But morning always arrives to start the day again.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a morning ritual,” I explained. “My ladies and a young woman from the villages, our Morning Glory for the day, attend Me as I wake.”
“Oh,” he said, as if understanding—and clearly not understanding at all, still frowning at my wig. It no doubt looked absurd.
“It’s a special honor,” I continued, wanting him to focus on something else. “And something of a religious superstition. If I refuse her, she’ll think she wasn’t acceptable. It’s very important, today more than ever, to demonstrate to the people of Calanthe that all is well, that their queen is in good health and happy.”
He gave me a long, inscrutable look. “And are you?” His was voice gruff from sleep, and something else.
“Of course.” I produced a serene smile.
He didn’t like that answer, but I didn’t know what else he expected me to say, with Ibolya standing there. I had no script for this. What did women say to their new husbands the morning after the wedding night? Certainly nothing for the ladies-in-waiting to hear, no matter their discretion. Mutely, I maintained the smile, making it clear I wouldn’t say anything more on the subject.
“Should I send the Glory away, Your Highness?” Ibolya asked hesitantly into the silence.
I raised my brows at Con. He didn’t look happy, but he shrugged it off. “You said it’s important.”
“Let’s proceed as usual then, Ibolya. Get Conrí some clothes. Once he’s dressed, the Glory can come in.”
“I brought Your head scarf, Your Highness. So the Glory can have it?”
No help for it. I sighed in truth and pulled off the wig, not looking at Con. “Take this then.”
Ibolya hastened away, slipping out of the room and closing it behind her. Still not looking at Con, I wiped the head scarf over my scalp, cleaning away the residual glue and oils of sleep.
“Lia?” Con asked, sounding dangerous.
In this thing I turned out to be a coward. But I forced myself to turn and look at him, still standing on the far side of the bed. His eyes roved over my bald head, confused and angry.
“Yes, Con?” I asked, smoothly polite.
Ibolya knocked lightly and opened the door.
“Give us a minute,” Con barked.
The door closed again with a resounding snap. I raised my brows at Con. “You needn’t frighten My ladies.”
He set his jaw, glaring at me. “Who shaved your head? Tell me now.”
“Maybe I’m naturally bald,” I retorted. I should’ve planned how I’d explain. Unable to sit still under his incredulous stare, I got out of bed. When Con and I had settled this, I’d get back in bed and start over. I stretched, my body protesting, aching in new and strange places.
“Lia.” Con was in front of me, laying hands on my upper arms. For such a big, rough-looking man, he moved fast and quiet. “Only slaves have shorn heads—is that what happened to you?”
“No,” I assured him firmly. I’d been so concerned about him finding me ugly, I hadn’t thought that’s where his mind would go. He sounded outraged on my behalf, so ready to race out and defend me that I felt I needed to be careful with him. Reaching up, I put some order to his long and tangled hair. He looked particularly ferocious with it tumbled around his face. And particularly enticing. I only wished the same could be said of me.
“I’ve had to shave My head since I was a little girl, for good reasons,” I replied. “That’s why I wear wigs.”
He seemed taken aback, searching my face. “What reasons?”
I sighed mentally. Was he ready to hear all of Calanthe’s secrets? I supposed we’d have to plunge in. We’d tied our fates together—whether I’d chosen this or not—and he’d have to know things about me. I’d hoped for a little more time than this, but so it went.
“I am the Flower Queen, bearer of the orchid ring and heir to the Orchid Throne in more than simple right of birth. I am Calanthe’s daughter as much as My father’s.”
Con frowned still, but his hands stroked my bare arms almost soothingly, encouraging me to continue.
“My mother…” How to explain? “She wasn’t what you think of as human. My father was mostly a man like you, but My mother was a daughter of Ejarat, elemental.”
He didn’t understand. I could see it in his eyes. Con was a man of the rocks he carried, one who’d walked through fire and dealt in transactions of flesh and blood. I might as well tell him I could fly.
“Old magic,” I said, as if that explained everything. In truth, it explained a great deal for those who knew. “From when the land and the people were extensions of each other.”
He studied me, mental pieces fitting together.
“And your hair?” he asked, doggedly pursuing the question.
I wrapped my fingers in the trailing, tangled locks of his. “When it grows out, it’s not a human color or texture. Anyone who looks at Me would know I’m not human. That I’m born of the ancient magic.”
He picked up my hand. I’d discarded my nail tips in the dark, so as not to scratch him, and now he studied my fingertips, as if confirming something noticed in passing. “Your nails, too,” he said. “They look like flower petals.”
“Yes. Worse if not trimmed.”
“And your skin.” He stroked my arms, then rubbed a finger over one spot where our sex play had worn the makeup off, clearing it more. “Here it’s like the pattern of bark, though it feels like skin.”
“The patches come and go.” I hesitated. “I get more as I get older.”
“All right,” he said, rubbing my arms once more and setting me away from him, looking me up and down.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just ‘all right’?”
He shrugged a little. “You’re my wife. I vowed to take all of you to me. And it falls to me to keep you safe now. If hiding yourself is what it takes, then all right.”
Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears and my throat clogged. All those years of memories flooded into me in a storming rush of old grief, rage, and humiliation. I’d hated being bald. When my hair first changed from baby fluff and began growing in—pink, gold, silver, green, and blue, some strands wildly curling, other locks like viny tendrils, others ruffled as orchid petals—I’d railed at it. I wanted normal hair, flaxen and silky like Tertulyn’s. It wasn’t fair that I had to be so odd, that I had to be bald and wear the horrible wigs, that I had to cover my hands and wear gowns from neck to toe, and thick makeup on the rest.
Over the years my ladies had crafted beautiful wigs for me, developed the makeup to cover my odd skin, the jeweled nails to hide my own. They’d helped me create a veneer of the beauty I lacked on my own. Tertulyn adopted the same styles, in comfort and solidarity.
When the court began to emulate us, to don similar distortions to look like their queen and her most favored lady, I hadn’t known how to feel.
All along I’d wanted to look like them. And they didn’t have the wit to understand how blessed they were to be normal.
“Don’t weep,” Con said roughly. He cupped my face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that spilled over.
“I’m sorry I’m so ugly,” I whispered.
He looked incredulous. “You are beyond lovely, Lia.” Again he passed wondering fingers over the subtly patterned area on my arm, where the golden scales of bark drifted to my elbow. With infinite care, he ran a big hand over my scalp. I shivered at the caress, so strangely arousing on that tender skin. “You have a beautifully shaped skull.”
I burst out laughing, wet and unladylike. “What?” I demanded.
He grinned, unbothered. “You do. Elegant. Without the wig, you’re all big eyes and gorgeous mouth.”
I opened that mouth to retort, but he took it in a deep kiss, one hand cupping my head and the other going around my waist, pulling me against him. His rising erection spoke clearly of his continued desire. Tempting to take him back to bed, but
I was sore.
He ran his hands over my naked body, first soothing, then pausing here and there. I thought he looked for more signs of odd coloration, but no. “I hurt you,” he said gruffly. “You’re bruised. All over.”
“I don’t mind. I heal quickly—and I’m tougher than I look.”
Con didn’t move immediately. “Will your Glory report you in good health, seeing the marks of my hands?” His fingers drifted over a purpling bruise on my hip, where he’d gripped me in the intensity of his lust.
“Darling Conrí.” I took his hardened shaft in my hand and stroked it, then squeezed hard and pinched the tip. Shock and arousal fired in his eyes. “This is the Flower Court. Every woman out there—except the Glory, who is an innocent, but even she will have heard gossip—knows that pain can intensify pleasure. They will envy My lover who wanted Me so badly he left his handprints on My skin.”
His mouth twisted in a rueful grimace. “If you say.”
“Yes. And you will learn to temper your touch, when to be gentle with Me and when to be rough. There is delight in both.”
He grunted, unconvinced.
“And I’ll learn to be tougher.” No more game playing, pretending to be Anure’s coy concubine. I’d revealed myself as his enemy, so I’d be the worst enemy he could have.
“You’re as tough as they come.” Smiling crookedly, Con looked torn, oddly subdued. “Still…”
“You’re a strong man,” I noted with a wry smile.
“A brutal one, you said.” He regarded me seriously.
I gave him my full attention, so he’d know I wasn’t brushing him off with a convenient lie. “I think you can be brutal because your life has called for it. Your brutality and ruthlessness have served you and your people well—and I expect you to use them to serve Calanthe.”
He smiled in feral anticipation. “Then you agree we’ll fight.”
“We don’t have a choice.” And the time for lying abed was over. We had a war to plan.
As if coming to the same realization, Con studied me, running a hand over my tender scalp and making me shiver. “Anure can’t know this about you.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant it wasn’t possible Anure already knew, or that he mustn’t ever know. It didn’t matter; both were true. “No, Anure doesn’t know. He only knows that he wants what Calanthe has and he can’t have it without Me. When the false emperor came here long ago, My father enchanted Anure just enough that his wizards couldn’t detect it and—”
“Anure doesn’t have wizards, or believe in magic,” Con interrupted me.
“So he’d like the world to think,” I said simply, letting him work it out.
Which he quickly did, judging by the light of comprehension in his eyes, and the following grim and determined frown. My Conrí understood strategy. “Go on,” he said.
“If Anure’s wizards couldn’t detect the geas, they wouldn’t know to remove it. It worked to make Anure satisfied in the betrothal. It was a stalling tactic that wasn’t meant to last this long.”
Con frowned, stroking a hand up and down my back. “King Gul died, unexpectedly.”
“Exactly.” The old grief choked me, and I leaned into Con. He embraced me gently, and it settled into me that I wasn’t alone in this anymore. “Anure will come,” I said.
“Then we’ll be ready for him,” Con answered.
For the first time, I thought it was possible that we could be. I kissed my husband, beyond glad to have him there. Then gave him a smile.
“Now get your clothes and dress, my Conrí, so I can bathe and get ready, too. Then we’ll call a meeting of the Defense Council.” And Tertulyn needed to be found. If she could be.
“I’ll let your lady in.”
“Con,” I called as he strode to the door. He turned back in question. “I am happy this morning,” I told him. “Far more than I ever hoped to be.”
He smiled, the warmth lighting the gold of his eyes.
I got back into bed so the Glory could start my day again. The realm awaited the sun of my presence, after all.
Read on for an excerpt from the next thrilling book in the Forgotten Empires series
The Fiery Crown
By Jeffe Kennedy
Available Summer 2020 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
* * *
“I just thought I should mention,” Ambrose replied reproachfully, more of his usual bite to it. “Since you seem to have such a high opinion of my wizardry. In case your brooding and obsessive study of this painting led your thoughts in that direction.”
I set my teeth, resisting the urge to grind them. “I’m not brooding or obsessive. This is a good place to think. Normally no one bothers me here.” If I had to kick my heels in this oppressively cheerful paradise, growing softer with each wasted moment, I could at least contemplate next steps, anticipate Anure’s strategy to take his own revenge on Calanthe and her queen. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
“You could attend court, as consort to Her Highness,” Ambrose pointed out blandly, and I suppressed a growl of frustration. At least my throat hurt less, since Healer Jeaneth had been treating me—one positive of having time on my hands. My voice still sounded like a choked dog most of the time, however.
“Court,” I snarled the word. “I don’t get how Lia can waste time on that posturing when she promised to discuss defense.”
“She does have a realm to govern.”
“She won’t if Anure comes while she drags her feet. The woman is uncommonly stubborn.”
“A perfect match for you.” Ambrose narrowed his eyes at my clenched fists. “Isn’t she gathering intelligence from her spies?”
I didn’t answer that. That’s what we waited on, theoretically, but I knew there were things Lia was avoiding telling me. I also suspected that she hoped it would all just go away. Both of us knew that Calanthe couldn’t withstand a full-out, devastating attack. When nothing happened immediately after our wedding, Lia began to hope that nothing would.
I knew better. The painting helped remind me of all the dead waiting to be avenged—and what happened to those who fell before Anure’s might.
Unfortunately, I was at a loss to find a way out of our current predicament.
If Anure was smart—and the Imperial Tyrant might be greedy, arrogant, ruthless, and devoid of redeeming human qualities, but he wasn’t stupid—he’d simply surround the island with battleships loaded with explosive vurgsten and bombard Calanthe until nothing remained. He wouldn’t care about salvaging anything; he never had. Even with the ships I’d captured and Calanthe’s fleets of pleasure skiffs and fishing boats, we couldn’t effectively surround and defeat Anure’s navy. Besides, our own supplies of vurgsten had to be vanishingly small compared to what the emperor had stockpiled for nearly two decades at his citadel at Yekpehr.
We had to deploy our few strengths with strategic care, and being trapped on an island while the Imperial Toad scoured us off it with superior force wouldn’t allow for that. Not only wasn’t I closer to destroying Anure and taking my final revenge, I’d put myself and my forces in an even more tenuous position than before. I’d followed Ambrose’s prophecy, and taken the tower at Keiost.
Take the Tower of the Sun,
Claim the hand that wears the Abiding Ring,
And the empire falls.
Claiming the hand that wears the Abiding Ring? I only wish it had been as simple as conquering an impregnable ancient city. Instead I’d had to find a way to convince Queen Euthalia of Calanthe to marry me. Against all probability, I’d succeeded. We were duly wed, though saying I’d claimed anything about Lia would be a stretch, and I sure didn’t see the empire falling anytime soon. The reverse seemed far more likely.
I’d honed the skill of patiently waiting for my chance to strike—but doing nothing while my enemy mustered a crushing attack? It was driving me out of my mind.
“Lia’s spies can tell her how much vurgsten Anure has, how many ships and troops he can
send against us, and how well-fortified his citadel is, and we’ll know nothing more than we do now,” I finally replied to the wizard’s expectant silence. “I thought claiming the hand with the Abiding Ring would lead to the empire’s fall.” I leveled an accusing glare on him.
“You claimed Her Highness’s hand all right, but the wooing doesn’t stop there,” Ambrose replied with mild reproof. “You can’t order a queen about like you can your soldiers.”
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered. Since Ambrose had destroyed what little peace I’d found, I turned and strode down the long gallery. The wizard glided alongside me, making no sound though my bootsteps echoed on the polished marble of Lia’s pretty palace. Ambrose could move silently as a cat when he wished, which was how he’d managed to sneak up on me. No one else could. I’d learned early on in the mines of Vurgmun to duck the ready lash of the guards, a habit that had stuck—and served me well in the years of battle since.
I’d have liked to say I’d gotten used to it, but even I didn’t delude myself that much.
We emerged from the shadowed portrait gallery, a place thick with ghosts and the stale smells of hundreds of destroyed kingdoms, and into the bright, flower-scented sunlight of the main hall. Lia’s palace doesn’t have much in the way of walls. With the eternal summer of Calanthe’s tropical weather, they don’t need them. Open arcades of carved pillars framed the lush gardens, pools, and lawns surrounding the palace, with the gleaming turquoise sea beyond. Flowers bloomed constantly from lush lawns, flower beds, shrubs, and towering trees, with vines coiling over all of it. Butterflies of hues I hadn’t known existed lifted in clouds, then drifted on the breeze, and everywhere birds sang, all sweetly, of course. I hadn’t figured out yet if Lia had an army of gardeners to tend it all or if it just … did that on its own.
I’d made a deal with myself that I wouldn’t ask. Not that Lia would laugh at my ignorance—not out loud, anyway—but I didn’t like to remind Her Highness of what a provincial lout she’d married.
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