“I heard from your lady’s maid that you haven’t eaten,” he said loudly enough for the assembly to hear. “Must have been the nerves, hmm? You’ll feel better after the feast.”
With that pronouncement for the benefit of others, Brodrick lifted her veil and forced his lips against hers. The ceremony ended there with the high priest’s blessing.
Rhiannon hadn’t forced the vile promise to bind herself forever to him, but it didn’t matter. Cheers and congratulations washed over her all the same as they left the chapel, chilling her to the bone like a splash of icy, cold water. As far as everyone was concerned, she now belonged to Brodrick and Brodrick alone.
She tried to excuse herself from the reception, but no one listened. Brodrick escorted her to the head table and sat her in her customary seat despite her pleas. He piled her plate with meat, and that was the last thought he spared for her. While she picked at the food, he toasted and greeted the well-wishers who approached with gifts and compliments. Someone dished a modest amount of sugared plums beside the heaping piles of pheasant and pork. Leave it to Jessica to sneak Rhiannon some of her favorite dessert early.
While Rhiannon willed herself to swallow the sweets that struck her tongue as dry and tasteless, a stooped old man approached the table. She would have paid him the same mechanical greetings as the rest but for one thing. Safely tucked under one arm was the wood of a well-loved violin, and in his hand, he flourished the bow.
“Congratulations to the lovely Princess Rhiannon and Sir Brodrick,” came his creaky voice. “I offer a song to the head table.”
“Music?” grunted the knight in distaste. However, seeing his bride showing interest in something for the first time in weeks, he resigned himself to the dubious honor. “Oh, very well. Get on with it.”
The old man tucked the violin under his chin and pulled the bow across the strings. With dexterity Rhiannon wouldn’t have expected from such gnarled hands, his fingers danced up and down the neck of the instrument, drawing from it the purest, sweetest sound. Around the room, the clink of cutlery and glasses ceased. Everyone—even Brodrick—fell under the melodic spell that sang from his instrument. Everyone, that was, but Rhiannon.
Only one person had this sort of effect on people. Marcy had blamed his voice, but Taliesin could charm an audience with a simple penny whistle given the opportunity. Not only that, but this song... She knew it well. They’d played it enough times together that she could close her eyes and see the score. The notes fluttered like the rapid beat of hummingbird wings, the pitch rose and fell with its path. The old man caught her staring and grinned, revealing missing teeth. For the briefest moment, she thought his watery gray irises flashed gold.
When the song ended, the bent creature ducked his head into a bow. A few seconds of stunned silence ticked by. Rhiannon stood first to clap. Following her lead, the room around them erupted into applause of their own.
“Bravo,” she said, the first real word she’d spoken all day. “Thank you. That was wonderful.” She glanced at the still-stunned Brodrick. “We ought to reward him, don’t you think?”
It took another moment for the knight to break free of his daze. His brow drew together, obviously loathing the suggestion, but as before, he indulged his bride. The song had pulled her from her moping. It would make their wedding night that much easier. “Very well. You there, what would you have? Money? Jewels?”
“I am a simple man,” the violinist rasped, “with simple needs. If I might fill my bag with something from your table, I will be content to leave with my prize.”
Even better. Brodrick would lose nothing. Their majesties had footed the bill for everything. “Help yourself. Take whatever you want with my thanks.”
The old man thanked them graciously with more bobbing as he stepped toward the table. “You are too kind. Much too kind.” He looked over the spread. “You promise it’s no trouble? My taking what I may and leaving?”
“It’s not a problem. Now hurry up. We have other guests to greet.”
“I would just hate for guards to chase me down after I accept your gracious gift, my lord.”
Brodrick rolled his eyes. Paranoid old fart. “I swear no trouble will befall you whatever you take. Now fill your bag and go.”
The old man continued his bowing and scraping as he inched ever closer to Rhiannon’s place at the table. “Thank you, my lord. You are too generous.” When he reached her place setting, he stumbled and fell.
Panic gripped Rhiannon. She hurried around the table and dropped beside the mystery musician. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,” he assured her. “You’re far too kind.” His gnarled hand squeezed hers when she helped him to his feet. Quieter so the others couldn’t hear, he said in a voice far younger, “Thank you, Rhiannon. Allow me to apologize in advance.”
She had no chance to respond. Before anyone could react, the old man had flung his bag open and brought it down over her head. Nothing larger than the man’s fiddle ought to have fit inside, and yet the fabric easily closed over her head, her shoulders, her whole body. The bag swallowed her, and when Taliesin threw it over his shoulder and cast off his glamour, she didn’t feel it at all.
Taliesin inclined his head. “I will take my bride and leave,” he said, beaming. His wings spread to their full span. Before Brodrick or the guards could restrain the winged man, he took to the air and hovered near the great glass ceiling. “I am the Warlock Bard Taliesin,” he announced, “son of the Dragon Witch Gertrude and the dragon Spinel. Remember your promise well and be sure to keep it this time.”
“Seize him!” roared the king. “Someone shoot him down!”
Brodrick snatched up his knife and threw it with all his might. The projectile sped toward the thief, but at the last second, without Taliesin’s prompting, its path suddenly curved. The blade picked up speed and smashed through the stained-glass rose above them. Not a single shard of the pink crystal touched Taliesin though it rained around him.
“Guards!” shouted the king. It was all he could do when faced with the winged bard flying through the hole and away. “Guards!”
Someone tapped his shoulder. “Perhaps you should rethink your order, Your Majesty?”
King Byron spun to face none other than the witch he’d met the fateful night of Rhiannon’s birth. Gertrude grinned at him. “I believe there’s a saying about breaking promises made to witches?” she said. “Something, something, don’t break them or they’ll blow you away? Your knight there promised anything he could fit in his bag, and well, what do you know? Rhiannon fit rather nicely.”
Brodrick rounded on Gertrude. His sword slid from its sheath. “I promised no such thing!” he spluttered.
“I heard you quite clearly,” Gertrude said cheekily. She dropped onto the stick of her broom and drifted well out of reach. “You promised him no trouble if he filled his bag from the head table, and you can bet that this time I’m not going to forget to alert the council. Do try to keep your end of the bargain. Because if you don’t...” The air hummed with unformed magic that made everyone’s skin prickle. Just as quickly, it was gone. So, too, was Lady Gertrude, zipping through the broken skylight after her son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law, vanishing without a trace.