Impostress by Lisa Jackson Page A

studied the bed, trying to remember the night before. 'Twas all so fuzzy and dark. He opened the shutters to let in the gray morning light. From his vantage point he looked over the bailey. Children were playing with an old hoop, women were gathering eggs and hanging laundry in the shadow of an overhang, a smith was pounding horseshoes at his forge, and a woman was climbing upon a reddish mare. For a second he wondered if the woman was his wife. She wore a brown cloak with a cowl covering her head. She glanced in his direction, then looked quickly away.
    A stone settled in his stomach.
    Surely the woman was not Elyn. For there was no reason for his bride to leave.
    Astride the horse, she leaned forward. The animal took off, breaking into a gallop and streaking through the gates to the outer bailey and out of Kelan's range of vision. 'Twas not Elyn. She would not defy him so. Not after last night. And yet, she was not a predictable woman. He'd learned that much in less than a day. He fingered the vials in his pocket and thought about the mysterious female upon the red mare. Why would she leave? Where would she go?
    Those thoughts taunted him as he found a scrub basin and splashed cold water over his face, wincing at the ache slicing through his brain.
    The woman he saw was not Elyn. His wife was here. In this castle. And either she'd return to their bedchamber soon or he'd go searching for her.
    Just as soon as the throbbing in his head subsided. He found his empty mazer, filled it from the basin, and poured the water down his throat. He'd give her a little time ... but just a little, he thought as he stumbled to the fire.
    He managed to toss a few pieces of oak onto the embers still glowing in the grate, but that one task was all he could manage. He, who awoke each morn ready for the day, eager for his day's work. He was now lethargic and dull ... too much wine ...
    As he straightened, he heard the vials clink and he wondered, just fleetingly, if some sleeping potion had been added to his wine. But why ... nay, he was just tired, that was all.
    He needed sleep.
    Before another thought could cut through his brain, he stumbled back to the bed. This was not like him ... but he was too tired to try and piece it all together. When his bride returned ... then he'd question her. Then he'd demand answers ... he'd insist upon knowing the truth ... but now, drowsiness was overtaking him and he gave into it, letting the darkness come, no longer fighting, and falling asleep with the worrisome thought that his new beautiful wife wasn't all she appeared to be.

Chapter Eight
    Elyn was nowhere to be found.
Nowhere.
Above the clouds, the weak winter sun had risen high overhead, and Kiera knew she had to return to the keep.
    She had hastily searched every hiding spot she and Elyn had discovered while growing up. Kiera had ridden for hours. First to the cave in the cliffs above the sea, then the ledge behind a waterfall. She'd galloped across the meadow where they'd caught butterflies, and ended up at the gnarled oak tree they'd climbed to watch the ships sailing into the harbor.
    When all else failed, she searched the old, abandoned mill where they'd swum naked in the mill-pond by day, and at night, away from the eyes of their father or Kemper or the castle priest, they'd huddled around a fire and learned of the old ways from Hildy. It was here where Kiera had seen her first spell cast, here where she'd learned to draw runes in the sand, here where she'd listened as Hildy had explained about the magic of the forest and the power of earth, fire, and water.
    However, now there was no trace of her sister.
    It was as if Elyn had disappeared into the thick mists that rose through the dripping ferns and skeletal trees.
    Or somewhere with Brock.
    "Where the devil are you?" Kiera asked in frustration as she combed the woods. She couldn't spend all day searching for her, not if she had to keep up the lie that she was her sister. As the hours had