Copyrighted material. Do not reproduce without permission of publisher, Zumaya Publications, and author, Joan Upton Hall

 

Study guides are available on request for book clubs and classes.

Email:   jmuHall@aol.com

Shadow of Excalibur

Chapter 1 - Escape

The Rey Alliance’s Seventh Year, April, 2022, in New Camelot,known in Pre-Plague days as New Braunfels, Texas

Freedom lay within Gloria’s grasp. She stood tense before the window of her cell, moonlight framing her nude figure. She ignored the dank chill. Her flame-red hair, usually smoothed tight, fluffed out around her head and shoulders in an unhallowed halo. Well-toned muscles tensed under alabaster skin. The guard fumbled at the lock, dropped the key, and cursed under his breath.

“Knock off that noise!” a prisoner down the corridor complained. “Can’t a gal get any sleep?”

Gloria held her breath. Don’t screw this up, you clumsy bastard. If he caused her to miss this chance...

The iron door squeaked open, and she waited for him. Waited like the black widow that lived in the corner of her cell. All these seven years, the dynasty of ruthless female spiders had schooled her to forge her secret hatred into the guise of patience, the model prisoner. Inspired her to keep herself fit and powerful as a wrestler but neat as a priestess.

Every day she had crouched to watch the black widow while tearing narrow strips from her blanket or the hems of her convict uniform, shreds that wouldn’t be missed. With meticulous care, she twisted them into a tight cord—her widow’s web.

She cherished the knowledge that both male and female guards considered her an enigma--cold, more beautiful at thirty-two than ever, outwardly cooperative. On her cheek a tattoo of an ornate dagger cutting off a tear, suited her new style much better than it had when she used to spew her malice at the world. Yet they never forgot she was the murderess who conspired to overthrow the king.

Three months ago, when this particular guard, Billy Ray, came to work, she saw her chance. He stood in a doorway so she would have to brush up against his rigidness, and he said with a grin. “I don’t wanna be hard-on my prisoners. Hope we can be close friends.”

“Do that again, asshole, and I’ll report you,” she whispered. Sexual harassment and intimidation by prison guards constituted a serious offense in the Rey Alliance. But when he backed up too far, she gave him a wink and a smile. “Or maybe I’ll take care of it myself.” She swayed her hips when she walked away.

Gloria’s teasing-threatening game enticed him as she knew it would.

The first time Billy Ray moved to the night shift, she heard him grunting and panting outside her cell, saw his shadow hunched over and jerking. At last he stifled a pig-like squeal of release, and his shoulders went slack.

All the while, Gloria twisted her shreds of cloth into a cord, longer--ever longer and stronger. That night she had crept to the bars so silently he jumped when she reached out and touched his arm.

“Jesus!” Lit by the corridor’s single bulb, his pasty face was that of a naughty boy discovered in his guilt.

“Tomorrow night,” she whispered and let the light catch her face and nightshirt-clad breast pressed between the bars. She allowed the garment to gap and reveal one pink nipple.

He looked confused. “You mean...”

“Come to me then.” She had backed into the shadows, melting into her bunk, the way the black widow withdrew when a fly approached her web. Or when an unwary suitor disregarded the price of mating.

But tonight she stood and let the moonlight caress her curves, one hand concealed behind her--the hand that held her cord web and a dry biscuit, saved for this occasion.

Breathing hard, Billy Ray left the key ring dangling from the lock and stumbled across the threshold. He shucked off his britches, catching them inside-out on his shoe, almost tripping in his eagerness.

“Take off your shirt too and lie down on the bunk,” Gloria whispered. Her empty hand caressed his face while he fumbled the buttons open and complied.

“Let me play with you first.” She reached down.

Hatred seized her as she seized his scrotum. She crushed his detestable balls in her wrench-like grip. Her other hand stuffed the dry biscuit into his gaping mouth and crammed it deep. Releasing him, she sprang clear and looped her cord web around her hands. He convulsed in voiceless pain, lurching for the door.

But from behind him, she looped the cord tight around his neck. All her past strength-training concentrated on this moment. They thudded to the concrete. He rolled over on her, but pain couldn’t loosen her grip. She strained until he turned to dead weight, then longer to make sure.

At last she rolled him off her. A triumphant shout caught in her throat. Instead, she placed the black widow on his face and watched for a moment while it crawled across one dead eye.

She dressed in Billy Ray’s uniform and crammed her hair under his guard’s cap. She dislodged the key ring from its lock with a minimum of jingling, and slipped out the door. Widow’s web clutched in hand, she hurried through the corridor and down the stairs.

The unsuspecting guard at the main exit sat with his feet propped up, reading. A pocketknife lay open on the table. Mustn’t let him reach it. She came up behind him in a crouch, and this time, the chair back shielded her from his struggles. The ease of strangling him almost disappointed her. She snapped the dead man’s knife closed and pocketed it.

Freedom was hers.

All through her imprisonment, few people from outside had bothered to visit her. A preacher came several times to pray for her soul. Once a year, she got to see her son Edward on his birthday, when out of pity, his foster mother Constance brought him.

The boy’s recent seventh birthday was still fresh in her mind, his eyes round with fear as he shrank from her embrace. Yet something in his little face held such poignant appeal it awoke maternal instincts far stronger than she’d ever felt when he was a snotty-nosed, squalling larvae of a thing. That tenderness other women claimed had always seemed ridiculous to her before, but now she longed to yank back the love he gave to Constance. Gloria itched to undo the seven years of teaching her kid had undergone at the hands of those pansy-asses who stole him.

It was worth listening to all the mundane details Constance recounted to fill the otherwise silent visits. She rattled on about where they lived, about the little boy’s room and how he had once frightened them by climbing down an oak tree just outside his second-floor bedroom window. The description would make it easy for her to find the sleeping child.

Now, like a shadow, she glided between darkened houses, stores, churches--many that were boarded up or crumbling from disuse. A low chuckle escaped her lips. Capital of the illustrious Rey Alliance or not, New Camelot had yet to recover its population after the Plague.

New Camelot, hell! Who were they kidding? What fools they all were to think they could rebuild people’s lives any better than before. The idea that Art, or “Arturo el Rey” as they called him, was a reincarnated King Arthur sounded like the kind of propaganda crap his advisor Nilson would dream up. Art--a reincarnated king!

If only the Plague had finished the job and swept stinking humanity off the earth or at least wiped out Art so the people left over wouldn’t idolize him as some kind of savior king. Too good for Gloria, the woman who rode with him through battles against terrorists. Savior? He certainly hadn’t saved her!

She rounded the corner into the plaza, softly lit with street lights. No wrecked and abandoned buildings here. A brightly painted sign and the aroma of yeast bread announced “Hans’ Bakery.” Store windows bulged with shoes, clothing, cook ware, and musical instruments. A few shiny cars were parked here and there. Where were the guards armed to defend such bounty? And the cavalry?

An oval island of trees and lawn, encircled by streets, belied that anything had ever happened here but peace and harmony. On the bandstand, a pair of young lovers danced to music only they could hear. Neither carried a weapon nor watched for enemies. Was it really that safe now? The girl giggled and ran down the steps, pursued by the boy. They kissed when he caught her, then disappeared behind a hedge. A fountain splashed and gave back bits of light as if imitating the fireflies that hovered around crape myrtle and roses.

Gloria slipped past the only lighted windows, the Smitz Hotel lobby. She heard voices inside and flattened her body against the exterior wall. Her face and one palm felt the cold, embossed surface of a bronze plaque and she traced the date “1851” with one finger. A beam from the streetlight fell across a second plaque beneath the first, which noted the hotel’s remodeling in 2010, just a year before the Plague. Once more resurrected to thriving life, the hotel’s vacancy sign beckoned to survivors.

Oh yeah, they could heal a town’s scars, while they left Gloria to rot in jail.

Through the window, she saw the desk clerk joking with a janitor. She hurried past the adjoining Sweet Shoppe to the corner and caught her breath.

There stood the palace, as people called the courthouse, where Arturo el Rey slept with his bitch, “Queen Shanna.” When Gloria had been his woman, they bedded only in open air or dead people’s houses.

She knew of no other courthouse situated on a street corner. “The King” told everyone he chose it to live in because it sat in the midst of citizen life and connected with court business. Her lip curled back and she thrust her middle finger at the new annex, linked to the vintage palace building by a glassed-in walkway on the third floor. In a courtroom of that building, a judge and jury had convicted Gloria and doomed her to life imprisonment. She chuckled again. Well, she’d granted her own parole.

The limestone palace walls rose three stories, topped with a bell tower. Under carved columns, two double-door entrances tempted her. How she yearned to sneak in and strangle the monarchs in their bed. Maybe she could get in on the second floor through the columned balcony overlooking the plaza.

Too risky. Like a black widow, she must bide her time. She shrank back into the sheltering darkness. Must stick to the plan.

She knew exactly where to find her little boy, her only hope. Closer to the river, she found the house where the foster family slept. No sound broke the quiet except crickets and a lonely night bird.

There stood the tree, reaching up to Edward’s window, just as Constance had described it. Gloria climbed, hugged a limb when a dog in the next yard began to bark, then went on up after the dog lost interest. She inched across a smaller limb toward the window left open to scoop in the crisp breeze. With the prison guard’s knife, she slit the screen and wriggled through. Edward lay curled on his side, a slice of moonlight across his pale face. She knelt and inhaled the clean, little boy scent of his tousled black hair.

She hated having to pinch his nostrils shut and seal his mouth with her other hand until he fainted, but how else could she keep him quiet? If he remembered the kidnapping, it wouldn’t be her face he had seen, just a dark shape in a cap. She lifted his limp little body, surprised at its light weight, and tied him to her back with the bed sheet. Down the tree she carried the child.

The neighbor’s dog began to bark furiously. The back porch light went on. She froze.

“Max, get in here, and shut up!” a man’s sleepy voice said. The dog whined and the door slammed. Silence. The light went off.

Slithering to the ground, she listened for Edward’s breathing. Okay, just unconscious. She jogged, carrying him on her back, and he didn’t whimper until they were out of New Camelot’s city limits. A little farther and he could scream his lungs out if he wanted to. She’d get him out of Alliance territory somehow, get their crap out of his head, and find a way to live. How? She didn’t know. Weaving this new web would take time.

But whatever it took, she and Edward would make them all pay--if it took the rest of her life.

Chapter 2 – The Bridge

The Rey Alliance’s Thirteenth Year, June, 2028, outside Texas’ New Langtry Outpost

Steven Dubois looked down into the gaping canyon from his troops’ entrenchment behind boulders. Hot, dry wind sanded him and his men. Buzzards floated in the sky between here and the water. Pre-Plague relics, two Colin Powell tanks, confiscated from New Langtry Outpost, blocked Steven’s entrance to the thirteen-hundred foot long bridge that spanned the Pecos River Canyon.

A loudspeaker echoed from the west end of the bridge.

“Rey Alliance cabrones,” General Montoya called, his voice dripping casual contempt. “You might as well go home. My army possesses this and all the Big Bend territory as part of Coahuila, Mexico. Leave us in peace, and I will allow these citizens to live as my subjects--if they cooperate.”

Cooperate? Steven’s jaw clenched back an answer. Two bodies swung mid-distance off the bridge, hanged by the neck from steel railings, clouds of flies swarming around them. Now and then, hot wind gusted the stench in Steven’s direction. The nearest rope, as it turned in midair, creaked under the weight of New Langtry’s former mayor, a man with whom Steven had shared table numerous times.

The man’s daughter held a place on Steven’s mental list of possible brides. She of rose petal lips and auburn hair--what was happening to her now?

The mayor’s once paunchy body was becoming lighter day by day, while the arid west Texas air sucked moisture from his carcass, shriveled and browned past recognition. A child’s figure, no more than a yard tall, hung next to the mayor’s in the same condition. A vulture flapped around it, looking for a perch but veered off when one of Steven’s men hurled a stone at it.

Steven had encountered atrocities before while making his rounds as Minister of Justice but nothing of this scale.

He was not one merely to sit at a desk, coordinating the efforts of police troops throughout the Alliance. He insisted on making continual personal patrols with his twenty-man troop. What’s more, he did it on horseback. For one thing, he didn’t like the idea of being restricted to the few highways the Alliance could maintain, highways that connected main posts to Camelot in central Texas, like this one, Highway 90, which turned into 35 in San Antonio. For another thing, he dreaded getting his vehicles stranded if he couldn’t reach an outpost to supply the alcohol fuel they had converted to after the gasoline ran out. Perhaps the main reason, although he didn’t like to admit it, was the chivalric image they created on horseback in their blue tunics with dragon insignias and pewter-gray helmets.

Not only the metallic trappings made Steven glow. Bleached fuzz over his golden tan produced an unusual sheen. Blond locks fanned out on his massive shoulders from under his helmet while he rode a proud Clydesdale, befitting his size and attitude. It was his trademark, and he encountered recognition everywhere he went, augmenting the power of Arturo el Rey, his sovereign and friend.

Who but Arturo Coulter Reyes, the half-Anglo, half-Hispanic street fighter, could have pulled together the pieces of a depleted civilization? It filled him with pride to serve Art’s Rey Alliance, but right now he felt helpless.

“Get the bullhorn out of my pack, Valdez,” Steven told the private next to him.

While he waited, he noticed three enemy soldiers at the far end of the bridge running about in erratic fashion. Through the scope sight on his rifle, he took a closer look. They were laughing and kicking at an armadillo in an apparent effort to drive it over the edge, a two-hundred-seventy foot drop to the river. The creature scurried around in desperation to reach a dirt surface, but again and again it met a kick that rolled it back onto the bridge. It sat still for a moment, probably dazed, while the men hovered to block its escape. It dashed the opposite direction toward the Alliance’s end of the bridge, and the laughing soldiers gave chase.

Steven looked around and saw his men watching through their scopes too.

“I’ll take the one on the left,” he said. “Billings, you get the middle one. Stinson, the right, on the count of three. One, two, three.”

Three rifles thundered in unison. Three enemy soldiers dropped. The middle one, Billings’ assignment, writhed and cried out for a minute or two before he grew still.

Steven and his men hunkered down, holding their breath while they waited for retaliating gunfire, but none came.

“Look!” somebody shouted.

The armadillo ran off their end of the bridge, paused on the gravel shoulder, and raised up on its hind legs to sniff the air. Alliance soldiers cheered. Scuttling down the steep canyon bank toward the water, the animal disappeared into a patch of creosote scrub.

Immediately one of the Powell tanks lumbered backward to pick up the enemy casualties. It continued to the far end of the bridge. After a few minutes, it revved its engine and advanced again, shielding a group it was escorting to the middle.

Steven’s heart sped up when he got a better look at them. Montoya’s soldiers propelled three screaming, struggling captives before them with nooses around their necks, a thin, gray-haired woman, a half-grown boy, and a pudgy teenage girl. The soldiers tied each captive’s rope to the steel railing, keeping too close to them to give their opponents a clear shot. They hoisted the victims onto the guardrail while Steven could do nothing but watch and listen to the screams. The soldiers shoved the three over the side and ducked behind the tank.

One of the ropes snapped. The girl at the end of it hurtled to the bottom of the gorge, her colorful skirt billowing around her. She appeared limp, her neck mercifully broken.

“Let those deaths be on your conscience, Rey Alliance cabrones!” General Montoya shouted through the loudspeaker. “I have plenty of Langtry citizens at my--disposal.”

“Despicable sonofabitch!” Steven snarled under his breath.

“Every attack you make will sacrifice more. Perhaps you are ready to talk privately with me, Golden One? I will grant safe passage for you alone, unarmed and on foot, to cross the bridge and meet me in my headquarters.”

“You must take me for a fool, General,” Steven called back on the bullhorn. Through his scope sight, he could see Montoya far back from the bridge beside a low, stone bunker. Blast the luck he’s out of accurate range.

“Do not be afraid. I have enough hostages, and I need you to take something back to Arturo el Rey, that cabron king you swear allegiance to.”

“I’ll take it under advisement and get back with you, General.” Steven laid the bullhorn down and turned to his wireless operator. “Radio Camelot and ask for the King.”

In a moment, the operator reported, “The King’s not available, sir, but they’ve sent for Mr. Nilson.”

Art’s philosophical advisor--was he in charge? During the clicking and scratching that followed, Steven could imagine the old man, druid-like in his priest’s robe and white beard, hobbling into the castle’s communications room, seating himself before the microphone and donning the earphones as if he had all the time in the world.

“Steven Dubois?” Nilson’s resonant voice finally spoke. “They sent for me.”

Steven waited for him to say “over.” How like Nilson to scorn military convention. After a second or two, Steven demanded, “It’s urgent I speak to Art. If he’s not there, where is he? Over.”

“In Tennessee helping them celebrate joining our Rey Alliance. That makes thirteen states now,” Nilson boasted, “plus some independent allies.”

“Who’s subbing for Art there in Camelot? I need some military backup, not a political message. Over.”

“I’m the best you’re going to get.” Nilson’s voice sounded frosty. “And your operator has already been given Nashville headquarters’ call sign where you can reach Arturo. You’re at the New Langtry Outpost? Uh, over.”

“That’s right. Over.” Steven sighed and calmed his voice. No use getting on Nilson’s bad side any more than he already was, for reasons he never understood.

“But if you’re at one of our outposts, why aren’t you telephoning?”

“Because I’m not in New Langtry. I’m east of it at the Pecos River bridge. This whole area between the Pecos and Rio Grande Rivers is being held by an invading army from Coahuila. You know how close it is to the border. Over.”

“Invaded! My, we’ve become spoiled from all these years of relative peace. Any casualties?”

“Yes, I’m not sure how many, but I’m trying to prevent more. General Montoya’s holding the bridge. Have you ever seen it, Mr. Nilson? Over.”

“No.”

“This bridge has been the site of numerous petty civil battles--before Art united the factions and set up New Langtry Outpost nearer the bridge. Over.”

“I remember Arturo talking about it. I believe the original Langtry was too far away, wasn’t it?”

“About eighteen miles, but both sides of the river still have their entrenchments made by petty warlords from earlier days. We’re using these entrenchments. Over.”

“I see.”

“Well, as long as General Montoya controls that damned bridge, I can’t get in to defend the area. And he’s holding the whole town hostage!”

Dry wind moaned through the steel girders. Please, God, no more hangings!

“Dubois? Are you still on? Over?” Nilson’s voice brought him back to the radio.

“I’m on. I’ll try to contact Art. Over.”

“Good, we’ll reach him if you can’t. He’ll be able to get to you fairly quickly since he went to Tennessee by motor convoy on Alliance highways. And I’ll call the Minister of Defense at once to mobilize the army.”

Montoya called, “I am losing patience, Golden One. Do you hear my next candidate for sacrifice?” He broadcasted an infant’s cries.

Searching with his scope, Steven saw a soldier hold a wiggling baby above his head. Montoya and the soldiers were laughing.

“Mr. Nilson,” Steven said into the radio, “I’m going to meet Montoya in a truce to see if we can break this stalemate. Out.”

At times, he almost wished they had access to a good missile or two. No chance of that. While the Plague had raged, the last orders of the U.S. officers on each military base had been to destroy or bury the super weapons to keep them out of terrorist hands.

But in Alliance hands...He shook off the idea. No, just think what had happened in Europe and the Middle East. Life might never make a come-back from the nuclear mess there.

And, with egomaniacs like Montoya, what kind of come-back could last here?

He picked up the bullhorn. “General Montoya, I’m walking across the bridge now. I’ll be unarmed.”

Chapter 3 - Duties

Under a satin comforter, Shanna snuggled in Art's arms, still tingling with the afterglow of passion. The joyous, early dawn surprise of his homecoming made their lovemaking the best it had been in a long time. For the moment at least, she didn’t come in second--to politics, law, war, or whatever domestic affairs clamored for Art’s attention. Surely he would refuse her nothing if she couched it right. She tilted her head back in the crook of his arm and studied his face.

Weary from travel and sated, his usually stern jaw was relaxed and his brow smoothed out. He seemed little changed from the young man she had married thirteen years ago. He was as well-muscled as ever, his face strong with high, tan cheekbones, one of them etched with a thin white scar. She found him more handsome than ever with silver at his temples and scattered through his curls. Silver frosted the neat goatee and mustache also, and wisdom marked every expression. He needed no crown to mark him as the king.

"Art?"

"Hmm?" He jumped slightly at the recall to consciousness.

With a strand of her honey-blond hair held between thumb and forefinger, she stroked his throat and collar bone. Her other hand caressed his arm that lay across her flat belly, which, to her disappointment, no pregnancy had ever swelled.

"Can't you stay just two more days for my birthday celebration?" she asked.

His gray eyes opened and his brow began to furrow.

"People are coming from miles around to the festival, Art. The Ladies' Heritage League is planning a huge event, and it's the first time I've ever entertained more than friends and family for a birthday party. It might take away some of the sting of getting old, and you could remedy the rest." She huddled against him.

"Shanna, we've already discussed this. Don't you think I'd like to let somebody else deal with that jerk from Mexico invading our border, killing people in New Langtry--"

"No, I think you'd rather do anything than be with me! You just got home." She pulled herself away from him and sat up, hugging her knees to her naked breasts under the comforter. If we had children, he'd want to stay here.

"Shanna, don't do this. It's not a contest."

"You're right about that. I lose every time!"

"Dammit, Shanna, you know a king's life isn't his own." He raised himself on one elbow.

"And what am I supposed to do while I sit around getting old and waiting for you?"

"Thirty's not old. My God, I'm thirty-seven and I don't feel old."

"For a woman who's barren..."

"Mi vida, the doctor told you there's no reason you shouldn't be able to have children. It's probably me." He fell back on his pillow, looking incredibly tired.

But it must be me. Shanna remembered his telling her his old high school girlfriend got an abortion and saddled Art with a guilt he could never be rid of. Well, maybe it was some other guy's kid.

But another thought wormed its way in. Years before, Gloria told her it was Art who fathered her brat, Edward. Nobody else got wind of the rumor, so Gloria apparently kept quiet about it all those years in prison. Then when she broke out and kidnapped the boy, both of them disappeared, thank God. The question could disappear too, except in Shanna's mind. She never asked Art because she feared the answer and dreaded the responsibility he would take on both of them if he believed it.

"People hint that the king should have an heir," Shanna murmured.

"Not to have children is our disappointment. It's nobody else's business. Anyway, you might get your wish about having me home. I've never told you, but Nilson and I plan gradually to turn it all back to a democracy when the time seems right. Go back to an elected President, just as the people are already electing their representatives now."

"You'd give it up?" Her green eyes widened.

"If I didn't win in a fair election." He began to smile. "At least, I could be a full-time, unemployed husband. And you could be a pauper's wife--but you'd be loved." He sat up and embraced her, nuzzling the nape of her neck.

Laughter and shouting sounded outside New Camelot Palace. Both of them jumped up, threw on bathrobes, and padded across the carpet to their third-story window. Below in the plaza, townspeople greeted a squad of Alliance cavalry.

"Steven!" Art's face brightened. "Come on, Shanna, let's get dressed and go meet him."

Minister of Justice Steven Dubois stood out above the crowd on his enormous bay Clydesdale. But Shanna thought he would have stood out just as much on a Shetland. Whenever he and Art appeared together publicly, his star-quality rivaled the King's, but neither seemed aware of it. The years never touched Steven, his blond, question mark eyebrows still giving him a naive look, his sun-bleached hair seeming to give off its own light. His magnetism attracted young, old, male, and female.

So many things to take her husband away. Sometimes Shanna thought he preferred his friends' company to hers. She never minded Nilson, as much like a grandfather to her as he was to Art. Nor did she mind Cedric and his family, comfortable as a good habit. Steven, on the other hand, irritated her with his guileless conceit. Her women friends argued, how could it be conceit for a perfect man to know the fact? Not one of them, she believed, except, Kim, Cedric's wife, would have hesitated to abandon her own man to fly into Steven's arms if invited.

But he and Shanna repelled each other like two positive magnet poles. She admitted to herself alone that her irritation stemmed partly from the public adoration he drew. Thank goodness his visits to the capital were rare. Oh well, better get dressed and try to make herself part of it.

One floor down, Art stepped onto the balcony and called his friend to come on inside. When they reached the terrazo-floored vestibule, Steven, escorted by the housekeeper, was striding through the front door. Shanna hung back behind the core-of-the-building staircase while Art and Steven collided in a hug.

"The conquering hero returns." A voice, rich with sarcasm, made her turn.

"Nilson! You startled me.” She cocked her head to one side, studying his face. “Was that a snide remark?"

"Just being an old curmudgeon again." He combed his wispy, white beard with his gnarled fingers.

"So you have reservations about him too. Maybe our instincts are better than popular opinion."

"Could be, but aren't the accused innocent until proven guilty, my dear?" He smiled warmly and, taking her arm, led her toward the two men. "Come on. Let's be nice."

"My queen." Steven met her in a graceful bow and took her hand. She had forgotten that her hand offered for a friendly shake would instead receive a reverent kiss from Steven Dubois. Why hadn't she worn something regal instead of her simple cotton blouse and slacks? A former Canadian, Steven probably expected elegance in his monarchs. But, according to Arturo el Rey's example, humble simplicity was the fashion these days.

Steven straightened, and their gazes met for an electric instant. He looked as disconcerted as she felt when they tore their attention away from each other. This was why she usually distanced herself from him on the rare occasions when they couldn't dodge each other. In fact, she suspected he returned her dislike the way he avoided her. But was the like-pole magnet force repulsion or withdrawal from attraction?

Nilson's hand on her elbow twitched. She cleared her throat to speak, but without any idea of what to say, she hushed.

"Have breakfast with us, Steven." Art motioned for them to follow and started toward the dining room that looked out on the plaza. He nodded to the housekeeper, who disappeared into the kitchen.

They followed Art and sat down at the table, and at once a young steward brought coffee. Shanna avoided making eye contact with anyone. For once, she was grateful when the conversation turned to state matters and they ignored her.

The housekeeper had started up the music that Art liked to have coursing throughout the palace. He said it evened out his contentment when at home, and since Shanna had learned to love his favorite symphonies and operas too, the CD player stayed on almost continually during waking hours. Today the housekeeper had picked the ominous strains of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.

"How does it look in New Langtry?" Art asked Steven. "Anything different from what you told me on the wireless?"

"No, Montoya's still holding the outpost hostage. Every assault we start, he murders a few more New Langtry residents. He seems especially fond of torturing women and children. Throws them off the bridge with nooses around their necks. Sorry to be unpleasant, Queen Shanna."

"Any sign Montoya might negotiate?" Art asked.

"I seriously doubt it. He seems to have some personal vendetta against you, and you too, Mr. Nilson."

"Me?" Nilson looked surprised. "I thought he was invading to claim Rey Alliance territory for Coahuila, Mexico."

"When I met with him in a truce, he spoke about both of you most venomously, and I couldn't break through with any reason. Yet, he admitted he'd never met either of you, just that his wife knew you."

A woman? Shanna hadn't concerned herself about rivalry from another woman. Should she?

"Who's his wife?" Art asked.

"He wouldn't say and I didn't meet her. Only that if they did any talking, it would be to you, Art."

"Who do you know in Mexico, Arturo?" Nilson asked.

"I can't think of anybody. I left there when I was a kid."

"Well, somebody certainly knows you two," Steven said.

Art took Shanna's hand. "You see why I can't put off going even for two more days, mi vida?"

"I--"

"Pardon me, my queen,” Steven interrupted, “but every day dooms the people of New Langtry to more misery and death."

"I was about to say I do understand!" Shanna's eyes snapped with green fire. "I'm not inhuman."

"Okay, okay." Art patted her hand. "I am sorry to miss your birthday celebration, mi vida, but it will be a success with me or without me. You're the people's darling, and Kim can keep you company here at home since I'm taking Cedric as my second-in-command."

"Cedric? But I thought..." Steven's brows made themselves into more pronounced question marks than usual.

"You and your troops deserve a rest--and who's better to stand in for me here at the capital than my Minister of Justice? I know both of you are familiar with the area, but Cedric spent part of his youth near there on his grandparents' ranch. Besides, it's only logical that I take my Minister of Defense."

Nilson said, "Arturo, I trust our thirteen years of relative peace hasn't made you forget a possible trap."

"I'll be careful."

"May I suggest," Steven said, "that you insist on meeting Montoya halfway on the bridge and having a sniper keep him in his sights? He wouldn't talk to me unless I went all the way to his headquarters. I'm sure I would be swinging from a rope in the wind right now if he hadn't wanted me to bring you something." He beckoned to the steward. "Young man, will you fetch me my saddle bags?" The steward nodded and left.

"What is it?" Art asked.

"I'm hoping you can tell me."

Steven's air of mystery irritated Shanna. And why couldn't he have taken care of the matter himself instead of endangering Art?

Nilson leaned forward in his chair. "Arturo, I advise you to take a truther along to read Montoya's thoughts."

"Good idea, but the trip might be too grueling for Cindy."

"Who's Cindy?" Steven asked.

"The truther we usually use in court, but she has muscular dystrophy."

"Seth's the most talented truther we know," Nilson said.

"Yes, but he's only sixteen," Art said.

"In years maybe, but he was born wise."

"You think Benny and Constance would let me take their baby on a military mission?"

"They'd trust you to the ends of the earth."

Shanna knew they would too, whatever fear they had for Seth's safety. It scared her too--such a sweet, sensitive boy, the kind of son anyone could have wished for.

"I called Cedric in San Marcos on the phone last night." Art began eating the omelet set before him. "He should get here with his family in a little while, as close as his ‘castle’ is. Preparations are underway. You'll be a well-received sub for me at the festivities, Steven, and with Nilson as your advisor and Shanna as your hostess, I can't think of a better set-up."

In the past whenever Art left, he handed the reins of government to Nilson, Cedric, or Governor Roberta Long. This new arrangement rasped on Shanna's nerves, but she could think of no civilized protest. A look at Nilson yielded nothing but a grave expression and a shrug. A surreptitious look at Steven revealed him soberly studying his plate.

They finished breakfast and were sipping coffee. Art caught her gaze and glanced at her hands. She realized she was flicking her fingernails against her thumbnail, a gesture he had told her was "a dead giveaway that you're upset about something." She slipped her hands under the table and laid them flat on her lap. Art gave her a secret wink and a smile. Already she missed him, and this time, foreboding rode her loneliness.

The steward handed Steven his saddle bags. Steven thanked him and withdrew a hide-wrapped package. Unrolling the hide, he laid the object on the table, a child's nightshirt, hand-sewn and yellowed with age. He looked at Art for a reaction.

Shanna's cheeks burned with sudden anger. Was it a reminder that Art possessed no heir?

"I have no idea what--" Art began.

"Montoya told me, 'If your king doesn't recognize it, my wife suggests that he ask Constance.' Montoya seems such a petty man, I had the distinct impression that his wife was behind the curtain, pulling the strings."

"His wife again. Who the hell do I know in Mexico?" Art rubbed his goatee with his thumb.

"I'll phone Constance." Shanna got up and walked out, grateful for the excuse to hide her humiliation. Who was responsible for this cruel insult about a child, General Montoya or his mysterious wife?

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