She held up a strip of the meat. “What is this?”
“There are a few lizards around. Fewer now.”
She swallowed a bite. “It isn’t bad. Better than more berries.”
“I’m looking forward to anything else. Wine particularly.” The yearning in his voice weighted the air between them.
“How long have you been here?”
“Seven months.”
He pointed to her left and she turned to see rows of scratches on the wall. She traced them with a finger, ragged grooves in hard black stone. To be alone in this place for so long would be torture. She turned back, catching a flicker of misery in his face before he hid it behind a faint smile.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I brought it on myself.”
His cutting tone encouraged her to let it go.
As miserable as the prison was for him, it was an edifying experience for her and it let her be with him. His beauty, confidence, and determination were captivating and inspiring. In their short time together, he’d needed her more than once and, unrestricted by social or legal boundaries, she’d proven equal to the challenges. Here, in his prison, she had freedom and purpose.
Outside the cave, the dingy light was nearly gone. Another night would fall away from the comfort of home and she didn’t mind. On the contrary, it was going back that she dreaded. Submitting to the demands and expectations of society, living in constant fear of discovery and now, more than ever, fearing the wrath of her fiancé.
Her appetite waned. “When do we reach the gate?”
“Tomorrow morning.” His response was distant, his gaze focused somewhere she couldn’t see.
“I won’t see you again, will I?”
Warmth suffused her when he focused on her.
“No.”
She lowered her eyes, fussing with her ring so he wouldn’t see the sorrow his answer caused. He knelt before her and took her hand then drew the ring off and set it aside. When he leaned in to kiss her, she let everything else slip away, yielding to their effortless intimacy. His kiss promised a more deliberate approach this time and she was happy to return it.
*
“Good morning.” Yiloch traced her jaw, his touch feather light.
Her entrancing blue eyes blinked open and a smile lit her face. He hungered to run his hands over her soft, bronze skin again and again. To feel her and taste her and let the world go on without them. They could have reached the gate last night, but he postponed for another night with her. Freedom beckoned. She was the prison he had to escape now.
He dared a kiss before getting up to dress. Temptation would be easier to resist with clothing between them. When he reached for his boots, he spotted her ring on the ground and picked it up, slipping it into a pocket. He tossed her the boots.
“Wear those.”
“But…”
He silenced her with a stern look. “I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t far enough now to worry about.”
Her face fell at his words. In morose silence, she donned her dress, torn and dirtied by the previous day’s travel. Then she sat, tucking her hair behind her ears to keep it out of her face when she leaned over to pull on the boots.
She was beautiful, brave, and willing, and she possessed precious skills. If only he could take her with him, but he couldn’t send her through ahead of him and once he was gone, the gate would vanish. She would go home then, he hoped. Guilt nagged at the thought of leaving her behind. She had proven herself competent. He had to believe she could get herself out.
“I’m ready.”
He smiled at her sorrowful determination. She made him smile often despite this place.
Think of wine and a real bed. Better yet, think of your father’s flesh splitting before your blade, of the surprise on his face in that final moment.
His sword. He curled his fingers around the remembered hilt. He would have it back soon.
“Thinking about life after prison?”
He took her hand and led her outside.
The rough ground under his feet made little impression. Freedom was too close for it to matter. He guided her into a canyon. They walked for most of an hour along the bottom where a thin layer of dirt and sparse brown grass made traveling barefoot easier. Seven months, but he remembered the way like it was yesterday. He turned down a small branch in the canyon. Two unremarkable rock columns stood a few feet apart before the cliff that marked the branch terminus. They approached the columns, his stomach twisting in knots.
At first, nothing happened, then the air between the columns shimmered. Glorious triumph burst through him.
“I win this round, Father,” he murmured.
“What?”
“This is it.” He embraced her, lifting her off her feet, and kissed her.
His body responded to the desperate passion with which she returned the kiss. He lowered her down. There was sorrow in her eyes, but she would let him go without complaint the same way she had endured the rest. He kissed her once more, unsettled by his own reluctance.
“I must go. There’s much I have to do.”
“Good luck.”
Her brave smile was a dagger to his heart. He touched her cheek. “Remember your reality. Make it more real than this. That’s how you leave.”
She nodded.
Resolute, he turned and stepped between the pillars.
The sudden pressure on his lungs was welcome. If he understood the prison, he would return to his rooms in the stronghold, the place he was taken from.
His head spun and he stumbled. His knees struck hard on the pale marble floor of his bedchamber. He ended kneeling like a man at worship before the stand on which he kept his sword. The weapon waited there, a seamless blending of Lyran and Kudaness design tempered with ascard. The gentle curve of the blade’s razor edge glinted in the light, sharp and clean.
A slow smile spread across his lips and he laughed. When the laughter faded, he stood and grabbed the sword belt lying beside the weapon. He had to tighten it several notches past old wear marks. He gripped the pale wood hilt, delighting in the balanced weight of the lethal blade. It felt natural in his hand, an extension of his being. In a life full of frustration, the weapon was simple and pure. There was no doubt as to its purpose and no question of how it would serve him. If only people could be so simple.
He held his breath, listening to the song of the blade sliding into the sheath. It was exquisite. It sang of blood and vengeance.
He stroked the hilt, his gaze drifting to the door leading out of his chambers. “Shall we see who’s home?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Why are we still doing this? Prince Yiloch isn’t coming back.”
Renkle’s voice set Yiloch’s blood on fire, the sound of betrayal.
He leaned against the wall outside the council hall, fortified by the ancient structure. The stronghold stood little changed from its original state when the first Lyran Emperor, Yiroth, built it using an army of adept architects to reinforce its walls. It served as Yiroth’s final stronghold before he conquered the region and founded Lyra’s capital, named in his honor. A fitting place for Yiloch to organize his campaign to take the empire from his father and restore Lyra to the glory it had known in Yiroth’s reign.
That legendary emperor’s blood ran in his veins. He belonged here. Renkle’s presence was a scourge upon those ageless halls.
Drawing a breath to harness his rage, Yiloch eased out his sword and listened with calculated patience. His captains’ voices carried the length of the long open room.
“Renkle has a point.” Ferin. Always practical. “It has been seven months.”
“If you wish to leave, you’re welcome to do so. I worked hard to get here. I’m not ready to throw everything away.” That was Adran. A voice as welcome and dear as Renkle’s was despised.
A discreet glance allowed Yiloch to take inventory of the seven individuals standing around the map table on the far end. Dalce and Paulin stood to th
e right across from Ferin and Eris. Renkle and Hax stood with their backs to the door. Adran was across from them, his defiant expression mirrored by his twin sister, Eris. These people were his family. He had missed them, all except Renkle, the viper lurking in their midst.
Renkle sold out to Emperor Rylan for the promise of lands and a title. He sent Yiloch into his father’s prison. The traitor would pay for seven months of misery, all in a moment.
Uncomfortable silence lengthened in the room.
Yiloch drew upon the full strength of his ascard ability for the first time in seven long months and stepped through the doorway. Adran’s eyes popped wide, his jaw dropping. Before he could speak, Yiloch swapped himself with the ascard in the air immediately behind Renkle. With ascard-enhanced strength, he thrust his sword into Renkle’s back. The point punched out through his chest, sending a bright spray of blood across the map table. The others all flinched back from the spray, most of them dropping hands to their own weapons.
Yiloch inhaled, savoring the intense satisfaction of long awaited vengeance. Then he twisted the blade and Renkle choked, gurgling blood.
Putting his lips next to the dying man’s ear, Yiloch whispered, “I spent many miserable days dreaming of this moment. Your dreams are over.”
He yanked the blade free and let Renkle fall then swept his gaze over his remaining officers. They stared back in shocked silence. None drew weapons, but their hands remained poised to do so. He would expect no less.
“Anyone else care to betray me?” When no one spoke, he bent to wipe blood from his sword on the dead man’s shirt and sheathed it. “Good, I’m exhausted.”
He spun and strode from the room. His steward, Galen, nearly ran into him when he stepped into the hall. The man reeled back, his face draining of color and his mouth dropping wide as if he had seen a ghost.
Yiloch continued past. “Send someone to clean the council hall.”
Galen jerked his mouth shut and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
“Yiloch!”
He turned, weariness weighting his movement now that vengeance no longer fueled him. Adran trotted up and threw his arms around him.
He staggered before the force of the embrace. “Please, Adran, I want nothing more than a glass of wine and to sleep in a real bed.” Despite his words, he returned the embrace before pushing free.
Adran’s broad smile split his face between the beard and moustache he’d grown. “I’ve been telling them you would come back for so long.” His light amber eyes looked Yiloch over and new worry lines etched in his brow deepened. “I almost lost hope. What happened? Where’s Kardyn?”
“Later.” The blue-gray slate that floored most of the stronghold felt icy under bare feet.
“Yes, my lord. I’ll bring some wine.” Adran started to turn then hesitated, wrinkling his nose. “Would you care for a hot bath?”
A bath? “Yes. I do try to take one every seven months or so.”
Adran chuckled then his gaze went to the doorway of the council hall. “About Renkle?”
“Tell the others I’ll explain everything this evening.”
Adran nodded.
Yiloch walked away. Renkle was dead, which meant that particular threat was gone. He could afford to rest and recover, if only for a few hours.
Back in his rooms, he eyed soft linens on his neatly made bed. How glorious it would be to undress and climb in, but a clean bed would be sweeter when he himself was clean.
Setting his sword on the stand, he began to undress. His hand brushed a small lump in the pocket of his pants and he smiled. Pulling out Indigo’s ring, he set it on the stand next to the blade. The deep blue center stone shimmered, like her eyes. Three small clear stones nestled to either side of it on an elegant band. An expensive piece, something she would regret forgetting, though he hadn’t noticed her complaining when he removed it. He turned it so the blue stone reflected in the blade, then, shucking the rest of his tattered clothes into a heap on the floor, he stretched out on the chaise at the foot of the bed.
A soft knock on the bathing chamber doors woke him from restless sleep.
“Yes.”
A serving woman opened the doors and knelt between them, bowing her forehead to the floor. “My lord, your bath is prepared.”
“You may go.”
“Yes, my lord.” She backed from the room and ducked through a hidden door into servant passages.
A large round marble basin inset into the floor steamed with hot, scented water. He walked down the steps into it and sank onto the bench that ran around the outer edge. Heat eased tired muscles and the sting of the scrapes from his fight with the hound provided welcome proof that this luxury was real. He closed his eyes and rested his head back, inhaling scented steam.
The outer door opened and Adran’s careful footsteps approached. “You’ve gotten thin.”
He opened his eyes. Adran walked with almost feminine grace, carrying two goblets to the basin edge. He knelt, setting the goblets down, and tested the water with a finger.
“Dining options were limited.”
“May I join you?”
“If you wish.”
The water rippled when Adran entered. Yiloch took a goblet of wine and held it under his nose, inhaling the complex aroma of the ruby liquid. He sipped at it, letting it flow warm through him.
He exhaled. “That’s what I needed.”
Adran watched him while he sipped his wine again, waiting for him to initiate conversation.
Yiloch appreciated patience. He was tired and his mind raced with things he needed to do now that he was free. The single, overriding need to escape the prison had consumed him. Now everything else rained down on him like a barrage of barbed arrows.
“I haven’t used ascard that way in some time.”
“Appearing behind Renkle like that was impressive,” Adran commented. “Terrifying even.”
“Good. I like to be terrifying.”
“You often succeed.”
Yiloch set down his wine. The heady satisfaction of killing Renkle already faded and he found his mind dodging the tasks before him to wander back over the past two days. The memory of vibrant blue eyes calmed him. She would escape. She wasn’t the intended victim. The prison couldn’t hold her against her will. Still, their unexpected intimacy might undermine her ability to return to her own reality. If she clung to thoughts of him…
As I do of her.
“I can’t believe you’re back.”
Jarred from his musing, Yiloch held his breath and sank under the water. Adran was fishing for explanations he wasn’t ready to give. He needed to gather his thoughts. He rose up, gentle fingers of water running through his hair. It felt glorious. This life blazed with fresh vitality after the gloom of the prison. The scented water overpowered the persistent stink of sulfur.
Adran was watching him.
He smiled with weary humor at his longtime friend. The other man had grown a beard and moustache, as pale blond as his hair. It called attention to his mixed blood.
“You should shave.”
“Anything you ask, I will do,” Adran answered.
So much devotion behind that immediate response. He could depend on Adran for anything. “Good. When I’ve finished bathing, I intend to sleep. Wake me in a few hours and we’ll reconvene in the council hall.”
“Done.” Adran dried and dressed.
When he was gone, Yiloch scrubbed at the grime and washed his hair until he felt clean for the first time in seven months. He finished the wine before climbing out to dry off. Back in the main chamber, the pile of ruined clothing was gone and he bid it silent farewell before ascending two steps to the level of the bed. Throwing back the covers, he fell into exquisite softness and sleep.
When Adran woke him, he could almost believe the prison had been a long nightmare, but for the aching of his body and familiar nag of hunger. Before eating, he needed to find out how much Renkle’s betrayal had compromised years of careful planning he’d p
ut into overthrowing his father.
“Have a meal, something bland, prepared for after the meeting. I want real food.”
“Certainly, my love.” Adran gave him a teasing smile, more obvious now that he’d shaved.
Yiloch raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. The man at least had the decency not to say such things in public. “You didn’t sell off my wardrobe, did you?”
“No. Like your sword, your wardrobe has been meticulously preserved.”
“Thank you for keeping things in order.” He infused his tone with the deep gratitude he felt.
“Of course.”
Yiloch took out dark pants, a fitted white shirt, and tall black boots, all clean and comfortable. When he pulled the boots on, a wistful smile curved his lips. Was Indigo still wearing his other boots? Would she keep them? The possibility brought a broader smile to his lips while he ran a brush through his hair.
“You look marvelous. Shall we?” Adran gestured to the door.
“Yes.”
He strapped on his sword belt, ignoring Adran’s frown when he grabbed the weapon and sheathed it. His officers knew nothing of where he had been. They might be jumpy after his sudden reappearance given the dramatic entrance, but they would settle and he wasn’t going without the sword for their comfort.
The others waited in the council hall. Dark stains on the map stretched over the table were a reminder of Renkle’s well-deserved death, refreshing his satisfaction.
Eris probed him with her amber eyes, her dusty blond hair in a tight braid, adding sternness to her sharp features. She looked a lot like Adran. The whisper of masculinity in her features no more unflattering on her then the hint of femininity was on her brother. Commander Dalce, mixed blood apparent in his thick beard and the dark color of his close-cropped hair, sat back from the table, eyeing Yiloch guardedly. Ferin, Hax, and Paulin followed his approach with uncertain eyes, all three pale and elegant, their bloodlines as pure as his own if not as ancient.
“You all look like you’re awaiting execution. Renkle is dead because I know he betrayed me. If any of you have done the same, or plan to, you had best be sure I don’t find out. Otherwise, you have nothing to fear.”
Dissident (Forbidden Things Book 1) Page 6