by Elise Kova
“Who?”
“The crown prince and the Windwalker. Who else?”
Serien glanced in the direction of the talking soldiers.
“But I hear he’s going through twice his usual spirits.”
“Enough for him and her?”
“Well I can’t blame her. I’d have to be out of my mind drunk to even think of sleeping with the Fire Lord!” They all laughed.
She wondered how Vhalla Yarl had been so deaf to their words. But those words stayed with her. They stayed until she practiced with Daniel that night, letting them go through her gradually less clumsy swings and footwork.
“You’re getting better, you know,” he encouraged as they rested side-by-side later.
“Am I?” She rolled to face him.
“You are.” He smiled.
Serien did something she hadn’t yet done. She smiled in reply.
The expression melted from Daniel’s lips as he stared at her, as if realizing the same thing. “Vh-Serien,” he corrected himself, remembering how she had pleaded for him not to the last time he’d used her name. It took away Serien’s strength and reminded her of all the things that were broken in the world. Being Serien was becoming easier.
“Yes?”
“May I touch you?”
The question caught her off-guard, and she blinked at him, trying to see his face clearly through the darkness. She shifted closer in her attempt, but it was pointless. The moon was beginning to wane and with it their nights had become heavier.
“What sort of a question is that?” she whispered.
“I swore I wouldn’t,” he reminded her. “But I wish to.”
“How?” Her heart was beginning to beat furiously in her chest.
“I don’t know, just yet.” Daniel shifted closer. “But, I want to find out. May I?”
Serien swallowed, her throat gummy. “You may.”
The words escaped—she hadn’t even known they had been hiding within her. The rough pads of his fingers, calloused from years of the sword, brushed up against her forehead, feeling where her face was in the darkness. They stilled, slowly tracing down her temple, over the curve of her cheek, along her jaw, to her chin. They brushed over her lips, and up her nose, as though he was an artist trying to recreate her likeness.
“Daniel ... I ...” her voice cracked. Tears threatened to spring forth from the ache in her chest that could split her in two. He was too kind.
“What? You what?” Sand ground beneath him as he shifted closer still. Serien could feel his warmth now. He was warmer than she expected him to be and it was such a soothing comfort. “What are we?”
Serien opened her mouth, trying to formulate an answer—but she didn’t have one. She didn’t know what she should call him, call them. He had gone beyond his call of duty as a friend and without her noticing he had begun to fill the holes her prior life had left in her. He comforted her in the night and he soothed away her fears for the day.
She pressed her eyes closed and pulled away. “I’m tired.”
Daniel didn’t ask the question again.
It took just over two weeks for Craig to finally confront Daniel about his new aloofness and odd habits. At which point Craig was finally in on the plot. It shocked Serien that it took his being sat down before her and practically told to notice the woman whose body she was inhabiting.
The moment he realized who she was, he pledged to protect her as well, and she had two teachers after that. Serien hadn’t realized her monopolization of Daniel’s time had been taxing on him, but the moment he didn’t have to be with her every second following the march, he was off doing other things, tending to Baldair’s demands or helping run the camp. She was cross with him for not telling her she’d been a burden and made sure he knew it.
Daniel only laughed. He would have done it for her no matter what, he assured her.
Serien had been born of blood and death, but even she was beginning to see the sun rise in all its colors. Perhaps it was the tireless support of Daniel—and Craig. Or perhaps it was because every day carried her closer to the final outpost of the West, where the host would split, and she would be with Aldrik again.
Some soldiers had called the final outpost a “fort” but that term was a very loose one. It had a makeshift wall constructed of giant timbers and packed clay, but within it was little more than the glorified tent cities she had come to know. There was no pomp or circumstance here, no cheers or pennons or ceremony. This was the edge of war, and there wasn’t time for such frivolous notions.
“We will rest here for the night,” the Emperor shouted over the troops, his voice carrying across the desert. “When we march tomorrow we will move as three hosts.”
The Emperor’s sons flanked him to his left and right. Each of the royals had the black shadow that had never left their sides. Other than the dust on their capes, the Windwalkers appeared no different than they had when they left the Crossroads.
“Each legion will be divided among my sons and me. We three will each take a separate route to Soricium to increase our odds of all making it.”
Serien recognized the name of the capital of the North, the last major blockade to the Empire’s victory. She crossed her arms over her chest. Using the memories of the other woman, a smirk appeared on her face knowing that Vhalla Yarl once advised the Emperor about splitting royalty.
“Your commanding majors will announce your assignments tomorrow. Prepare for war.”
SERIEN LAY AWAKE, listening to Daniel’s breathing. She watched as his chest rose and fell in the moonlight, punctuated by the soft sighs of dreamlands. She wondered what he saw behind his closed eyes. His dreams could in no way be as tortured as hers.
Being next to him was becoming painfully normal. She missed Fritz and Larel with an ache that could never be filled. But Daniel was kind and attentive. He was thoughtful and preempted her needs to a surprising degree.
Serien rolled onto her side. If things had been different, what would they be? She bit her lip.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Even as a hushed whisper, Prince Baldair’s voice carried.
“How many times must I tell you?” A voice, deep and dark as midnight, replied—its whispering tones echoing straight through Serien and into a woman who had been suppressed for weeks. “I will accept it no other way.”
“You and her ...” The voices grew near and Serien heard two sets of footsteps in the sand pass by Daniel’s tent.
“Again, how many times must I tell you?” She could see him pinching the bridge of his nose in her mind’s eye.
“I know,” Baldair muttered in disbelief. “You’ve thought this through, right?”
The question went ignored. “How is she?” The voices began to grow faint.
“Well cared for. I have my own looking out for her. They’re reporting into me and I’ve kept my promise, brother: she’s had everything she’s needed to be well.”
Serien glanced at Daniel.
“You mean the Easterner.”
“How did you know?” Baldair seemed as surprised as Serien.
“I must speak with ...” Their hushed whispers were almost out of earshot.
He was there. He was right there, a voice in the back of her mind echoed. If she moved now she would see him. Serien knew she couldn’t let herself. She’d been so careful to avoid the Black Legion at all costs. She knew what the sight of him would do to the other woman within her.
When his voice faded away entirely, her feet were under her, moving without thought. Serien made haste from the tent, praying she didn’t wake Daniel. She saw them in the distance, the two princes side by side, walking toward Baldair’s tent. A tiny mote of flame lit their path, and Serien staggered toward it, hypnotized.
His lean frame was swathed in black as if cut from the night itself. His elegant fingers curled around each other at the small of his back. His presence radiated the essence of poise to all who gazed upon him.
“Aldrik,” she breathe
d.
It should have been impossible for him to hear, but he turned anyway. He stilled as though he saw a specter. Baldair turned as well, curious to see what had so enthralled his sibling. The second he saw her, he knew.
She took another step forward, and Aldrik said nothing, his arms suddenly limp at his sides. Serien staggered across the gap between them. Her eyes were lost in Aldrik’s and the crown prince seemed to see nothing else either. They were both oblivious to Baldair’s nervous glances for any onlookers.
“Vhalla,” he whispered, holding out a hand to her.
Prince Baldair gripped his brother’s wrist. “In my tent.” He gave her a pointed glance, and she quickly followed behind them.
The moment they were both inside, Aldrik’s hands were in her hair. His long fingers wove themselves into the dark strands, as if trying to entangle himself with her very essence. She felt Serien melt away and, without the other woman’s armor, Vhalla was as naked as a babe, raw to the world and the emotions fighting within her.
She tilted her head upward, grabbing Aldrik’s face and pulling it toward her. The prince obliged, dipping his tall frame to crash his lips against hers. His chainmail dug into her chest and her fingers scratched against it, searching for a grip to cling to. She was desperate for him, for the life only he could instill in her.
Baldair cleared his throat for their attention. Aldrik pulled away only a fraction, his eyes searching her face. His hands ran over her cheeks, down her neck and shoulders. He stared at her, at the broken and scarred creature that she was, in amazement.
“I’ll go stay with Raylynn tonight, I think,” Baldair announced.
They both turned to see the tent flap falling back into place. Vhalla felt a blush sneak across her cheeks for her forwardness in front of Aldrik’s brother. But the hand that hooked her chin brought his lips to hers once more erased all thought of it.
Every slight turn of his head, shift of his wet lips over hers, was an ecstasy she had not known until the first time she had kissed him. It was the sweetest taste she had ever tried, one that only improved in flavor with each passing moment. It was the perfect thing to lose herself in and forget the pain. Aldrik pulled his body away, eliciting a whimper from her.
The arrogant royal grinned against her mouth. His hands fumbled with his chainmail, pulling it over his head between kisses. It fell heavily to the sand, and he pressed his body against hers once more.
It was a dance that only they knew the steps to, each movement purposeful. His hands, her hands, his mouth, her mouth, their bodies, all moved with perfect precision. The backs of her ankles hit Baldair’s bed and Vhalla was forced upon it. Carrying such a thing on the march now seemed much more pragmatic than she had first given the younger prince credit for.
Her hands fell on Aldrik’s hips, her thumbs finding their way under the hem of his shirt. Soft, Mother, his skin was soft. His palm ran lazily up and down her side, catching on her shirt now and then, pushing it up and exposing her own raw skin to the hot pads of his fingers.
Aldrik broke the kiss, breathless and flushed. Vhalla’s chest heaved as she stared up at him, their faces close. He said nothing, but his eyes told her the promise of a world of barely containable desire. Vhalla hooked his neck and pulled his lips back to hers. He couldn’t look at her like that without kissing her. Aldrik obliged her hungrily, and he discarded any previous timid notions of invading her mouth.
Her fingers walked around his neck, down his collarbone, and into the wide opening of his shirt. She indulged upon the exposed skin of his chest. He tilted his head, devouring her collarbone.
“I want to feel you,” she moaned softy. It was a noise that she should be embarrassed at herself for making. But her head was too clouded for that. Her head wasn’t in control.
Aldrik straightened, his knees on either side of her legs at the edge of the bed. He looked down at her uncertainly, insecurely, processing her words. Grabbing the back of his shirt he leaned forward, tugging it over his head and discarding it with the chainmail on the ground.
Vhalla stared at him. Her heart could drum or she could breathe, doing both was too much for her body right now. He was lithe, sinewy muscle cutting into and curving under the ghostly pale of his skin. The tiny flame cast deep shadows into his abdomen. There was an ugly scar on his right hip, another on his shoulder and a few minor ones here and there. He was almost too thin and the luster of his flesh could be borderline unhealthy. His nose was a little crooked and his face was angular and sharp.
“You’re perfect,” she whispered.
Aldrik seemed utterly taken aback. Other women clearly hadn’t thought so.
Vhalla reached for him and he conceded, scooping her up and situating her farther on the bed. His mouth was on her once more, his palms exploring her form.
“I want you,” he uttered huskily.
“Have me.” Vhalla had never been so brazen. But this man was fire. He was life. He was the only thing that had felt good or right in weeks, and she loved him so deeply it made her ache to think of parting with him ever again.
“No,” he said, as if the word was a curse.
“What?” Her eyes fluttered open to see him staring down at her.
He was heavy-lidded as well, he’d been indulging in the same cup of passion as she. “I won’t take you like this.” He caressed her cheek.
“Why?” she groaned.
“Because I care too deeply for you to have you in such a wanton way.” He kissed down her jaw, his actions completely contradicting his words.
“What if I want you to?” Vhalla couldn’t believe she was almost at the point of begging.
He couldn’t either and Aldrik chuckled darkly. “Will you want me less come the dawn?”
“Mother, no.” She pressed her eyes closed—the thought of dawn, of being Serien again, of being distant from him threatened to crush her spirit.
“Will you want me less come the next dawn?” He nipped lightly at her collarbone, pulling back her shirt with his greedy fingers. “Or the one after?”
“No, no, no,” Vhalla uttered, praying he never stopped his ministrations upon her.
“Then it shall be a fruit that will ripen with time and patience.” Aldrik pressed his cheek against hers, his lips moving against her ear as he spoke. “And it shall be all the sweeter when it is finally plucked.”
There were dark promises heaped between his words that were sealed with his actions. With nothing more than kissing and timid explorations he had a flush from her chest to her cheeks and her breathing heavy. Vhalla was driven crazy every time her fingers ran over the taut muscles in his shoulders. She was ready to scream his name when his fire glittered across her skin, crackling against her magic.
Eventually he rolled to his side, scooping her half onto him, his arms around her hips. Aldrik ran his hand along her back as she kissed him leisurely. Vhalla wasn’t sure when or why the heat faded, but when it did she found herself curled against his bare chest, her head tucked up by his neck and chin and his arm around her. The passion had settled into a warm honey, simmering at the pit of her stomach.
“Aldrik ...” Her whisper transformed into a yawn.
“Yes, my Vhalla?” he replied.
She felt his voice reverberate in both his neck and chest, and it made her shiver. “Nothing ... I just wanted to hear you say my name.”
“Vhalla, Vhalla, Vhalla,” he obliged, punctuating each with a kiss on her forehead.
“If morning never came, I think that would be all right ...” Her body was beginning to calm down, and the yawns becoming more frequent.
“I think it would be,” he agreed, pulling her closer.
“We will be together, from tomorrow?” She hadn’t dared ask, fearful of the answer. But if she had to brace herself for the worst, she wanted to know now. She would need the night to prepare herself.
“I wrote the list of soldiers myself.” Aldrik nodded. “We will not be apart ever again from tomorrow.”
&nbs
p; “Isn’t that a nice dream?” She yawned again.
“My Vhalla, my lady, my love.” His words smoothed away the rough edges of her heart. “You make me do things far more dangerous than dream. You make me hope, you make me want.” He sighed a sound that was part bliss and part pain. “Mother, I have yet to discover if you will be my salvation or my demise.”
She twisted to look up at him, his dark eyes intense.
“I would never bring you harm.” She pressed her lips against his.
“Salvation, then.” He grinned against her mouth.
Morning threatened to burn through the canvas of the tent, and Vhalla felt as though the world began and ended with the man she was curled up against. His steady breathing and heartbeat were in perfect time with hers and created a melody that had a sweet timbre. Not quite awake, but no longer sleeping, Vhalla drifted through a blissful haze.
A haze that was abruptly interrupted by a broad-shouldered prince entering the tent. Vhalla sat quickly, as if doing so could hide the truth of spending the night in the crown prince’s arms. It was a contest to see whose face turned the reddest—hers or Baldair’s.
“Good Gods, you’re still here?” He cast a hand over his eyes as Aldrik sat as well, the covers pooling around his waist to reveal him only half clothed. “Brother, your debt to me is unfathomably great.”
Vhalla looked back at Aldrik in alarm, only to see that he had a lazy grin spreading from cheek to cheek. He turned to her, looking five years younger with a good night of sleep. Aldrik grabbed her for a brief kiss—startling in its passion, given their audience.
“My brother is right,” Aldrik whispered. “I must go or they’ll wonder where I am.”
She nodded.
“Wait for me until tonight?”
“Tonight?” She blinked at her prince.
“We will be together again with far fewer eyes upon us.” Aldrik grinned.
“In enemy territory!” She punched his shoulder, surprisingly playful given the subject.
“I’ll put the best men on watch.” He gripped her hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.