by Frost Kay
And Destin knew just the solution to this problem. His little Lady Hound.
“Tempest is a commoner,” he told his fireplace. “One of the people,” he mused.
The flame lunged up the chimney, licking at the smooth stone until it was blackened and charred. It struck Destin that Tempest herself had been found covered in soot by his Hounds. They had placed her with ladies of the court to raise her, but she had been untamable, so the men had raised her. Destin had not thought much of it at the time. Tempest had been but an unruly child. An annoyance. He’d been thrilled to have the little heathen gone from his home, along with the complaints of the ladies of court.
How the times had changed.
Who would have guessed she’d make the perfect candidate for his queen? She was young enough to be molded, unlike his previous wife.
“Traitorous wench,” he muttered. The heavens had been kind to him when she’d died.
King Destin had never been fond of his previous wife, though they put on one hell of a show for the kingdom. He had his own life ruling the kingdom, and she had hers raising their children.
He chuckled. The woman was a shrew and not much of a mother. Her ladies had more of a hand in raising their children than his deceased wife ever had. She’d concerned herself more with her appearance and position.
Destin threw back the rest of his fire whisky before pouring himself another. Just thinking about her made him want to down all the spirits. Even now, he swore he could hear her shrill voice screaming at him for his dalliances.
If she’d wanted me to remain faithful, she could have tried to act more… palatable.
Three children the woman had borne Destin. Two sons, now seventeen and fifteen, and one daughter, now eleven. The king doted on his daughter, for she too adored him and had spent the least amount of time under the influence of her mother. His sons, on the other hand…
“Foppish, entitled, useless boys,” he muttered, scowling as he thought of them. They hadn’t even inherited Destin’s bronzed hair, instead exhibiting their mother’s pale blonde coloring. Even the eldest acted more like a child than a man. “And he is just one year younger than my Lady Hound!”
My Lady Hound.
He liked the sound of that almost as much as he liked collecting treasures.
Destin thought about how the woman had looked during her Trial, fierce and fearless against the lion. A lion. She had used that double-ended spear like an extension of her own arm. Her fighting style was elegant and efficient, with not a single ounce of energy wasted as she prowled the arena. And when she had screamed in the creature’s face, daring it to attack, even Destin had to admit he was impressed.
“That is what my sons should be like,” he asserted, once more talking to the fire. “Strong and frightening and handsome.”
She’d no doubt produce fine, strong sons. Or beautiful, fierce daughters. Satisfaction filled him at the idea.
Tempest was no doubt beautiful, both in her silver dress and her fighting gear. Her periwinkle hair—a sign of a connection to the noble Madrid line at some point—was thick and lustrous, and her gray eyes were like a storm at sea in which many a sailor lost their lives. Her lips were full and stained barely red; Destin had sincerely wished to possess her the moment he laid eyes on her earlier today.
She was taller than he usually found attractive, but her legs…
Heat moved through him.
Her training should have made her more masculine, but it did the opposite. It turned what would have been a bountiful figure into one with lithe, sensual curves he wanted to trace his hands along. And hell, her thighs and hips… One word came to mind: sinful. He loved a woman with wide hips.
She would have no problem in childbirth.
It wasn’t only Tempest’s physical attributes that made her an attractive candidate for queen, though they were certainly important. But what was perhaps the most important was that people loved her. The poor people from every village and town on the outskirts of Dotae viewed her as one of their own. A girl raised from the ashes themselves, who’d grabbed an opportunity with both hands and Madrid blood to prove herself—and succeeded. To witness such a member of their ranks become queen would boost their morale and faith in the crown.
The court loved her, too. Tempest was a novelty to them—a lady who was not a lady, who could just as easily outdrink the soldiers at their table as she could be the object of their desire. The women did not see her as a threat, because of the way she acted, so they liked her, too. They rarely turned her into the source of their amusement. Even the servants seemed to enjoy her presence. Destin knew of at least three within the castle who regularly snuck out extra food for their favorite Hound.
The Hounds.
Of course the King’s Hounds loved Tempest. They doted on her. She was their daughter, after all, in almost every way that mattered. If Destin took her as queen then that would put a stop to any and all potential betrayals from the men, for they would just as equally worry over her safety as they would be pleased that one of their own had become a member of royalty.
Yes, Tempest was definitely the best candidate for queen that Destin had come across. She couldn’t have shown up at a better time.
“And she is interesting,” he murmured, swirling the contents of his goblet around and around. He grew tired of the same tedious women and conversations.
Destin squinted at the amber spirits that were stark against the blue crystal; both colors were beautiful individually but viewing the whisky through the glass made it a very ugly shade of brown. Would that be his future with Tempest?
“You’re being maudlin,” he growled.
Destin tossed the goblet into the fire in distaste. The alcohol caused a momentary flare of white-hot fire to spring up, temporarily dazzling him.
But Destin was not blind to the goings-on of his country nor to Tempest’s reluctance to accept his advances. He’d thought it a genius move on his part to approve her request to research the deaths within the kingdom. He knew exactly why the deaths were occurring, and who was to blame for the crimes. Now he only needed her to confirm it.
Either Tempest would succeed and get her seat on Destin’s war council, giving him means to fully crush the Talagans once and for all. Or she would fail and crawl back to his side anyway, hoping that her patient king would give her another assignment as a Hound.
Either way, she’d have to fulfill her side of the deal—she’d have to entertain his advances without running away. Destin was going to make damn sure she was in no position to refuse him this time.
“My Lady, it’s your turn,” he whispered to the empty room.
Tempest could fight all she’d like. He liked the hunt and with careful planning, she’d be bound to him by the end of the year and fat with his babes.
And, with any luck, he wouldn’t have to kill a second wife.
Tempest
Tempest shivered and wrapped her arms around her stomach in an attempt to keep warm. Not only was she chilled from her encounter with the king but it was so cold, and her silk dress did nothing to warm her. She gazed up at the sky, her breath fogging the air, and admired the diamond-like stars scattered across the black velvet of night. It wouldn’t be long until the first snow blanketed the king’s city. Already, the storms raged in the mountains.
Warm light beckoned from the barracks’ windows, and she picked up her pace, entering what she’d called home for most of her life. Relief flooded her as she closed the door and eyed all the empty beds and the roaring fireplace on the far wall. At least no one would question her as she was packing.
A fist seemed to squeeze around her heart. How was she supposed to tell her uncles? Sure, they would be proud of her for passing her Trials but as for the assignment… She’d planned on only reconnaissance, but the king had ordered her to bring the Jester’s heart to him.
Unbidden, the hair at the nape of her neck stood on end. Tempest was confident in her skills but other Hounds had tried and ended up dead. She swallowed.
She wasn’t necessarily afraid of death. Death was a part of life. But there was a special sort of torture reserved mostly for women that terrified her. Her uncles had taught her well, but they’d drilled into her mind that she would always be a target to dangerous men.
And the Jester was the most dangerous of all. When he wasn’t murdering and selling weapons, he was dealing poisons, elixirs, and women.
Now, rebellion.
What was his motivation? Her lip curled as she kicked off her painful slippers and wiggled her abused toes against the stone floor. Money, no doubt. War was lucrative for those selling the weapons.
She pushed away from the door and stalked to her bed. The Jester was just a man. A man who could bleed like any other. A small chuckle escaped her as she yanked open the trunk holding her clothes. Tempest leaned forward and brushed her hand along her mother’s bow nestled among the garments. He wouldn’t even see her coming.
Hopefully.
She packed in a flurry, tossing necessities onto her bed without taking her dress off first. She huffed and tied the dress up by her hip to keep from tripping on the material. As much as Tempest wanted to rip the contraption off her body, she was too tense to remove it and—in reality—she was not entirely sure how to unlace the damn bodice all by herself.
“Stupid dress,” she muttered to herself, carefully folding her clothes in neat squares.
Tempest eyed her weapons, the clothing, and her knapsack. There was no way it would all fit in the faded leather bag. Her gaze wandered to the gorgeous Hound uniform laying on her bed. Unable to help herself, she ran her hand over the butter soft leather and touched the sturdy corset inlaid with an intricate metal mesh, then the deep royal blue cloak. It was stunning but too bold for her task. Chagrined, she repacked most of her Hound uniform, only keeping out the elaborate corset and leather pants.
She needed to keep her clothes as plain and inauspicious as possible. Most women didn’t wear trousers, so she had to take a skirt. Fingering a roughly woven forest-green skirt, she smiled and added it to her pile. It would help to keep her hidden among the evergreens and as much as she was loath to wear a skirt, it would also serve as a blanket as she traveled. Humming her mum’s lullaby, she packed underclothes, a loose linen shirt, and a tunic into her bag alongside medicine and a wound kit.
“Thank you, Aleks,” she whispered, throwing in a spare dagger, a length of rope, and her waterskin.
She laid out another set of clothes and a dull, worn gray cape—one Tempest threw over herself when she did not want to be noticed in Dotae—on the chair by her bed. Her sword, dagger, bow, and quiver of arrows sat on the floor by the chair, ready to be strapped on at a moment’s notice.
“What else do I need?” she murmured for nobody but herself and the flickering lantern. Maybe Aleks was right and lists really meant life and death. Holding up her right hand, she ticked off what else was needed for the journey. “I have to drop by the kitchen for food rations…” She winced. If her uncles discovered she left without saying a word, they’d thrash her.
Tempest glanced outside at the dark, silent night. It was cold, and it would only get colder outside of the bustle of the city. It would not serve her to catch a chill on her very first day as a Hound, not to mention the fact that Tempest might trip and hurt herself in the pitch black of rural Heimserya. It made sense to sleep first and travel with the first light.
Plus, she was exhausted. Her wounds were mostly healed thanks to her uncle but her body ached something fierce. Tempest reached back and tugged on the laces to her dress. After twenty minutes of fighting with it, she was sweating. Tossing her hands in the air, she yelled and then snagged the dagger from the chair and sliced through the delicate fabric. The silk fluttered to the floor, and she unceremoniously kicked it away once she was finally free of it.
She washed her face with water from a basin and freshened her teeth with mint before collapsing onto her bed. She had so much to think about—so much to process—but now that her head was sinking into her pillow, Tempest found she could barely hold coherent thoughts at all.
“Sleep first, think later,” she breathed, the words lost to the air as she drifted into sleep.
“You are not—Tempest, you only just became a Hound!” Aleks exclaimed the moment he spied Tempest in the courtyard of the barracks, dyeing her periwinkle hair black with a thick, woody-smelling mixture of coal and lotion.
She gave him a grim smile. “Morning, Aleks. I guess you must have heard about my assignment.”
“We all have,” Dima said, appearing from behind Aleks so suddenly that Tempest jumped in surprise.
Bloody quiet man.
“How did you wind up taking on such a job?” he demanded softly.
Tempest didn’t want to tell them about King Destin and the predatory way he’d looked at her, or how she’d used her information about the rebellion to hold him at bay. It was a recipe for violence, death, and disaster.
She shrugged. “The king was impressed by my skills in the Trial. This is just an information-gathering assignment. I’ll likely only be away for a few days, so relax, uncles. I’ll be fine. You’ve taught me well.”
Aleks looked anything but relaxed. Tempest bit her lip when she realized Dima wore the same tense expression as Aleks, and she frowned. It wasn’t like Dima to be so outwardly concerned—he trusted Tempest to make her own decisions and had always been the first one to push her to try harder.
Her gaze narrowed in suspicion when Maxim—with a surly-looking Levka in tow—showed up with an equally troubled look upon his face. Tempest scowled at her family. “Do you think I can’t do this? Have I not proven myself—”
“Dotae be good, lass, of course we think you can do this!” Maxim cut in.
He moved forward to give her a hug, and she held her dye-covered hands out to the side and inhaled her uncle’s familiar smoky scent.
“We’re simply worried for you. We’re allowed to be, aren’t we?” Maxim rumbled and released her. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
Dima nodded his agreement, his lips puckered like he tasted something sour. “Hounds don’t typically go off on a solitary assignment two days after their Trial. It was folly of you to have accepted.”
“It wasn’t like I could refuse our king,” Tempest replied, bristling.
She caught Levka’s gaze, expecting him to be glaring at her or generally annoyed that she was already off on an official assignment before he’d even had a chance to complete his Trials. But, to her surprise, he looked almost contemplative. Quiet. Wariness flooded her. It was odd to see him like that, when he was so often just as loud and brash as his father.
Levka’s lip curled, and he averted his eyes, before stalking away toward the training grounds, leaving Tempest with her three worrying uncles. She stared after him in puzzlement.
That was odd.
She rolled her neck and turned her attention back to the men impersonating thunder clouds and gave them all a reassuring smile. “I will be all right. I swear. I won’t do anything rash. I’m just gathering information.”
Liar, liar. She kept her expression placid even though she wanted to puke. Tempest had never lied to her uncles, and she hated that she did so now. It made her feel dirty.
“Gathering information is often more dangerous than combat, Tempest,” said a deep voice full of ice.
She stilled and fought not to fidget. The Madrid. No one knew what his first name was. Tempest squared her shoulders and turned around to face the man that still inspired fear to run up her spine.
Madrid stood there, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at her. “You should not have taken this assignment,” he said. “You should have come to me first.”
“I couldn’t,” she protested softly, keeping her voice down. Hounds were the worst sort of gossips. No need to spread her business everywhere.
It was on the tip of her tongue to come clean about the deal she’d struck with the king, but her tongue stuc
k to the roof of her mouth, and the words remained trapped inside. King Destin hadn’t said to keep their conversation private… but she got the feeling it was better to keep silent.
Tempest stood as tall as she could make herself and matched Madrid’s frigid stare. “Ultimately, I am obliged to the king. And, while I respect you, this isn’t something you can change. I serve my king, first and foremost. I’m a fully-fledged Hound—a weapon for our majesty to use as he sees fit. It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not. I’m going on this assignment.”
Madrid studied her and eventually sighed, shaking his head before rummaging through a pouch attached to his belt. He pulled out a pale blue ring carved from agate; it depicted the snarling face of a hound. “For you. All Hounds have them. Keep it hidden while on your journey, though.”
She snorted and held up her dye-covered palms. “What do you think I’m coloring my hair for? I can’t exactly go undercover with blue hair that screams I’m born of the Madrid line, now can I? Because I’m certainly not doing this for fun. This stuff is disgusting.”
Maxim’s face relaxed. “Just listen to us all and be careful, Tempest. I don’t want to have to face Levka’s joy at hearing you’ve been mauled by a wolf or kidnapped or something.”
“Such wonderful words of encouragement.” She cracked a smile.
“Don’t venture too close to the mountains,” Aleks admonished, still looking dead serious.
A chill ran down Tempest’s spine and she thought about the strange smell in the healer’s tent the day of her Trial. She gave the man an encouraging smile and nodded.
“If all things go well, I won’t have to go anywhere near them.”
“And try to limit your travel through the forest, too, if you know what’s good for you,” Dima added.
If they knew what she was really doing—hunting the Jester—they would become unhinged.
“I’ll be ever on guard,” she said carefully, not wanting to lie. “You’ve trained me well. I’ll be back before you know it.”