by Gaelen Foley
“Wrynne, don’t be difficult. You’re acting like a child.” With calm, maddening patience, he bent her backward, partway over the desk, trying to pry her jaws apart.
“Stop fighting me!” he said through gritted teeth. “This is for your own good!”
“I despise you!” she wrenched out in seething, volcanic passion, but that was all the chance he needed.
He forced her mouth open wider the second she spoke and poured the medicine down her throat.
She choked a bit.
He quickly covered her lips with his hand to stop her from spitting it out. “Swallow it. Now.”
She glared at him in rage, holding the vile liquid in her mouth.
“Wrynne. Swallow the medicine. Do as I tell you, now. There’s a good girl.”
I hate, hate, hate you, she told him with her eyes, but he just smiled, as if he knew he had already won. Then he clamped his fingers gently over her nose, squeezing her nostrils shut.
Her eyes widened to think her own husband would actually cut off her air. Now she’d have to swallow the medicine to gasp for breath through her mouth.
“Sorry,” he said with a slight shrug.
You will be, she thought. For while he was distracted, waiting for her to swallow and watching hopefully for any sign that the foul-tasting stuff was beginning to work, her searching hand found the handle of the top desk drawer.
Without a sound, she pulled the drawer open just a bit, reached into it, and sought the illicit weapon she had prepared and hidden there. A nasty little penknife she had fashioned by breaking off one of the metal sunrays in the religious sculpture hanging on her chamber wall.
Working under cover of darkness the past few nights, she had coated the metal file with the juice of the poisonous bloodbane berries she had carefully collected from the garden.
The idiot monks and nuns thought it was simply walking in the garden that had cheered her up and calmed her down, but this was not the case. The reason for her better state of mind in recent days was that she had hatched an excellent plan.
To rid the world of Thaydor.
And as her fingers closed around her little blade, the time had come to strike.
She did, plunging the makeshift dagger into his side, even as the need for air overcame her.
She swallowed the mouthful of medicine at last, while a small cry of pain escaped him. She let go of the blade, abandoning it in his side to let the poison do its work. Her husband released her from his viselike hold and looked down at the sunray of Ilios sticking out from between his ribs.
“Rather poetic, don’t you think?” she gasped out, panting for air.
“Oh, Wrynne,” he said mournfully, and moved away from her, a crimson stain spreading at his side.
What was that the oracle had said so long ago?
You will betray him.
He deserved it.
Her stare fixed on him, she wiped the taste of his hand and the residue of the medicine roughly off her lips. The potion he had forced down her throat tasted foul on her tongue, but she took satisfaction in knowing she had paid him back in full.
“You’re hard to kill, love, but that should do the trick,” she said.
He pulled the metal file out of his side and sent her a grim, defiant smile. “I’ve had worse.”
“Oh, I know, dear,” she said sweetly. “That’s why I tipped the blade with poison.”
He stopped, paling. “What?”
As Thaydor glanced down in alarm at the blood on his hand, a wave of nausea suddenly overcame her.
“But it seems you’ve poisoned me, too,” she rasped.
“Wrynne!” He reached for her as she dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach.
“What have you done to me, you bastard?” she ground out, spittle dripping from her mouth as she dry-heaved.
Everything inside her was burning. She started shaking. The room was spinning. She let out a scream of pain and convulsed.
“Wrynne! No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Sweet Ilios, I’ll kill that sorcerer…” Thaydor knelt beside her, covering his own wound with his hand, blood flowing out between his fingers, as he looked on in panic, asking her what was happening.
In a moment, she was barely aware of him. He dissolved out of focus. She curled into a ball, panting, her eyes squeezed shut, and when the next wave of blazing pain tore through her innards, she screamed. The agony was so intense it reminded her of the night she had relived his mortal injuries through the Kiss of Life spell.
And just like then, once more, she simply blacked out.
* * *
He gradually brought her back with a kiss. His lips lingered atop hers, silken and warm. She became aware of a large, trembling hand stroking her hair. His whispers wove into her addled mind.
“Please come back to me, demoiselle, so at least we can say goodbye.”
Goodbye?
When she opened her glazed eyes in confusion, blinking against the light, her temples were pounding. Her head rested on Thaydor’s thigh.
The room was waving with sickening slowness, and behind him, the ceiling seemed to stretch a hundred feet tall.
But she instantly noticed she felt different. Like a fever had broken. She felt cleaned out inside. As if she had vomited out some meal of putrid food that she had eaten by mistake. The residue of the medicine still tasted foul on her tongue, but the blessed emptiness within told her the stuff had killed the parasitic evil that had nested inside her.
Thaydor was stroking her head, watching every expression on her face. “There you are,” he breathed, a catch in his voice.
As her vision cleared, she noticed he didn’t look so well. His tanned, outdoorsy complexion had gone pale.
“Thaydor?”
“Wrynne.” He took her hand, twining his fingers through hers. “Are you back?”
She stared at him…with no idea what they were doing on the floor or how they had got there or what was going on. “Where are we?”
She looked around the room and recognized it as though she had only seen it in a dream.
Then her gaze happened upon the bloodstain on the side of his shirt, and instantly, it all came flooding back.
She sat up with a gasp of horror. “I did this to you!”
“Shh, it’s all right.” He cupped her cheek and shook his head, gazing tenderly at her. “It’s not your fault.”
“But I-I tipped the blade with bloodbane!”
“It doesn’t matter. Kiss me.”
She stared at him, her own complexion nearly as ashen with dread as his was, with the wicked work of the poison in his veins. He leaned closer and brushed her lips again with his own, but she refused to kiss him goodbye.
Instead, she reached for his shirt and lifted it with practiced hands, though they were shaking.
“Quickly—I can heal you.”
“Wrynne, I don’t think—”
“Let me try! Now that I’m better, maybe…” Disoriented as she was, she cupped her hand over the hole she had punctured in his smooth, muscled side, and drew on her power.
Nothing happened.
“No!” she cried. “I can’t. My gift— It didn’t come back.”
She tried again, squeezing her eyes shut, grimacing with the effort, to no avail. It was useless.
This was so much worse than her failure with the bard.
“Stay here.” She started to get to her feet. “I’ll get Brother Piero. We can send for one of the healers—”
“Wrynne, I don’t think there’s…time.” He clasped her wrist. “Don’t leave me. I don’t want to die alone.”
She looked at him in shock. His face was ashen; his breathing sounded strange. “No…”
“I’ve been close enough to death enough times to know when I’m actually dying,” he whispered wearily, and for the first time, she saw real fear in his eyes.
“No, no, no, Thaydor.” She jumped to her feet, ran to the door, and started screaming for help, but he needed her. She went racing back in a state
of shock and dropped to her knees beside him. Shaking, she cradled him in her arms on the floor and covered his face with tears and with kisses. “No, no, no, you can’t leave me. Please—I love you. I need you.”
“I think I was always meant to die in your arms, as I should have done that first night,” he panted. “But you saved me with your kiss. And I got to learn what love means. The poems…don’t do it justice.” He shivered, the cold of death settling into him.
Aghast to find her otherwise-invincible warrior slipping away—by her own hand—she lowered her head and tearfully kissed him hard on the mouth, willing every ounce of love she had into him.
She couldn’t even remember now what all she had put into the poison. She wouldn’t have known how to begin making an antidote. But at his mention of the Kiss of Life spell, something tugged at the back of her mind.
She suddenly pulled back. “Thaydor!”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, already beginning to fade.
“The Kiss of Life spell! It transferred my ability to you—”
“No, I was never the healer you were.”
“I mean the power to heal yourself. Oh, why didn’t I think of it before? That was the sacrifice I had to make, the gift I transferred to you! Remember? Darling, stay with me now. You must try! Quickly!”
“What do I do?” he mumbled.
“It’s just the same as if you were healing someone else.” Heart pounding, she gripped his shoulders, pulling him upright, heavy as he was. “Hold your hand above the wound. Close your eyes. Make contact with the Light.”
He looked doubtful but he tried it. As a low-level healer, he knew the simple procedure. With his hand cupped above the place where she had pierced him in her madness, he closed his eyes and bowed his head a bit.
She leaned her forehead against his and sought the Light from which she had been so desolately cut off under the fire thistle’s curse. It was there for her now, even though she could not heal.
Please don’t take him from me. I beg You. We still have a destiny left to fulfill. The oracle also said we’d have a son.
Fresh tears rose behind her eyelids. But as she joined her silent, desperate prayers with his, love rose around them, the purest form of Light itself, enveloping the two of them in a sphere of warmth and tenderness.
She could feel Thaydor’s goodness flowing through him, pure and strong, like a wave of bright power pouring out of the unseen realms to a dark and hurting world.
The brilliance shone between the palm of his hand and his bleeding side—a blinding flash—then it vanished.
“Did it work?” she whispered.
It took a heartbeat for her dazzled eyes to adjust, and she looked down at his side.
The dried blood was still there, but the wound had closed and disappeared. There was not a scratch left on him, and when she looked up from his side to his face, his color was already improving.
“How do you feel? What of the poison?” she asked quickly, pressing her fingers to his brow.
He swallowed hard, looking disoriented. “Better,” he said tentatively. “I think…I’m all right. Wrynne—it worked.”
She threw her arms around him with a sob.
He pulled her closer. She hugged him harder. He held her for a long moment, but she couldn’t stop crying, clinging to him. Nearly losing him was even worse than nearly losing herself.
“Shh, I’m all right, love,” he assured her with a kiss on her cheek. At last, he took her face between his hands and stared into her eyes, drinking in the sight of her, his face full of stormy tenderness. “Do we really have each other back?”
She nodded for all she worth. “But how can you ever forgive me?” she wrenched out.
“Darling, you saved me. With the sacrifice you made for a dying man all those weeks ago, asking nothing in return, I’m all right. It’s over now. Dry your tears.”
“But I can’t. I nearly k-killed you.”
“Shh.” He kissed her on the forehead.
“Oh, Thaydor, I’m so sorry. You deserve so much better than me.”
“Don’t say such a thing. You are my love, and you always will be.”
“The awful things I said… I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I know. Shh, don’t cry, sweeting. Everything will be well. None of this was your fault.”
“Even so!” she cried, furious at herself. She pulled back and stared at him in tears. “It’s too horrible. I can’t believe I stabbed you a-and poisoned you. You could have me hanged!”
“Never,” he whispered, wiping away a tear.
“Y-you should shun me! Or b-banish me or throw me in the dungeon!”
He tilted his head with a fond gaze. “Then who would be my queen?”
“Don’t smile at me,” she said wretchedly. “I don’t deserve it.”
“But I must, when I’m looking at my happiness.”
“Oh, Thaydor.” She hung her head as she gripped his hand. “You can’t possibly still want me after that. You have every right to hate me. I really wouldn’t blame you.”
“Ah, you know me, demoiselle.” He wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek, then lifted her chin on his fingertips. When she met his gaze, his cobalt eyes were full of love, his voice slightly choked with emotion. “I am nothing if not steadfast.”
A shudder of devotion racked her at his sweet, familiar words. She’d heard them before.
At the cave the night he had first insisted she become his wife. He had lived up to every heartfelt promise he had made to her that night, and by now it was clear that though their love might’ve been born in the Kiss of Life spell, this magic they shared was never going to wear off.
If it could survive this, it could survive anything.
“I love you so much. You are…everything that’s wonderful, Thaydor,” she whispered. “Please, never, ever leave me.”
“Leave you? Are you jesting, woman?” He firmly wiped a tear off her cheek, then gave it an affectionate pinch. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, now that I know you have this penchant for rushing off to perform noble deeds that only land you in trouble.”
Her tears stopped abruptly as he arched a teasing brow at her.
“Well, you do the same thing,” she pointed out.
“And that’s why we’re perfect for each other.” His dazzling smile widened. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “So, are you ready to be my queen? Because if you don’t want this, Wrynne, I’ll step down. Believe me, I don’t mind. I don’t need a crown. I could be happy anywhere as long as I have you.”
For a moment, she couldn’t even answer, amazed at the sheer size of his golden heart. His generosity. His ability to forgive and forget. She had nearly murdered the man, and yet he was doing all he could to comfort her.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Of course…if that is what you want. If you’ll still have me.”
“I can’t do it without you,” he said earnestly, which she very much doubted, but he seemed convinced that this was true.
She lowered her head. “Then I’m all yours. Do with me as you will…my king.”
“Hmm.” A wicked sparkle glinted in his eye.
He suddenly jumped to his feet and swept her up in his arms with a roguish laugh. Breathless, Wrynne clasped her fingers behind his neck and kept her stare locked on his handsome face as he crossed the room, kicked the door open ahead of them, and marched out of her chamber, carrying her out into the golden sunshine and long shadows of the early evening.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home,” he said. “I seem to recall promising you a palace before all this was over, and, you know, I always keep my promises.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispered.
He paused and kissed her soundly before setting her upon Avalanche’s back. Then, joining her in the saddle, he wrapped his arms around her waist, grasped the reins, and urged the stallion into motion.
Riding at an easy canter through the rosy light of sunset, neither
of them spoke for many miles. Just being together was a balm for both their battered souls.
Wrynne laid her head on his shoulder, still feeling unworthy, but lulled by the horse’s rocking gait. In truth, she was dazzled. What wouldn’t this man do for her? With Thaydor’s arms around her, she had never felt more loved and protected. Indeed, cherished…
Prized.
Epilogue
Elysium
Pealing carillons proclaimed the occasion of the new king and queen’s coronation.
The Golden Master conducted the ceremony in the great Ilian cathedral of Pleiburg. Wrynne and Thaydor were dressed in sumptuous finery, from the white satin brocade of her gown and his belted tunic to their long, red ceremonial robes of ermine-trimmed velvet.
Thaydor knelt before the altar with Hallowsmite at his side and one hand on the holy book as he swore the vows of kingship—to uphold the Charter, be subject himself to the laws of the land, and to defend the realm from all enemies, both within and without.
The aged prophet anointed Thaydor’s head with oil while the attendants sang the chants to procure divine protection upon him and swung censers of frankincense.
The Golden Master asked him a series of ritual questions, ending with the oath from Thaydor. “On my eternal soul, all this I solemnly vow. So may it be.”
“So may it be,” the congregation gave the solemn refrain.
Wrynne whispered it, too, her heart pounding as she then watched the old man set the thick, jewel-encrusted gold crown on her beautiful husband’s head.
“King Thaydor of Veraidel,” the old man proclaimed.
Cheers erupted from inside the cathedral, so loud they could have shaken the building to its massive stone foundations. The bells rang louder.
Thaydor rose and sent her a discreet wink as he moved aside.
She was next.
The ceremony was repeated, though the vows were slightly different. She was trembling with terror, or at least awe, the whole time, knowing how fallible she was. But she swore to herself she would never let evil darken her thoughts as it had during her enthrallment by the fire thistle. And she would certainly never pass judgment on anyone else again, especially not the Fonja girls, because now she knew personally how the wicked suffered.