Heat lingered within her, only now starting to ebb. She’d felt as if she’d been set on fire, sweet flames licking every muscle and pore, burning her in the most delicious way possible. The ache deep within her was satisfied for now, but she could already feel her desire growing anew.
My first sip of passion. Though it may have quenched me, it also revealed the true measure of my thirst.
She smiled, looking forward to drinking with Mevon, again and again. Something told her neither of them would ever again become so parched.
So long as the ruvak continue giving us reprieve.
Her smile wavered.
There had been a kind of desperation to their lovemaking, a feeling she’d felt emanating from Mevon even as it overtook her, subduing all thoughts of control. It was as if they were trying to—not make up for lost time, but to fit as much love into their lives before . . .
Before the ruvak take them from us.
Jasside buried her head further into Mevon, nestling between his chin and chest, and felt across the bridge of her nose the slow trickle of moisture.
Touching him had the added effect of rendering her powerless, and with him alone she didn’t mind. In a way she’d come to crave it, for it acted to balance her, to remind her that no power in the world was absolute, and make her forget—if just for the duration of their contact—about the crushing weight of responsibility she’d taken upon her shoulders.
But it also left her exposed.
With her passion now sated, her mind fell to pondering the situation that humanity found itself in, coming again and again to a single word.
Futility.
A tear dropped to Mevon’s chest, and she quickly wiped it away. She knew it was no use lamenting cruel facts, but if there was a way to shut off her mind once it latched on to something, she had yet to find out how. Humanity was doomed if they couldn’t find a way to end the conflict soon, but barring the discovery of a hidden weakness, the only ways to stop the ruvak were to either kill them all, or to negotiate for peace. Both options seemed impossible.
Each engagement saw her allies outnumbered, and in every direction she’d seen the enemy fleets waiting just beyond reach of the voltensus, so many skyships they warped the very horizon. And though she knew the ruvak capable of learning human speech, they’d shown no desire to communicate.
Their only interest seemed to be in . . . extermination.
Rolling onto her back, Jasside pulled the sheets up to her neck, at last feeling the chill that crept in from the night. Though she couldn’t banish her thoughts, her fatigue finally started winning out, pulling her down into welcome, blissful darkness.
No sooner had her eyes closed than the colony-wide alarms began sounding, a message in pitches and tones that had become as familiar to her as her own name.
All available hands: to battle.
Thin, pale fingers shook in the morning’s chill, holding out a small wooden bowl. Arivana ladled porridge into it. The child moved off, perhaps giving her a smile or a nod of thanks, but if so, Arivana did not see it, nor did she care to. Far too few showed anything like gratitude. If she looked away, they never had the chance to disappoint her.
She’d come here to the part of the camp within Sceptre’s borders to get to know the people she’d once thought of as less than human, but had since half adopted by her marriage to one of their princes. To present herself and show them that the ties she hoped to bind between their nations was more than just a game of titles and thrones and treaties. That their lives mattered and that all past animosity was put to rest.
It hadn’t seemed to do much good. Like the feel of frost and wind, the smell of human grime and refuse, the whistle of skyships overhead and the muted clamor of battle, too many unpleasant things had become routine. To acknowledge kindness or generosity was a luxury few had enough coin in their souls to afford.
She tried not to judge them for it but did so anyway, time and time again, berating them inside her mind for not showing the level of humanity she expected of them. That it was a standard she herself often failed to achieve was not lost on her. Hypocrisy stung like a snakebite and seemed just as poisonous. And fighting it drained what little hope she’d thought to preserve within her.
It was not the cold, after all, that made her feel so numb.
Eventually the line of people waiting to be served their morning meal dwindled until none were left. Arivana spun from the table, rubbing her sore arms as she watched for riders from the north. The strike force had flown by half a toll ago to reinforce the harried defense lines. She’d heard the latest reports on enemy tactics, and knew the ruvak would have begun their retreat long before the allied skyships could bear down on them. They’d become too wary, never engaging so much that they couldn’t extricate themselves in a hurry. Still, every time they came, they never left without taking a bite out of the human defenders.
We’re bleeding slowly. All of us. One giant beast slashed by a million talons a day. It’s only a matter of time before one cuts us too deep. When that finally happens, oh how our blood will gush . . .
A shadow fell upon her from the side. Richlen, her faithful guardian, who had barely left her side in months.
He cleared his throat as he followed her gaze. “Worried, Your Majesty?”
She waited for only one person to return from the battle, and she knew he could take care of himself. “No.”
He sighed.
“Was there something else, Richlen?”
He glanced northward. “I suppose I should ask if my oath to protect you now includes him.”
Arivana swung her gaze to see Daye approaching atop a bedraggled horse. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and she felt herself smiling, her heart beating just a little bit faster as if to remind her that hope wasn’t dead after all. Theirs might have been the furthest thing from a fairy-tale marriage, but she could not have hoped for a better husband and king.
His vows had been put to the test even before they’d finished fishing bodies out of the avalanche, yet he’d passed with a nearly perfect score. Even during those first few nights, where she’d cried herself to sleep or thrashed in the throes of nightmares, he hadn’t asked for anything, giving her the space she needed to grieve, or holding her softly without expectation. And when they’d finally consummated their marriage, he’d been so tender, so patient, neither pushing nor pulling, but simply taking her hand and walking alongside her to a place she’d never been.
You were right, Claris. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.
The thought made her blush, but on the heels of it came another, which drove away all notions of embarrassment.
These adult pleasures, though welcome, mark the final resting place of my youth. At last the child I once was . . . is dead.
“Yes, Rich,” she said at last. “He must definitely be protected.”
Chapter 18
While Draevenus sat on the damp ground with legs folded before him, limp hands resting on his thighs, and eyes staring sightlessly into the fire, Tassariel began packing.
Her companion didn’t notice.
She’d listened as he’d ranted on for days, trying to make sense of what they’d seen, reasoning through every possibility, as if chaos followed traditional forms of logic. Yet nothing he’d come up with had held his attention for long. In the end, he’d discarded everything resembling a conclusion.
He had even taken to questioning the others, the old and the young, casters or mundane souls, singling them out for interrogation in the gentlest sort of way. But few would listen, fewer still would respond, and none possessed the answers he sought. Truth remained to him as elusive as a dove in the clouds.
And when they’d tried to speak with their allies at the mierothi colony, to see if better minds would prevail where theirs had fallen short, they’d found themselves beset on all sides by swirling maelstroms of alien power.
Chaos had invaded commune itself.
They were on their own.
She didn’t think she would live that long.
For her part, Tassariel had said almost nothing. She’d spent the last few days in close proximity to Draevenus, enjoying the comfort of his presence, and how perfectly at ease they were with each other. Two people who simply enjoyed each other’s company, yet lacked all notions of expectation. She couldn’t have wished for a better way to spend her last moments upon this world.
But as day had turned to night, then back and back again, something had begun gnawing on her mind. A sense of duty, and—ironically enough—guilt. For the whole time she’d sat there, content and uncaring, the world had been suffering. And there was something she’d been holding back.
She knew the answer to her companion’s most desperate question.
After watching her father turn away the ruvak skyships, it had come to her instantly and instinctively. Yet even knowing that, she didn’t see how such knowledge would help them defeat their enemy, and with no way to communicate with their allies, it was pointless to keep struggling on.
That was the lie she’d told herself, anyway.
A lie she could listen to no longer.
She finished packing what few things they still possessed, then strode over to Draevenus. Sighing, she reached down and squeezed his shoulder.
After a moment, his eyes unglazed. Rubbing them, he asked, “What is it?”
“Time to go,” she said.
Draevenus stood, yawning, vertebrae popping audibly as he stretched his back. “Is it time for breakfast already?”
She shook her head. “We’ll have to eat on the move. We’ve a long way to travel today, and we can’t afford to waste daylight.”
He furrowed his brow, then looked about, eyes widening as he took in the empty camp and the two stuffed packs behind her. “You’re serious.”
“I am. We need to reach our allies before it’s too late.”
“Reach them? What’s the point if we don’t have anything useful to report?”
Tassariel grimaced, looking away. “We . . . do.”
She was expecting anger from him, but when his hands reached up and enfolded her arms, eyes searching her face imploringly, she nearly cried from the tenderness he showed her.
“Tassariel? What’s wrong?”
She met his gaze. His irises sparkled like chocolate diamonds, set in a face that was intense yet, somehow, soft at the same time. “I figured it out, you see. How it is my father keeps the ruvak at bay. I didn’t want to say anything because I wasn’t sure if it would do any good. I just wanted to enjoy my last moments—” she swallowed “—with you.”
His head jolted back, as if struck by her honesty, confused impassivity setting in as he turned inward to examine his thoughts. Yet he could not hide the upwards twitch of the corner of his lips.
“We’ve a refuge here,” he said finally. “A safe place to wait out the end of the world. A companion with whom to spend it. It’s a . . . nice thought. I’ll admit it had crossed my mind a time or two.” He shook his head regretfully. “What made you change your mind?”
“That question is not as simple as it seems. The answer might be messy.”
“Take your time.”
She contemplated her response for several beats, realizing it was far more complex than she’d first imagined, even if it were the easiest thing in the world to say. “My father’s guilt,” she said slowly. “It is, I think, an answer to many different questions.”
He tilted his head curiously. “I guess I’ll have to trust you on that.”
“Do you? Trust me, that is.”
Draevenus smiled. “With my life.”
She felt something stir deep within her at that, a feeling that almost made her forget about their desperation. After a moment, she even remembered to return a grin. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll answer you in more detail on the way, but we must hurry. We’ll have to sneak past my father’s watchers. I’d rather not have to—”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Tassariel flinched. She and her companion both turned towards the voice, which had called out from the shadows around their camp. A figure stepped into view, then four more, and then dozens, a ring of dour faces flickering in firelight.
They were surrounded.
Defiance came naturally to her, as she locked eyes with her father, a spark of rage that felt both fitting and comfortable. No one she knew would blame her for it. No one sane, anyway.
Suppressing it was the hardest thing she could ever remember doing.
“Before you interrupted me, Father,” she began, forcing softness into every syllable, “I was going to say, I’d rather not have to fight our way out of here. I don’t think you want that either.”
“No,” her father said. “Which is why you’ll unpack and forget this notion of leaving. The world will find a way to survive the ruvak. Or, it won’t. Either way, nothing you do will change that.”
“Perhaps not. But I have to try anyway.”
“You’ll die out there,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t let you take that risk.”
Tassariel breathed heavily before responding. “As much as I appreciate your concern, I am not yours to protect—you gave up that right a long time ago. We are leaving.”
Her father’s eyes flicked to her companion. “Not with that monster, you’re not.”
“Draevenus is not a monster.”
Her father raised both eyebrows. “You must not know him that well, then. Has he told you how many valynkar he’s killed? How many he murdered in their sleep, or with a dagger from behind?”
“Seventeen,” Draevenus said. He hung his head. “No. Eighteen. The last was . . . recently.”
Her father held up a hand, as if that proved his point.
Tassariel shook her head. “I know very well what Draevenus is, and what he was. Though he hasn’t said it out loud, his actions have proven that he is remorseful for his past misdeeds, actions that almost single-handedly forged the bonds that now exist between our peoples.”
And, she added to herself, between him and me.
Her father’s lip quivered. “Do you think the dead care?”
“Of course not. The dead are dead. It’s the the living we should concern ourselves with, and I think they’d be grateful.”
“Grateful? Pah! He should have that pretty new skin of his peeled off one strip at a time. The only reason I haven’t done so is because he came here with you. But if either of you try to leave, you’ll be breaking the rules of my domain, and I’ll have to revoke my hospitality.”
She swallowed, stuffing down a remark about his supposed skills as a host. “I understand that you want to protect your own. So do we. Our friends are out there. Our families. Fighting and possibly dying. They need the information we now have. If you’ve been in commune recently, you know we can’t just send them a quick word. We must get to them right away.”
“What could you have possibly learned that would make even the slightest bit of difference?”
Tassariel took a moment to glance around at the others, then stepped close to her father, leaning in so only he could hear her.
“That you, Father, may be the most important man in the world right now.” Then, even softer, she said, “And that I forgive you. For everything.”
She turned away from him then, unable to meet his eyes, unwilling to see what effect her words were having on her father. They weren’t really for him anyway.
She strode back to their packs, threw one over her shoulder and lifted the other up to Draevenus. Taking her companion’s hand, she led
him away from the fire and her father and the ring of onlookers, marching through the trees until each was lost from sight behind them, and then unfurled her wings.
No one one tried to stop them.
Mevon strolled into the command center, lifting a hand to greet an old friend.
Idrus did not wave back. “You’re late,” the ex-ranger said.
Shrugging, Mevon strode over. “My apologies. I was . . . occupied.”
“I bet.” Idrus shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“What? That I’d be happily married?”
“That you’d love something more than killing. Someone. Especially her.” Idrus grinned wryly. “Do you remember the day we first met her?”
Mevon grunted. “All too clearly.”
“She made you piss yourself, if I recall correctly.”
“Worse. Though I can’t say I didn’t deserve it. I had, after all, just killed her half brother.”
“Aye. But she forgave you. Takes a special kind of person to do that.”
“She’s a special kind of woman.”
“That she is. And if we had seven more of her, we could put one in each sector, and our defense would get a whole lot simpler. There would be no need for assignments such as the one I have for you today.”
So much for pleasantries. “Give me the details.”
“In a mark,” Idrus said. “We’re still waiting on your partner to arrive.”
Mevon lifted an eyebrow. “And you called me late?”
Idrus shrugged. “Late is punctual for him.” He paused, cocked his head, and sniffed deeply. “He’s here.”
A moment later, two figures staggered through the entrance, the cloying stench of wine and sweat instantly filling the small space. Mevon cast a sympathetic glance at his father, then a disapproving one at Orbrahn, who was only upright due to Yandumar’s supporting arm.
His father nodded his greeting towards Mevon, then glanced at Idrus sheepishly. “You said you needed him. You didn’t say he had to be sober.”
The Light That Binds Page 29