by R. K. Thorne
“Then why the hesitation?”
“It feels strange to say it aloud. And it’s intimidating, to think we’ll be at the center of such spectacle.” She was right; although the ceremony itself would thankfully be intimate, much celebration would follow. “It sounds greedy, too. Overconfident. I don’t want you or anyone to think I am overeager or somehow out for personal gain.”
He was utterly sure that was not the case, and in fact, it was one of the reasons he’d been drawn to her from the start. But before he could assure her of that, she surprised him by leaning forward to kiss him. He leaned into her kiss, into her, reaching his arms around her hips. She rested her hands gently on either side of his face as he pressed forward eagerly. His stiff neck panged in protest, and a grunt and wince escaped.
She laughed quietly. “You must be sore, sleeping like that. Turn around.”
He cocked his head in question. “What?”
“Turn around.”
“We have a war to plan, don’t we?”
“Just do it. Turn around and sit down too. I can help. You’ll plan better if you aren’t wincing every time you turn your head.”
He complied slowly as he struggled to think of why she might make such a request. He settled back onto the floor, facing the fire. She pulled him to lean back against the edge of the bench, one of her knees firmly on either side of his shoulders. He tried to ignore them.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, working in slow circles, and his eyes drifted closed. In all the heavens, he hadn’t thought of that. The thick quilting of the gambeson was far too much of a barrier between her hands and his skin. He let out a rumble in the back of his throat without intending to. “You must be… just as tired… as I am… You don’t need…”
“I get the impression I slept better. Plus I have my magic to help me. I’m fine. Relax.”
Her fingers worked their way up and kneaded his neck. Heat and desire swept through him. He both hoped Perik would come back soon, and that he would not come back at all. Her hands strayed into exploring his hair and the base of his scalp, kind and reaffirming and assuring in their caress.
Oh, by the gods. “That feels good,” he mumbled. A slight wisp of air brushed across his face, then another. His magic playing its tricks again? He let it, this time.
She made a soft, pleased, purring sound, sending another wave of desire through him as her expert hands plied him farther down his shoulders and back now.
I missed you, she whispered softly into his mind.
Her presence blended with his. Her satisfaction at his reactions, his rumbles, the way he’d relaxed under her attentions filled his mind. She rested her chin on his head, and he let himself lean back into her, finally close, finally at least a little bit together and like the world couldn’t tear them apart as easily as it always seemed to. I missed you, too, he remembered to say.
He was never letting her go. Or maybe even out of his sight.
She snorted softly. I will have to bathe, you know. In fact, I need to. The idea sent off a wave of imagery conjured by his excited imagination, and she laughed, seeing it with him to his chagrin. But her hands tightened on his shoulders and stilled as his overactive mind went further than just imagining her in the bath. Now they were together, skin to skin, his head resting on her shoulder. Hot water swirled around them, as he whispered in her ear, ran his lips in a line of kisses up her neck, took her mouth and showed her just how much he had missed her as he rose over her—
The door clicked. Aven’s eyes snapped open. The fire before him whipped back and forth, the air in the room excited, teasing the flickering candles with soft caresses.
Perik entered, stopped still for a moment, then retreated to wherever he’d been hiding on the other side of the room. For a young man, he seemed rather savvy. Or perhaps he just lacked the propriety and indignation of a middle-aged mum.
Aven smirked. Who was he kidding? Nothing like one young man to understand another.
She leaned back and returned to massaging his shoulders. I suppose we should acknowledge the poor thing. He probably feels quite awkward.
He nodded and scooted forward, turning onto his knees again. At least he didn’t return to find us actually in the bath, eh?
She blushed in response but slowly grinned too.
“I owe you one,” he said quietly, only to her. Then he slid to sit sideways beside her, addressing Perik over the back of the couch. “Any luck, Perik?” Standing would probably be inadvisable until he found something very boring to talk about. Maybe Perik could oblige.
The young man glanced up, his formerly large round eyes relaxing. “Sire, the food should be here shortly. Steward Telidar says she’ll send up the tea first.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you have anything else you need, sire?”
Other than a chaperone? “Soon, yes. After the food arrives. I need to see if there are any updates on Thel or my father.” Or any new Kavanarian troops spotted. Or, well, a hundred things. He needed to know anything that had transpired while they’d slept.
But he was glad he’d had a few moments with Miara first. She was back by his side, and he hoped that wouldn’t change for a long, long time.
Thel had lost all track of time as the carriage ride wore on. The lack of any light seeping into the carriage didn’t help. The road grew rougher, occasionally jolting him against the hard wooden side. Luckily, some heat remained in the carriage from their bodies; otherwise he’d have been shivering on top of it all.
The shouts of men back and forth to each other were too garbled by the raging carriage wheels to make out, but they grew louder and more frequent.
Finally, a voice shouted from outside just above them, “Getting close! Let Detrax know we’re coming.”
“Oh, thank the ancient ancestors,” Thel muttered. He rolled his neck, trying to stretch his stiff muscles. “Maybe now they’ll finally let us out.” Her eyes were wide when he glanced at her. “Someone you know?”
She nodded slowly. “He was once… a mage slave of my father’s.”
“Your father had slaves? First Kavanar, and now within my own realm. By the gods. And yet I’m the one you call evil.”
She glared. “I never said my father was good.”
That stopped him short.
She looked deep in thought for a moment, glancing around the carriage. Then she picked up the Devoted stone and asked, her voice hushed, “Can you still open that compartment?”
He frowned. “The panel down here? Yes. Why?”
“Hurry.”
He pursed his lips and considered refusing but ultimately opened it. He shifted to the other bench beside her and jerked the panel open just slightly.
Without hesitation, she tossed the glowing stone out the panel. The cabin plunged into darkness.
“What the…” he mumbled.
“You can shut it now.” He barely heard her whisper over the wheels and horse hooves.
“I don’t know if that’s true. We’ll see if I can in the dark. What did you do that for?”
She said nothing, and he could no longer see her expression. He fumbled and got the panel back in place. He was closer to her now on this bench than he would be if he returned to his original seat. He delayed a few moments in case they needed to say more.
She must have had the same idea. A hand reached out and found his knee, and he could sense her leaning closer, even in the darkness. Her hair brushed his cheek, a soft wisp that sent a shiver through him in spite of himself.
“I promise you I won’t tell them you’re a mage if you don’t,” she whispered.
“If this Detrax is a mage, can’t he see for himself?”
“He may not—”
Before she could finish, the carriage lurched to a halt. He darted back to the other bench, not wanting to indicate an association that didn’t exist.
He had settled before the door opened. “Out with ya,” came a voice from outside.
He stilled, waiting for Niat to go fi
rst. Dim light once again illuminated the dark carriage. Torches or lanterns? He couldn’t see much outside except a form blocking most of the view, but the sounds of an encampment echoed off the wooden interior.
Niat did not move.
“C’mon now, don’t make me drag you out.”
“Niat?” he said carefully. “Do you need a hand? Are you still feeling ill?”
“Oh,” she muttered, as if she’d been somewhere else. Lost in thought? One of her visions? He wondered if any of their captors would believe her. She certainly hadn’t expected Thel to believe her, so it mustn’t be a common reaction.
He did believe her, though. Naïve of him, most likely, but in his experience the fury and indignation she’d displayed were challenging to fake. Combined with the pain in her eyes… Few could craft such a cocktail of emotion just to cover a lie, to lay claim to some kind of privilege. And what privilege did the visions even give her? It didn’t seem like anyone ever believed her, or even listened.
He should really be more suspicious, given her claim that she’d seen him in her visions. Surely this must be some long, elaborate deception. None of the questions he’d prodded her with had retrieved any more knowledge from her on the matter. She’d fallen mostly silent, and eventually he’d given up.
Light poured in again as Niat’s form moved out of the carriage and out of sight. Thel followed promptly, ready to be free from this dark cage even if it was only to be led to a new and different one.
Armed men took him by each arm. Niat was similarly pinned, and ahead of her was a familiar brown cloak trimmed with white fur. Alikar. Before them lay a decent-sized encampment of soldiers, and Thel was willing to bet they weren’t Akarian ones. In fact, he hoped they weren’t, because if they were, it would mean Alikar was commanding Akarians to fight Akarians. Gods, let it not come to that.
After a brief stop to relieve themselves, Alikar led them to the largest tent, majestic and white with a sheltered entrance and an unfamiliar flag outside. Alikar ducked under the entrance flap. Niat was shoved through, and then so was Thel, narrowly stopping himself from slamming into her back. Their guards formed a line behind them, some inside the door, some outside of it. Thel couldn’t see much of the interior of the large tent, but it was furnished like an ordinary living area for a field commander. He could gather nothing more from it.
“Alikar!” said a voice. The timbre of it was strangely inhuman—too low and filled with a growling decadence.
“Greetings, Detrax.” Alikar stepped up to shake hands with a man rising to his feet. A man or a creature? Two ram’s horns protruded a handbreadth from his forehead, and although he shook hands with Alikar, two additional arms were propped on his hips. Tattoos like those popular in Sverti covered his broad forearms in a swirling pattern, and his face, chest, and shoulders bore ridges of hair that looked more like they belonged on a wolf or moose than on a man.
Just ahead of him, Niat gasped softly. Quite right. If Thel hadn’t been staring in mild horror, he probably would have gasped too.
If this was what she thought of when she imagined a mage, no wonder she felt so certain he was evil.
The four-armed, horned mage turned his gaze from Alikar to Niat. “Ah, Priestess. We meet again, under better circumstances this time.”
“Detrax.” Her voice was paper-thin, but icy. “That’s debatable.”
“Congratulations on your upcoming marriage,” he said with rancor.
She did not reply.
“I hear you finally made it to the temple. Which was it? The temple of tears?” He laughed languidly, darkly, as if relishing the slow mental torture before him. Thel swallowed. Whatever this man might have in store for them, it was likely not good.
Again Niat said nothing, only staring down at her hands clasped in front of her now.
“And who is this?” The beast—no, the man—took a step forward, and Alikar shied slightly to the side.
Alikar cleared his throat. “Prince Thel is the second son of King Samul. When the situation in Panar became untenable, I decided to leave. But not without acquiring a few gifts first.”
Thel shot him a glare.
“Well, I’m sure the Masters will be pleased. This scrawny runt will make a valuable bargaining chip. But he’s of little use to as at the moment.” Detrax closed a hand around Thel’s arm, and Thel glared at him and the claws that had replaced fingernails. Detrax dragged him to the right and shoved him into the corner beyond Alikar. “Our little priestess on the other hand…”
Thel didn’t see the movement, it was so quick. Detrax spun and seized Niat by the hair on the back of her neck, forcing her to her knees. Then he roughly cast her aside and forward, into the center of the tent. Thel fought the instinct to lunge after her. It was stupid. He was outnumbered. There was nothing he could do at this point. Not yet. He needed some kind of advantage.
She righted herself rapidly and glared viciously at him. He laughed again, that languid, mocking growl. “Tell us what the gods say of our plans. If you are so gifted as you claim.”
“Do you simply mean to mock me and toss me around? Or do you truly seek guidance?”
He laughed in her face now. “Oh, certainly I can do all of those at once. And more.”
She pressed her lips into a firm line and said nothing.
“Now, Niat. We move on Anonil very soon. What awaits us there?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Thel blinked. She was lying to them. He supposed that made sense, but he was surprised anyway.
“Oh, I think you do.” Detrax strode to a chest at the back of the tent and picked up a vial of blue liquid from a tray. “Do you know what this is?” Her wide eyes said she did well enough. A knot of concern for her tightened in Thel’s belly. “Don’t make me use it. Ask and tell me what you know.”
She paused and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Was that real, or was she pretending? She opened her eyes again. “I can’t. It won’t come so soon. But I have seen Anonil in flames. It falls to you, I swear it.”
Detrax started forward, the vial still in hand. “So you lied then,” he spat.
“As if you’ve never,” she shot back.
He raised the vial as he strode toward her, still looking determined.
“No—” she started, falling backward, trying to escape him. “I won’t be able to tell you anything after that, even if I see what you want me to see. And there’s no guarantee—”
“You will see what I ask, and you will tell me what I want to know.”
“It doesn’t work that way. I can’t control—”
Seizing her by the hair again, he hauled her back onto her knees. Thel gritted his teeth. Was there something he could do? His eyes searched for something, anything nearby that could give him an advantage.
Detrax held the vial an inch before her nose. “You will take this,” he growled, “or I will make you take it.”
She frowned sadly at the vial, and just when Thel thought Detrax would lift his hand to uncork it, she took it from him instead. Bitterly, she whipped off the cork and downed the contents in one shot.
The four-armed mage released her. “Have the messages from the gods waiting for me in the morning, Seer,” he spat. “Or we shall experiment with other methods of making you tell the truth.” Detrax eyed Alikar and Thel for one appraising moment.
“We have much to discuss,” Alikar said. “Not in front of them, I should think?”
Detrax nodded. “Take them to the armory tent and chain them up. We’ll deal with them more thoroughly in the morning.”
Daes slowed outside the generals’ parlor, listening. Evening had fallen; only the light of candles danced weakly across the dark stones of the hallway. The lower floors of the palace were cold, drafty, dim when the sun went down. A dismal place.
He expected no real work to be going on inside. It’d been a day of celebration for everyone, the generals and himself included. He planned to change that, however.
The clinking of glasses, the murmur of soft voices, and then a peel of a woman’s laugh reached his ears. He rolled his eyes. Had the debauchery of the court reached even into the army? A little bit of brandy was nothing out of the ordinary, but in the days he’d served under General Vusamon in the northern rebellions, he would never have imagined his former leader acting as the courtiers did upstairs. Though they had been cautious and reserved today, and rightfully so. They lived by gaining favor, and they could scent the change in the air. The disappearance of Demikin’s mistress might have given them a clue.
But for whatever stupidly personal reason, Daes had somehow hoped the few standing military advisers Demikin maintained would have carried themselves with more decorum. That was probably unfair. He shouldn’t be surprised. And drinking and women laughing didn’t mean their was an orgy going on inside. Although if there was, he wasn’t quite sure how he might react.
He straightened the ebony cloak on his shoulders, the one he’d worn earlier as he’d received the lords and ladies of Kavanar in recognition of his new position. Its gold trim was the only concession he’d made beyond his usual black, which Marielle had handled with a mixture of consternation and amusement. He would have expected to resent the addition, but it left him oddly moved when it surprised him in the corner of his gaze. Where that feeling came from, for whom, or what it meant, he was entirely uncertain.
He made sure that the gold circlet still rested straight and even on his brow. It wasn’t the crown of the king, but it would have to do for now. He couldn’t with any propriety claim the king’s title so soon. To do so would be handing any near rivals an excellent excuse to challenge him. No, instead, he’d bide his time, skirt as close to propriety as they could get away with, and earn favor along the way. In a matter of three months, or perhaps six, he could seize the crown officially.
But the war didn’t have months. Not after Trenedum, the loss of the brand, and the defeat in Panar of all of his carefully laid plans.
It was time to change the game.
As quietly as he could, Daes swung the door open. A dozen Kavanarian generals lounged inside, of the total eighteen. Not bad for Daes’s purposes. Six sat chatting in armchairs, and three huddled around glasses of wine near the fire, all entirely respectful and proper, thank the gods.