the

smooth-graveled Trisini Leyroad.

In choosing the anonymity of off-ley roads, he'd made

their trip from Armayel overlong and dangerously slow. He

should have known that despite the clear morning skies,

the storms that had made the last month an unpredictable,

living hell for the valley would arrive before nightfall.

At least the storm would keep Anheliaa, or whoever was

in control of Rhomatum Tower these days far too busy

protecting the city to notice their arrival. So he trusted the

seasoned team's instincts, and hoped he didn't shed a car-

riage wheel or a brother in this final mad dash.

Kiyrstin, he'd never lose, so long as he had a coattail for

her to grasp.

To the front and sides, the outsiders kept pace, calling

out warning of ruts and mud holes. Nikki, a quiet and sane

presencein every sensebrought up the rear and cast

Deymorin silent reassurances regarding his passenger's

safety.

Huddled in the back seat with Kiyrstin, Mikhyel was a

black sink of nonemotion. Awake, holding his thoughts his

own, that was all a brother could ask, a brother whose mind

could afford no distractions.

The trail branched, one road toward the stockyards, the

other toward the leyroad and the gate. The horses surged

uphill, and the ground beneath the wheels rattled and

bounced, then settled onto the smooth surface of a leyroad.

A mental sigh of relief reached him: Nikki's thought, Mik-

hyel's, or both; or perhaps just his own.

But it was a short-lived relief. At the gate, chaos reigned,

delivery vehicles jammed the opening, the silk balloons that

normally rose above them, taking the strain off the axles,

lay limp over the cargo or deflated even as they watched;

further evidence, if they needed it, that the node's power

umbrella was rapidly failing.

Or perhaps, Deymorin thought, as he raised his eyes to

see stormciouds gathering above the city, that energy was

being redirected.

"The Tower, Deymorin! Has the storm reached the

Tower?" Mikhyel's voice pierced the near-deafening rum-

ble. He spoke aloud, as was not altogether necessary, ex-

cept from a biother who sought to hide his horror of the

lightning.

Deymorin looked beyond the immediate area to the sky

above the Tower.

"It's all right," he shouted back over his shoulder. "The

sky's clear beyond the old wall."

Words or mental image penetrated the thunder and dark-

ness, and Mikhyel's relief filtered back: a conscious leak in

the blackness.

A relief all well and good for the safety of the rings and

those individuals within the perimeter of the old wall, but

the immediate danger to themselves and all those milling

about them remained. The old wall, that marker of an ear-

lier limit of the city's power umbrella, was a mile and more

yet ahead.

But they didn't need to reach the umbrella. Not far from

Trisini Gate lay their salvation, if only they could get to it.

As the lightning bore down on them, Deymorin added

his voice to the general cacophony, ordering his men to

help clear the vehicles and get the horses and their handlers

inside the wall, and never mind the cargo.

"Can't, sir!" one shouted back. "Gatekeeper's de-

manding to see papers!"

Deymorin cursed, then yelled at Nikki to change places

with him. Handing the team off to his youngest brother, he

made a flying mount into the saddle and forced the big

horse through the mill to confront the gatekeeper

personally.

"Papers!" the man shouted at him, and held out a hand,

wide-eyed and automated as a mechanical doll.

"Don't be a fool!" Deymorin shouted back, and pointed

at the approaching wall of lightning. "These people are

going to fry, and you'll fry with them! Get them and the

stock through the gate and into the underground. Now!"

The man stared at him blankly, obviously terrified into

idiocy. Ignoring him, Deymorin began shouting orders at

anyone within earshot. He found a manone of the idiot's

assistantsfamiliar with the nearest entrance into Old Rho-

matum, and set him at the forwardmost team, with orders

to get the men and animals under cover.

"After hours, sir!" The man shouted. "Locked!"

"Then break the damned doors down!" Deymorin

answered.

"Yes, sir!"

In a few moments, the frightened horses, free of harness,

were forming a steady stream toward the underground city

and stables, the oldest legacy of Darius' followers, and

newly restored for the delight and amusement of tourists.

Tourists be damned, it got them out of the storm.

Deymorin spotted Nikki with .his unharnessed team in

hand, waved him into line, then searched the madness for

Kiyrstin and Mikhyel. Targeting on Kiyrstin's red hair, a

spot of color in the lightning glare, he pushed his way

through to them.

"We're all right, JD," Kiyrstin shouted, and Mikhyel's

determined calm seeped past the gut-jolting thunder.

"We'll get underground, wait for you there!"

Meaning /'// get your shattering brother to safety, and

don't you dare waste time worrying about us.

Deymorin grabbed a fistful of her hair long enough to

press his lips hard to hers.

As the rain began to fall, he let her go, then shouted,

"Love you!", and ran to help free another panicked team

from wind-whipped balloon silk.

9 9 rSbp

"I remind you, our identification is all in that carriage

outside. Do you care to go retrieve it?"

Mikhyel dunMheric's velvety voice carried a hint of con-

tempt that could cut through the most imperturbable indi-

vidual's confidence.

The keeper of Trisini Gate was not what one would call

imperturbable.

"Iit doesn't matter. The law says"

"I know full well what the law says. I wrote it. Shall I

quote it for you?"

Somewhere beneath the city of Rhomatum, Kiyrstine

romGaretti, estranged wife of Ringmaster Garetti rom-

Maurii of Mauritum, leaned against a stack of hay bales

and watched the Trisini gatekeeper squirm.

"Better yet," Mikhyel continued, and he held out his

hand. "I'll read it to you."

The gatekeeper stared at him.

"Naturally you have the paperwork you are by law re-

quired to hand out to every individual entering the city

without proper identification, do you not?" Mikhyel asked,

and Kiyrstin bit her lip to keep from smiling, then winced

as her teeth encountered the bruise left there by Deymor-

in's parting kiss.

His adrenaline rush, or her ownhard to recall, in retro-

spect, which was responsible. They were still learning each

other's limits.

As her exploring tongue found the misaligned tooth re-

sponsible for her bruised lip and marked it for future refer-

ence, the brown-eyed visage that lurked constantly at the

back of her mind crept forward. Kiyrstin made no effort to

push the image back. Mikhyel didn't need her at the mo-

ment. Mikhyel's keen mind was back on track, now they

were out of the storm, and she had total confidence in his

ability to win so minor a skirmish.

And as it had a tendency to do these days when relieved

of other distractions, Kiyrstin's mind, like a pubescent

schoolgirl's, turned to Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric.

Deymorin presented an intriguing dichotomy. She'd

known the man only two monthsless than two months in

Rhomatum's odd calendarand yet it seemed, at times, as

if she'd known him all her life. At others, it seemed that

three lifetimes wouldn't be long enough.

Raised to be the head of the Rhomandi Family, premier

Family in the Rhomatum Web, Deymorin exuded a confi-

dence and power to command she'd witnessed in only a

handful of individuals in a lifetime among the rich and pow-

erful of Rhomatum's rival nation, Mauritum.

There could be no doubt, at times such as this, where

men seeking an anchor in time of crisis reacted with instinc-

tive trust to his deep-voiced confidence, that he was com-

fortable with that fate.

And yet he was a virtual stranger to his own people.

Years ago, for a complexity of reasons that no one outside

the family could ever understand in their entirety, Dey-

morin had abdicated his inherited responsibilities to Mikhyel

and retired to the Rhomandi country estates. Consequently,

while Deymorin was still in every legal sense the Rhomandi

of Rhomatum, Mikhyel's face was far better known to the

Rhomatumin populace.

Or should have been. Kiyrstin couldn't blame the con-

fused gatekeeper for questioning Mikhyel's identity claims.

She'd seen some of the popular renditions of Mikhyel dun-

Mheric, and cartoonists and serious portraitists alike had

clung to Mikhyel's elegant, feature-defining beard and mus-

tache as his distinguishing characteristic, a look, Deymorin

had told her, that had spawned a new fashion throughout

the City.

And now Mikhyel dunMheric was as smooth-faced as a

child, the hope that his facial hair would return fading with

each passing day. Four long Rhomatumin weeks had passed

since the battle at Boreton turnout, four weeks since Mik-

hyel had fallen from the sky, burned almost beyond recog-

nition and nearly dead.

He had survived, had healed miraculously unscarredon

the outsidebut his body hair was gone. Everything, he'd

revealed once in answer to her unabashed query, except

his eyebrows and lashes, and the silky black mane confined

now in a braid at his back.

Black-haired and gray-eyed, with his black clothing and

beard, and that indefinable attitude, he must have once

made an imposing figure, despite his average height. These

days he looked more like a harassed cleric. Handsome

enough, if a woman's taste ran toward light-boned and slen-

der, and with a look about his eyes that could, when he

was distracted, become sad and a bit haunted.

But his eyes were keen enough now, gleaming with en-

gaged intellect, and neither the loss of a beard nor this

strange venue could undermine the effect of a voice sea-

soned in the courts of Rhomatum.

The gatekeeper's worries had passed beyond the Rho-

mandi brothers to the chaos of men and animals and legali-

ties of forced entry into city property. Leaving Mikhyel to

persuade the harassed civil servant that the way to handle

the situation was not to incarcerate each and every one of

the individuals trapped in this underground museum, Kiyr-

stin edged toward the aisle down which she thought she'd

heard Deymorin's voice.

There were stalls, and she saw Nikki's blond head bob-

bing on the far side of a broad horse-back, but no Dey-

morin. The sound must have been an echo from somewhere

else in this strange underground maze.

She leaned crossed arms on a stony outcrop, and scanned

this newest revelation of Rhomatum. The decor was

unique, to say the least. Stable, those around her had called

it. Except that in addition to stalls and hay, there were

restaurants and gift shops lining the entrance corridor and

a sign beside the hay bales that read: Tours start here.

The light came from oil lamps rather than the ley crystal

bulbs she would expect to light the shadows within a node's

power umbrella. Oil lamps were a curious affectation within

a Node City's limits, but a welcome one, considering this

city's currently-constricted power.

She'd hate to be caught in the absolute black that must

exist here when those lamps were extinguished. A honeycomb

of stone, organic shapes that bore no resemblance to any

rooms she'd ever known, sounds that echoed endlessly . . . a

person could be lost very quickly in this maze with no hope

of logicking herself free.

"Well, we've a respite, at least," Mikhyel's velvet voice

said at her shoulder. The gatekeeper had left. "When the

storm has passed, he'll send a messenger to the Tower.

They'll have someone come down to identify us."

"What about the box in the carriage? The papers Anheliaa

sent? Deymorin's seal"

Mikhyel's black brows knit.

"I . . . very much fear it won't be there."

"You think someone will steal it?"

"No. I" He seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to

meet her eyes. "Rings, I can't believe I'm such a fool. I

had it. And then, the lightning, the jostling . . . I lost it

somewhere, Kiyrstin." He waved a hand toward the stony

ceiling. "Somewhere up there."

That hand was shaking. He was. Cold. Shock. Reaction

to the lightning and the storm. Perhaps just the chill of the

rain that had caught them at the last. And possibly a re-

lapse of the debilitating weakness that had plagued him off

and on since the incident at the Boreton turnout.

"Anything in the box that could be dangerous in the

wrong hands?" she asked.

"Not really. None of those papers Anheliaa sent are

much good if you can't match our signatures."

"And the seal?"

"Old. Outdated by about a hundred years. It might turn

the right person a handsome profit on the black market,

but nothing else." He rubbed a hand across his eyes, and

swept stray hair back from his face. "We deliberately

avoided including anything compromising. Only such items

as might, along with the papers, support our claims to

someone like"

He tipped his head in the general direction of the

gatekeeper.

"Then I suggest you sit down and relax. Looking a bit

pale around the gills, laddybuck."

Mikhyel smiled wryly. "That's news?"

"I wish it were. Sit, Khyel. Before you fall."

She led him to a spot among the hay bales and pushed

him down, wrapping his cloak around him, fussing about

him, until he laughed and grabbed her wrist and pulled her

down beside him.

It was hard to remember, sometimes, that Mikhyel only

appeared fragile, with that bruised look about his eyes and

with features that were so different from his older brother's.

There was a steel core to Mikhyel dunMheric; a core tem-

pered in a childhood as Mheric Rhomandi's second son,

and honed to a fine edge by Anheliaa, Mheric's father's

sister, and Ringmaster of Rhomatum.

And Mikhyel had met Deymorin head to head in the

political arena and won. At least, the result of that long-

ago debate had been the event that drove Deymorin out

of Rhomatum.

He'd make a fierce and dangerous enemy in defense of

his idealsif he didn't burn himself out first. She sincerely

hoped, for Deymorin's sake as well as Mikhyel's own, that

events would not push those ideals beyond his physical

limits.

Mikhyel's eyes closed, and, with a shiver, he pulled his

cloak more tightly about his shoulders, tucking his chin into

the folds. After a moment, his eyes lifted and stared unfo-

cused down a corridor of walls.

Odd eyes. Unique, in her experience. Gray with pale

green around the edges.

"So, what's he up to?" Kiyrstin asked.

A blink, and he as back to her. "Horses," he said flatly,

and his mouth tightened into a slight smile. "What else?

But he's going to be cold. Actually, he already is and

doesn't know it."

Which meant, Deymorin had gotten wet and chilled, and

Mikhyel was inheriting that discomfort, absorbing it like

a sponge.

"You do him no favor, you know," sge said, and Mikhyel

laughed, a short, bitter sound.

"Believe me, if I could not, I would not. Do me a favor,

and take him his damned cloak, would you?" He shivered

again and pulled his own cloak up around his ears. "Before

/ freeze to death."

9 9 8

"Hot poultices on the hock tonight, a bit of salve on the

cut to keep it moist, and it should heal without a scar."

Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, erstwhile Princeps of

Rhomatum, stood up and slapped the big roan's rump. "He

nicked the coronet, but not, I think, deep enough to affect

the hoof growth." He let his hand drift along the curve of

solid muscle as he moved behind the draft horse, and gave

the cropped tail a gentle tug on the way to his next patient.

Not that he could add significantly more than reinforce-

ment of decisions already made. For the most part, the

drivers were competent horsemen. Heavy-handed whips

didn't last long with any reputable hauling company; horses

were too expensive to keep along the leys for that invest-

ment to be risked through carelessness or abuse.

Still, any man appreciated endorsement, especially from

a higher authority, a position these men had seemed deter-

mined to set upon him from the moment he'd challenged

the gatekeeper and won.

He wouldn't object, if it eased their minds; still, he gave

them his first name only, as was his habit with strangers,

having learned that the Rhomandi title tended to build a

wall between himself and others. And thanks to his parents'

choice of name for their firstborn, "Deymorin" was a fairly

common name among Rhomatumin men of his age.

Besides, he had no time or energy to waste in explana-

tions. Princeps he'd been: the Rhomandi, patriarch of the

Rhomandi Family. For thirteen yearsuntil his youngest

brother's marriage to Lidye dunTarim of Shantum Node.

Now, according to their great-aunt Anheliaa, eldest living

Rhomandi, Ringmaster of Rhomatum, and one evil-smelling

breath short of her long-overdue death and immersion,

seventeen-year-old Nikki, youngest of the Rhomandi broth-

ers, was Princeps, because she had chosen Nikki's wife as

her replacement in Rhomatum Tower.

Some situations in life truly defied explanation. Far sim-

pler to let these men draw their own assumptions regarding

their companions in adventure.

They'd been lucky. Despite the panic, none of the horses

had been badly injured. Bumps and scrapes mostly: The

worst they'd had to deal with was a fear-induced colic in an

overbred, overgrained saddle horse, who'd come in at the last

minute. Even that crisis had been solved by more than half

when they shoved the horse's wild-eyed owner out the door.

Some people just never learned that self-control was the

main battle to win when dealing with horses or any other

instinct-driven creatureincluding children.

It occurred to him, as so many things reminded him now

of the past, that an uncontrolled, angry horse had killed his

fathershortly after his father had nearly killed Mikhyel.

Strange, to gain such an intimate perspective about a

parent, so long after that parent's death. Hard not to want

to make up for Mheric's cruelty to Mikhyel. Harder to re-

member that Mikhyel was no longer the bruised and bro-

ken child they had pulled from a closet the day Mheric

died, and that the man Mikhyel had become might well

resent such a gesture.

Limestone arched overhead in capricious curves. An-

cient, massive . . . and as beautiful and natural as the water

and ley that had created them.

Some people found these old stables and the entire un-

derground city to be oppressive, even frightening; Dey-

morin loved them. The land beneath Rhomatum was a vast

honeycomb of huge caverns, and tiny eddy-formed niches.

It was a vast maze of tunnels, man-made and natural, filled

with wonders. There were mineral stalactites and stalag-

mites, as one found in any mountain cave, veils and lumps

and impossible structures formed over centuries of drip-

ping water.

However, in ground formed and transformed by the

nearby leythium node, the cave-lurker had the added bonus

of the rare, sudden burst of rainbow color when he chanced

upon a ley-crystal bud, unmined and grown enormous over

years of disuse.

Unusednow. But once these caverns had provided the

founders of Rhomatum the same sort of haven they pro-

vided a handful of men and horses tonight. Their ancestors

had forgotten that first Rhomatum once they moved to

their surface, leylit homes. They'd forgotten the under-

ground altogether, except to turn the largest caverns into a

prison to house the individuals the law-abiding citizens of

the Rhomatum Web could do without.

They'd forgotten the underground until a handful of

youths found the caverns and reminded a history-starved

populace about them. That reminder had sparked a burst

of mass nostalgia that had opened the old city to public

tours and renewal programs.

Fortunately, this stable, which was the staging area for

one of the major tour routes, was kept stocked and pre-

pared as if in constant use. It wasn't, of course, in use, and

they'd had to move a plaster horse or two to make way for

the real thing, but hay was hay, and straw for ambiance

made welcome bedding for tired, frightened horses.

And there was water, and cots and blankets, and even

food, in those restaurants, for the horses' equally ex-

hausted handlers.

They could worry about reimbursing the owners later.

For himself, as the last occupied stall passed his scrutiny,

as the last grateful horseman gripped his hand, sleep

seemed far away. He should be exhausted; instead, he was

exhilarated, his blood was boiling through his veins, and

showed no signs of abating. He ducked into a darkened

niche to catch his breath, and quiet his heartbeat, seeking

serenity in the unyielding stone.

And jumped nearly out of his skin as arms closed around

his waist.

"Show 'ee m' ankles fer a copper, zur." Warm breath

brushed his ear, carrying that low whisper.

Deymorin chuckled and twisted in the circle of arms.

"Not interested in ankles, Shepherdess," he whispered in

return, and slumped backward, dragging Kiyrstin with him.

As his arms closed around her, he realized how . . . light . . .

his head felt, how completely free of his brothers' thoughts

his mind was. He buried his face in her neck, and her scent

added to his light-headedness.

"Shepherdess," he called her, in memory of their first

mountain meadow encounter, and Shepherdess she re-

mained, as he was JD, or Rags, or any number of other

disrespectful intimacies. Terms that reminded them con-

stantly of their unique relationship, that kept them

grounded in each other and not the political posturing that

drove so many other aspects of their lives.

"Sweet, sweet Maurii," she whispered, throwing her head

back, exposing her neck to his kiss.

He buried both hands in her cropped, windblown hair,

and fastened his lips on hers, met a demanding passion and

vigor that matched his own. Unfortunately, this was neither

the time nor the place, and with a final, penetrating caress,

he reluctantly disengaged.

"I thought you were tending Mikhyel," he murmured,

busying his fingers straightening her hair.

She pulled a strand from her mouth. "Khyel's fine." She

leaned back long enough to free herself of a heavy cloak,

and work it around his shoulders. "You are cold."

"I'm cold," he repeated flatly, thinking nothing could be

farther from the truth. Wet, yes, but cold?

"So he informs me."

A moment's reflection brought realization. "Damn," he

said, and settled the cloak more securely. "I don't feel him

at all."

"Obviously, the effect is not mutual." She insinuated her

hands past his coat and began toying with his shirt buttons.

"He sent me to remedy the problem, after he explained to

that poor bemused gatekeeper why we have no papers.

Oops." A button went flying, clattered to earth somewhere

in the shadows. "Silly law, Rags. Who're you afraid of?"

"One of Mikhyel's ideas, back when he was still an

idiot." His cold (according to Mikhyel) hands found their

way to her linen-covered breasts. Kiyrstin's gasp confirmed

Mikhyel's assessment.

It was a man's shirt she wore, one of Mikhyel's, as were

her supple, black leather breeches. Both an admirable fit,

though her decidedly feminine rump posed a greater and

more interesting challenge to their seams than Mikhyel's

half-starved hips.

"I cannot imagine" Another clatter. "Oops, again,

Rags. I can't imagine why you left him to run the City all

on his own."

Her own chill fingers gained entrance to his chest. He

twitched, but Kiyrstin sighed and flattened her hands, then

breathed on them, hot, moist air that was nearly as mad-

dening as the cold.

"He was good at it. Shepherdess. Good at getting things

done. I only" His breath caught as her mouth followed

her hands, and he finished, quickly and past a suddenly

tightened throat. "antagonized everyone."

"Nonsense," she said, tipping back to catch his eyes. "I

saw you out there, JD. Just Deymio, hell. Who do you

think you're fooling? You're the Rhomandi every time you

inhale, Princeps of Rhomatum when you exhale. No man

judges by the name you give. Any man would follow you

to the ends of the world, if you asked."

His breath grew short, facing that challenge, the look in

her eyes. "And you, Shepherdess? Would you follow me?"

Her mouth twitched, breaking the spell. "I won't follow

you anywhere. Rags, unless it's to enjoy the view."

He choked on laughter and crushed her to him. He could

understand that. He'd follow her for the same reasons. Her

swinging, long-strided walk made his blood move faster just

thinking about it.

Seeking a way past the full shirt, fitted pants and wide

cummerbund that showed off her figure so very admirably,

he began to realize, on limited time and with even greater

limits on movement and privacy, that there were vexatious

restrictions to the clothing arrangement.

He cursed softly and pulled her hands away from his

waistband. "Never mind."

Kiyrstin laughed, low in her throat, and pressing full

against him, pushed him into the deepest shadows. "Your

brother's freezing, remember?" she murmured, and pulled

his voluminous cloak to her back with orders for him to

hold it there. "What say we warm the poor laddy up?"

Her hands steadied his face where her lips could reach

it, then moved downward. Kneading fingers caressed tem-

ples, ears, neck and lower, easing tension he didn't realize

he was carrying. Warm palms smoothed his chest and

slipped around his waist, under his shirt. He twitched when

her strong fingers pressed his lower back, finding aches ten

years in the making.

"Ah," she murmured, "thought that was bothering you.

We'll fix it later, laddybuck. For now . . ." A warm breeze,

her breath, crossed skin that shouldn't be bare. Her

fingers

"Kiyrstin, I"

"Just say thank you. Rags, then shut up."

And being a tolerably reasonable man, he did as he

was told.

d ~ 8

The one unqualifiable truth of this moment in time was

that Mikhyel dunMheric was useless where it came to

horses. It was a shortcoming he truly regretted, for the first

time in his life, considering Deymorin's current occupation.

Mikhyel shut his eyes and leaned back into the surprising

comfort of stacked hay bales, crossed his legs and flipped

his cloak over his lap, presenting, to all the world, the

image of an exhausted man.

Damn Kiyrstin anyway, he thought wryly. His brother's

lady was an amazing woman, one whose adviceand quiet

mindhe'd turned to quite frequently these past weeks.

They'd spent many hours in the gardens of Armayel, just

talking . . . about his brothers, his father, Garetti and Maur-

itum, similarities and differences

And Kiyrstin knew damn good and well what she was

doing to him at the moment. Kiyrstin thought him too . . .

detached. Kiyrstin, in great good humor, sought at every

viable opportunity to shake him out of his indifference to

what she considered basic human needs.

Beneath the twin cloaks of wool and nonchalance, he

fought Deymorin's reflected passion, striving with every

iota of energy remaining to leave Deymorin and his lady

with their privacy.

He chilled his mind and his body with thoughts of Anhe-

liaa and the implications of the storm raging directly

overhead.

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RingofIntrigueDanceoftheRingsBook2byJaneS.FancherDuskwasclosingrapidlyasthesmallentourageap-proachedtheouterwallofRhomatum.Astrangelydeepdusktheleyroadlights,oncebrightbeaconsleadingtothecity,glimmeredfeeblyinthedistance.EvenTowerHill,anarchitecturalmountainrisingabovefoothillsofconcen-tricrooftops,...

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Jane S. Fancher - Dance of the Rings 2 - Ring of Intrigue.pdf

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Jane S. Fancher - Dance of the Rings 2 - Ring of Intrigue

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