by Frost Kay
Thorn smiled grimly behind her scarf and fluttered her lashes at the men. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. She wasn’t some helpless maiden to be ravished and tossed away like rubbish. Her fingers loosened the scarf covering her face and neck. She pushed back her hood until both men could see the twisting network of scars that marred the left side of her jaw and throat. They were ugly, and she hated them most of the time, but they also provided protection on more than one occasion.
The soldiers’ smiles turned to grimaces, and disgust plastered across their expressions. They dismissed her and turned toward the inn, before making their way inside. She released a small sigh, her breath freezing in a white puff. For a moment, she reveled in how satisfying it was to manipulate men, but that feeling soured almost immediately as her gaze moved toward the brothel—her home. These soldiers would no doubt end up there and torment one of her sisters tonight. Thorn glared at her boots. This was the part she loathed. While she wasn’t part of the sisterhood of night walkers, they’d raised her. Thorn had been told over and over how women held power because of their sexuality, but it seemed to her that they were constantly being used and taken advantage of. Being born a woman was the bane of her existence.
More snow fell as she rewrapped the scarf around her neck and face, then lifted the hood of her cloak over her hair. Her fingers and toes were half frozen already. Thorn ghosted past the soldiers’ abandoned horses and ran her hand along the back of the huge black beast at the end of the line, then walked down the small alley between the inn and the brothel, until she reached the brothel’s rear entrance. She kicked the bottom step, knocked the snow from her boots, and then opened the door.
The smell of rose perfume, pine tea, and stew permeated the air. Thorn yanked her cloak off and shook it outside.
“Close the door, lass!” Grey bellowed.
Thorn hung her cloak on the wall and closed the door, her boots leaving small damp puddles on the floor.
She held up her hand in apology to Grey, the cook, and gravitated toward the giant fire. Thorn stripped her gloves off and stuffed them into the pockets of her heavy skirt.
“Sorry, Grey,” she called softly. “I’ll mop up when I’m done warming up.”
The short, older man bustled to her side and clasped her right hand between his own calloused hands. “What have you been up to, lass? You’re frozen through!”
“The soldiers wanted to have a little chat.”
Grey’s wiry brows slashed together, creating a wicked-looking caterpillar that she swore could have walked off his scowl.
He tutted. “I’m sure you taught them some manners.”
“Something like that,” Thorn muttered. She dropped a kiss onto his grizzled cheek and gently pulled her hand from his. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll head to bed early tonight. Do you have any bread and cheese I could take with me?”
Grey harrumphed and scurried to a pan of steaming, warm rolls. He nimbly grabbed one, sat it on top of a bowl half-full of steaming lamb stew, and plopped a chuck of butter on top of the bread. The cook stormed back to her side and thrust the bowl into her hands.
“A person needs a warm meal on such a night as this. Eat,” he commanded. “You’re too skinny as it is.”
Her fingers curled around the bowl. “Thank you.”
Grey waved her away. “Now get on with ya. I have much to do, and I don’t want intruders in my kitchen.”
Thorn mock-saluted him and retreated from the kitchen. She moved down the hallway and paused when she caught sight of a soldier entering the establishment already. Her stomach twisted, and an uncomfortable shiver ran down her spine. Quickly, she took the servants’ stairs up to her room and darted inside, making sure to lock the door behind her. She leaned against the door. Her fingers trembled the smallest bit. Foreboding crept up her spine. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Two
Tempest
“I thought I was supposed to look good in my wedding dress?” Tempest muttered.
“Whatever do you mean, Lady Tempest? You look breathtaking!” the seamstress crowed.
The wedding dress itself was not awful to look at. Tempest shifted uncomfortably, staring at her reflection in the ceiling-to-floor mirror. The long, lacy sleeves were tasteful, and the low, sweeping back would have excited her if she was marrying someone she actually loved. The bell-like skirt however was a different story. There was one too many petticoats for her liking. She could barely walk in the blasted thing. Her fingers drifted over the featherlike milky silk. In truth, it was a beautiful dress—just not the dress for Tempest.
She lifted her gaze and met her own mercurial gray eyes in the mirror. Who was she? Over the past few months, she’d played so many characters that it was hard to decipher who the real Tempest was anymore. She glanced at the seamstress who knelt beside her, working on the hem of the skirt. None of this was right.
A pang of sorrow struck her in the chest. Not for the first time—and certainly not for the last—Tempest wished her mother was here to help figure everything out. She should’ve been the one working on the wedding dress, not some stranger. Life was confusing as it was, then add a mad king to the mix and things got dicey. Daughters should always have their mothers with them to help them before their wedding.
Would you have really wanted her here for this farce though? Your choice would have broken her heart.
Tempest sucked in a sharp breath at the thought, and the seamstress cast a wary look in her direction before continuing her work. Tempest once again smoothed her shaking hands along the silk. Her mother had always been a great romantic, and the sham of a wedding would have broken her heart.
You’re not completely alone.
That was technically true. She had the support of the Hounds and the Dark Court. Even with the love and affection of her uncles—Brine, and Briggs—she still was isolated. They were men. Neither of them were in the position of marrying their enemy and possibly bearing children for a monster. Her shoulders drooped, and she stared at the floor. Maybe it was best that no one close to her really understood the gravity of her mixed feelings. No one could see her shame and misery.
You made your decision. No going back.
The die had been cast the moment she declined Brine’s offer of escape from Dotae in order to stand her ground by the side of the king. Her life had always been difficult, but she’d managed to carve out her way, to make a family despite the adversity. Tempest would do it again. The kingdom needed a queen, and, as loathe as she was to step into that role, someone had to do it. It might as well be her. At least she was difficult to kill.
“It’ll be a miracle if I get this finished by the wedding,” the seamstress muttered.
Tempest grunted in a very unladylike manner, which earned her a look of disapproval from the seamstress. The rushed betrothal had surprised her. With the kingdom on the brink of war, it would have made sense to postpone the ceremony. Instead, the king had moved it forward. It surprised her, and Tempest hated surprises. What was his motivation behind such a decision? How was he planning on using her?
A brisk knock rattled her door before it swung open, revealing the petite form of the princess in the mirror’s reflection. Ansette’s gaze swept the room, apparently missing nothing, her chin at a haughty tilt. Her attention settled on Tempest and then on the seamstress kneeling in a half-bow on the floor.
“Leave us,” the princess commanded. “You can return in a half hour.”
Tempest watched silently as the seamstress pushed to her feet and bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Temp gazed at Ansette’s reflection. The girl’s indifferent personality seemed to melt away as she moved farther into the room. She paused next to Tempest. Her lips pursed as she stared down at the heavy bell of the skirt.
“It’s quite impressive.”
“If one wants to look like she has the desire to be trussed up like a piece of meat, yes,” she muttered.
Ansette snickered and fin
gered the material. “The fabric is quite fine. My father’s spared no expense, I see.”
Tempest kept her revulsion from her face and managed to paste on a pleasant smile.
The princess had been gracious and helpful to Tempest after her initial outburst against her brother’s death—murder—and Tempest’s betrothal. For one so young, it was clear Ansette understood that Tempest was not in this for any kind of personal gain—not that Tempest could imagine anyone gaining something from marrying such a king.
Money, prestige, a title…
Well, not anything that really mattered.
The princess shocked her by placing a gentle hand on her arm.
“You know I’m here for you,” she said softly, her face completely serious. “Just so you know, you have my support. I believe you have the kingdom’s best interests at heart.”
Pretty lines from a royal. Could Tempest trust her? She scrutinized Ansette. The girl was a confusing mix of innocence and experience. She seemed nothing but sincere, but she’d been raised by Destin.
The princess continued: “And I know your reasons for marrying my father have nothing to do with love and affection.” A pause. “Though, I must admit that I am just a little bit happy that you are marrying him and not anyone else. I hope we can be friends.”
Something warm entered Ansette’s eyes as she smiled up at Tempest. Yearning. That’s what it was. Swallowing hard, Tempest nodded with a small genuine smile of her own. Over the years, she’d yearned for female companionship. Juniper was her only female friend, so she didn’t have much experience with other girls. It was a tempting offer to take, but at what cost? Could she trust the princess? Her mind said no. She couldn’t trust anyone, especially not the king’s daughter.
Don’t allow your bitterness to blind you to a potential ally and friend.
It was a fine line she walked, balancing between her head and heart. Tempest’s instincts said that the girl meant no harm, but this did nothing to make her feel better. Her focus needed to stay on the mission. Tempest’s purpose was not to befriend the girl any more than it was to become merely the queen. She couldn’t help but like Ansette. Even though Temp admired the princess—really, truly cared for her—close friendship with the princess would be dangerous for both of them.
The king had a way of killing anyone who gained his attention.
“I appreciate your friendship, my lady,” Tempest murmured at last.
Ansette watched her. “You guard yourself.”
It was a statement, but it seemed like there was a question hidden among the words.
“Raised among the Hounds, one is trained to guard themselves in all ways. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”
“Those are good habits to have. I wouldn’t let them die so soon,” the princess remarked.
“Oh?” Tempest asked, eyeing her.
The princess cocked her head, and Tempest blinked once. In that moment, all she could see was Pyre. It was there one moment and gone the next. She shook her head to dispel the image.
“Court is a dangerous place, you’ll find,” the girl commented. “Your skills as a soldier and spy will serve you well as queen. Most say one thing and act another. Hypocrisy is a lasting trend that I’m doubtful will ever disappear.”
That sobered Tempest further. She once again looked in the mirror, staring at the imposter gazing evenly back at her. Maybe once, she’d been completely innocent, but no longer. When the Jester had called her a hypocrite, he was right. She had been so busy painting him as a villain, she’d missed the change in herself. In some respects, Tempest was just as guilty as Pyre. Some, but not all.
You are not as far gone as that degenerate. You will recognize your mistakes and learn from them.
So why did that feel like a lie?
Ansette sighed and squeezed Tempest’s hand once. “I’ll leave you to your fitting. If you need me, feel free to reach out.”
“Thank you,” Temp said genuinely with a small smile.
The girl gave her another smile and left quietly.
The princess was barely out the door before Tempest’s expression slipped from her face. Her skin heated, and the dress seemed to scratch her skin painfully. She hastily tugged at the buttons, not caring when she yanked a few free, and wiggled out of the monstrosity. Her chest moved up and down as panic tried to swallow her. She kicked the dress for good measure and placed her hands on her hips as she calmed down. She never wanted to wear it again.
For a few moments, she watched the puddle of white lace, silk, and crinoline lie dejectedly on the floor like a wilted flower. The seamstress would be back soon, no doubt, and no one’s hard work deserved to be treated like that, even if it was ugly. She groaned as she picked up the heavy dress and laid it gently across her bed. The last thing she needed was for the dress to become stained or creased by her own hand.
Chills erupted across her skin, reminding Tempest how naked she now was—and how vulnerable. She moved to the wardrobe and pulled her Hound uniform out and put it back on, feeling far more like herself. She sighed and rolled her neck before adorning her weapons. Putting on her uniform felt like coming home.
Tempest glanced at the bed and then to the door to her left. If she was quick, she could avoid the seamstress. The dress was too fitted already. She strode toward the door and grasped the handle as someone knocked on the door. She barely managed to keep from jumping. Had the seamstress made it back already? She glanced over her shoulder at the bed, and more specifically the pair of windows that bracketed the headboard. If she made a run for it, maybe she could scale the castle wall?
Stop being ridiculous and open the damn door.
Stifling a groan, she turned the handle and opened the door.
Nobody was there.
She pulled a blade from the sheath at her hip and carefully stepped forward into the hallway, prepared for attack. A servant rounded the corner at the corridor, disappearing from sight—the soft sound of footsteps swiftly retreating down the stone steps were the only proof a person had been there in the first place.
A spy? No, they wouldn’t knock.
Carefully, she canvased the area for anything out of the ordinary.
Her shoulders sagged as she noticed a note written on thick, yellowed parchment sitting on the floor, waiting innocuously for her to read it. While hunting for rogues among the shadows, she missed the apparent summons. Maxim would have smacked her on the back of the head for being so obtuse.
She swooped down and plucked the letter from the ground and check the seal for tampering. Nothing. Tempest broke the seal and opened the letter, her eyes eating up the words on the page.
A call to action.
She smiled grimly, and a tingle of excitement filled her at the prospect of finally being put to use. Future queen, she might be, but Temp was a Hound, first and foremost.
It was time to fight.
Three
Tempest
The whistle of an arrow passed Tempest’s ear, narrowly missing her head.
Winter’s bite, that had been a close one.
She ducked behind a nearby building and caught her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. This was not what she’d expected when she’d received the summons. Assisting the Hounds with squashing a Talagan uprising—the very people she wished to protect from King Destin—was not what she’d call fun. Although, the dark part of her did enjoy a good battle. It got the blood up. Her vision seemed to tunnel, and time slowed down.
Tempest peeked around the corner of the building before jerking back as an arrow sank into the wood where her head had been. The occupants of the province of Merjeri were fierce opponents, but if she had as much wealth to lose as they did, she might be more bloodthirsty, too.
Wiping the sweat from her eyes, she glanced at the flames one building over, and her lips thinned. Destruction never seemed to bring about the results that others thought they would. What had started as a skirmish between Lord Merjeri and his workers had now escalated into an a
ll-out battle. The workers had set fire to the lord’s fields and grain silos. But the flames had spread, as they always did, and now reached a nearby farming village.
A village full of the very workers who’d set the blaze. The fighting needed to stop.
A rebel rounded the corner, waving a pitchfork. Tempest butted him on the forehead with the pommel of her sword, and his eyes rolled up, his makeshift weapon tumbling uselessly from his hand as he crashed to the ground, unconscious. The fewer lives she had to take the better. The workers rebelling were desperate and scared. Lord Merjeri was known to be cruel and dishonest. In her mind, he’d driven the people to act. At least the fighting was lessening. Most of the rebels had abandoned their weapons in favor of buckets of water from the nearest well. That meant the Hounds could spend more time containing the flames and saving those in real danger.
She snuck along the side of the building and crept around the back. There were always those stubborn few who didn’t want to be reasonable. She darted around the corner and sprinted toward an archer who faced her. He fumbled with his bow as she crashed into him, his head slamming against the wall of the building. He groaned, and his feet went out from beneath him. Tempest yanked the bow from his loose fingers as he blinked up at her, clearly dazed.
“You gonna kill me?” he mumbled. “On my own property?”
Tempest squatted down and grabbed his chin, so he looked her in the eyes. “No,” she said softly. “Defending one’s home and livelihood isn’t wrong, but waging war and causing devastation is not the answer.” She released him and stood. “Let your head clear, and then join everyone else in containing the fire.”
She left him and approached the next house, banging on the front door.
“Fire!” she bellowed. “Evacuate your family now!” No sound. Tempest sighed. “I will come in there and drag you out if I have to. Think of your children.”