by David Estes
Again? To Tarin’s knowledge, Fay had never even been to the famed war city. “Why not?”
“It’s a long story. Perhaps I’ll tell it to you sometime.” Again, she started to turn away.
He took two big steps forward and grabbed her shoulder. Her face registered surprise as he pulled her into a giant hug. At first she felt as stiff as a board, but little by little, she softened, hugging him back. He wouldn’t press her about Blackstone. When she was ready to tell him, she would. “I’m going to miss you, Fay,” Tarin said into her hair.
She laughed. “I’m going to miss you too, you big lug.”
Thirty-Two
The Western Kingdom, the Forbidden Plains
Rhea Loren
Wrath, is this your plan for me? Is this what you wanted? Is this my punishment, my atonement for my sins?
It was the same prayer Rhea had willed into her head each time they stopped, days fading into nights drifting into days, their passage south long and tedious.
If Wrath was listening, she never received an answer.
Initially, they’d stuck to the Western Road, riding hard, the miles falling away under their horses’ hooves. Sometimes the supply train would fall a day or more behind and they would be forced to stop and wait. Rhea hated those days the most. The isolation. The feeling that she was a leper, avoided by all. Stares ceaselessly skittered upon her before dancing away if she caught them.
Her cousins, even Gaia, stayed well away.
The only solace she took was that Leo, despite his pleading, had been ordered to remain in Knight’s End. She hoped one day she would see him again, if only to tell him that she wasn’t angry with him. That she understood why he did what he did.
I am poison.
It was that thought that hurt the most. Because of the child inside me. Am I poisoning it, too?
She shook away the thought.
Three days ago, they’d departed from the road as it veered on a more easterly course. Now they rode hard across the Forbidden Plains, a desolate land of scrubgrass and stunted thorny plants that the horses avoided else they fall lame from the poisonous barbs. These plains had long protected the west from invasion over ground, as they were empty of water and devoid of sustenance. The only creatures that lived here were small and bony, rodents that lived in underground burrows. Rarely did they pop their heads up as Rhea’s army thundered past.
No. Not my army. Not anymore. The reminder made her clench her teeth together so hard it made her jaw ache.
Her life was spiraling out of control. The desire to do something drastic, to find a way to break free of the ropes that chafed her wrists and ankles, to steal a knife, to stab her eldest cousin, Sai, to lay him low like she had his brother, Jove…
How dare they betray me? How dare they try to steal my throne, to take it for themselves or give it to Roan, who grew up in the south, who—
Rhea gasped and she realized her fingers were clenched tight against her palms, her nails digging in. Warm blood flowed freely, watering the brittle grass.
“Rhea?”
Her head jerked up, startled by the sudden voice after so much silence.
Gaia, her youngest cousin, stood before her. Rhea had been so lost in her dark thoughts that she hadn’t seen her approach. The guards were still close at hand, gripping the hilts of their swords, ready to drag them shrieking from their scabbards at a moment’s notice. One of the Furies pretended not to watch, but Rhea could feel her icy gaze.
“Gaia,” Rhea croaked, her voice rusty from days of disuse.
“I…” Gaia trailed away, looking unsure of what to say. Her green eyes seemed softer than before, finding Rhea before skittering away to her feet. She wore a white purity dress cinched at the waist for riding. Though she was traveling with the company for the time being, she wouldn’t be going to war.
“I’m sorry,” Rhea said. “For everything.”
Gaia looked up, her expression fierce once more. “You truly killed him? You murdered Jove and blamed it on the Kings’ Bane?”
Lying would’ve been so easy—she’d done it for months. “Yes. After he ordered the Furies to…punish me…I felt broken. Then I felt angry. So angry.”
Gaia closed her eyes, and Rhea fully expected her to turn and walk away, or lash out. Instead, when she opened them, there were tears in her eyes. “I am sorry about what Jove did to you, what he allowed the furia to do.”
Surprised, Rhea’s hands unconsciously went to her face, her fingers tracing the lines of her scars. “It was cruel,” Rhea said. “But I had broken Western Law. I deserved it. I deserve this.”
Gaia shook her head. “No one deserves to be abused, tortured. Jove was wrong. But what you did was just as bad—worse.” She stopped suddenly, as if something occurred to her. “What of the child you bear? Who is the father? This Grease Jolly criminal?”
“His true name is Grey Arris. And yes, he is the father.” Speaking the truth felt…strange. Almost liberating. Her hands settled on her round belly. Despite her isolation, she’d been treated well, given soft pillows to sleep on, a large tent to shelter inside. Plenty of food and water. Despite all I’ve done, my cousins are more caring than I would’ve been if the situation was reversed.
The thought made her feel as shallow as a puddle drying in the sun.
“Oh, Rhea. How did we get to this place?” She hated the sympathy in her cousin’s tone. The pity. She didn’t deserve it.
She was about to tell her as much, when another form materialized through the dusky gloom. “Gaia. Leave her.” It was Sai, his expression dark, his armor darker. The gray in his hair flashed silver under the brightening moonslight. He was flanked by the other two Furies, their own plate as red as blood.
Gaia offered Rhea one more sorrowful glance and then turned away.
Rhea was just starting to drift off to sleep, when she heard voices outside her tent.
She lifted her head slightly, listening.
The camp was usually quiet by this time; Sai was a strict commander, not permitting the foolishness that oft-accompanied military camps.
A loud thud jolted her; it was followed by a groan, there and gone so quickly she might’ve imagined it.
In the dark, she saw the tent flap swing open, a pair of white eyes peering in at her. “Rhea? Are you awake?”
What is happening? “Gaia?”
Her cousin crawled through the opening, something gleaming in her hand.
Rhea’s breath caught. A knife.
She released her breath. So it comes to this. A life for a life. She cared not for her own life, not anymore. But the child… “Please, spare the life inside—”
Gaia cut the ropes around her ankles, silencing her plea. As Rhea’s mouth fell open, her cousin sliced the cords on her wrists, whispering, “We must hurry. The change of guard will occur soon.”
Rhea grabbed her wrist. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been wronged. By Jove. By me. By my siblings. Ennis was the only one who remained loyal to you, but even he stood by and did nothing while they carved your face.”
“But I…what I did to Jove. The lies. Banishing Ennis…”
“None of us are without blame.” Rhea tried to contradict her, but Gaia held her hand. “None of us, myself included. We are all Lorens. We should start acting like it. Now, come, the night has wings.”
Out of the tent they went, into the cool night air. Hand in hand, they ran, Rhea’s head swiveling around at the shadows. Nearby, a guard lay crumpled on the ground, his sword still in its scabbard. “Is he dead?” Rhea hissed.
“No,” Gaia whispered back. “He’ll have a nasty bump when he wakes up, but that is all.”
“But the furia. They will ride us down.”
“Distracted for the moment, but time is running out.”
“How did you—”
Just then, a large form materialized from the gloom. A guard, wearing full plate. It’s over, Rhea thought. She would plead for Gaia to be forgiven, co
nvince Sai that it had all been Rhea’s idea…
The man saluted Gaia. Said, “This way. Hurry.” He turned and trotted off in the opposite direction.
“My man,” Gaia said, reading the confusion on Rhea’s face. “Come.” She pulled her after him, and Rhea had no choice but to follow.
She didn’t know where they were going, but something about it felt like a second chance.
Thirty-Three
The Northern Kingdom, approaching Blackstone
Sir Christoff Metz
Sir Christoff Metz was perturbed. Greatly perturbed.
It wasn’t the bone weariness he felt, nor the fear of the unknown. He was no stranger to long marches across the harsh terrain of the frozen north. And this was springtime, the temperatures still cool but the land free of snow and ice. It was almost…pleasant. As for the unknown, he’d faced that before, and he always prepared the same way. Train. Polish his armor. Oil his boots. Sharpen his sword. Focus on what he could control. That was the best he could do to ward off the anxiety that came along with new situations.
No, it was none of that that perturbed him.
It was her.
I’m a fool, he thought now, glancing in Private Sheary’s direction. Why did I invite her along?
Every second in her presence seemed a distraction.
The way her glossy black hair fell in waves—it’s only hair, you dolt! Dead skin cells forming into tendrils of fur meant to keep one warm.
The loose, confident manner of her gait, her arms swinging at her sides. She’s only walking. You’ve seen plenty of women walk.
How her plate hugged her slender body, curving slightly at the hips and chest. It’s armor, nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times.
Yes, this woman perturbed him greatly.
Seeming to sense his gaze on her, she turned, her lips curling into a smile, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. Snow balls and ice castles, Christoff thought, she’s Tarin’s cousin and a soldier under your command to boot! Get a grip!
He flinched away, uncomfortable under her gaze. He felt his cheeks warm to pink.
In his peripheral vision, he saw her path meandering toward his own.
And then she was there, by his side, the very aura of her seeming to fill him with the warmth of the sun. Which is impossible, he reminded himself. It’s just a series of physical responses to stimuli. Nothing more.
Her fingers brushed against his and he almost yelped. “Private Sheary,” he said, casually drifting his hand away. “Did you need something?”
She laughed in that raspy, contagious way of hers. “Yes, Captain Metz. I wanted to request an audience in your tent this evening.”
His heart skipped a beat. Again, that wasn’t possible—hearts didn’t skip beats—and yet he’d felt it in his chest, like a hiccup. “For what purpose?”
“Strategy.” That single word seemed to hold so many hidden meanings. In the best of times, Christoff struggled when people were not literal with him.
“For what?”
She leaned into him, bumping him slightly. He almost stumbled, his eyes darting around to see if anyone had noticed. “The voyage ahead. What we might find across the sea. Various tactics we might use.”
Maybe she means what she says. Maybe this is a good idea.
This is a terrible idea. But—
“Of course. After supper, we shall…strategize.” He was surprised to find the word containing multiple meanings in his own mind. What is this woman doing to you?
“Good,” she said. And then, with a quickness that seemed to suck the breath from his very lungs, she was gone, striding away to speak to Tarin and Annise.
He watched her go, his heart in his throat.
A voice from behind made him jump. “Need any tips?” Archer said, grinning.
“Tips for what?”
“Women. Despite my youthful appearance, I have a fair bit of experience.”
Flames licked Christoff’s cheeks. No, it is simply your body reacting to this embarrassing conversation. A shot of adrenaline, a chemical reaction, the veins in your cheeks dilating, increasing blood flow…
“I am fine. I treat my female soldiers the same as the males.”
“I think that might be part of the problem…”
“I’m fine.”
Archer raised his eyebrows. “Very well, Sir. Do let me know if you change your mind.”
Christoff was pacing his tent.
He’d considered leaving his armor on, but it sorely needed a good polishing, and now it lay gleaming in neat rows. He wore tie up trousers and a loose shirt.
His belly was nearly empty, having had no appetite during dinner. The conversation had been awkward, especially considering they were such a small group. Only thirteen of them, including him: Queen Annise and her brother, Lady Zelda, Tarin, Sir Jonius, three soldiers handpicked by Sir Dietrich, and four chosen by Christoff himself, including Private Sheary.
Christoff frowned. No, the conversation had not been particularly awkward. Mostly they spoke of the weather and whether they could avoid the spring squalls so common in the Crimean Sea this time of year. He had only perceived it as awkward due to the looks Mona—Private Sheary—was giving him, and the knowing looks from Archer that followed.
I am a man. A soldier. A captain. This is nothing. I will kindly tell the good private that I am feeling tired and that it’s best if—
She pushed through the flap of his tent without so much as a cleared throat, stepping inside with such familiarity it might have been her tent. She’d removed her armor, wearing only a white vest over a long-sleeved gray tunic, and a pair of black trousers that were slightly ruffled from the day’s march.
He’d never seen her look more beautiful.
Christoff coughed, choking on his spittle. “Private Sheary. Thank you for your punctuality. As it turns out…” He trailed off as she stepped closer, a whiff of flowers catching his nose. They were braided into her dark locks. Hope flowers, Christoff thought, their soft pink petals flitting in and out of sight.
In a rush, his feelings from before, during the battle to retake Castle Hill, poured through him like a flood. As usual, his thoughts refused to be stopped by his lips. “I want to…touch you again, like before.” He clamped his mouth shut, inwardly cursing his own bluntness.
The edge of Mona’s lips curled upward. “Really?” she purred. “That’s one order I’ll have no trouble following.”
Christoff gaped as she stepped closer still, until he could almost feel her breath. He hadn’t meant it as an order, but she was already sliding toward him, her lips moist, her eyes piercing him like blades of green moonlight.
His heart raced as one of her soft hands cupped his chin. He only flinched slightly, but it didn’t deter her, didn’t stop her from pulling his face toward her, from brushing her lips against his gently, just a touch at first. Like practice. Like training.
In that moment, in the tender way in which she handled his eccentricities, the parts of him that no one else seemed to understand, he found something he’d been searching for his entire life.
Acceptance.
Her fingers combed his hair gently, but didn’t feel like a comb at all—how is that possible?—each caress like a jolt of lightning down his spine. Her lips played upon his again. Touch and release. Touch and release. Lingering longer each time.
Practice. Training. Like learning sword work, perfecting his craft.
He tried it, leading once. Twice. His hand painted her hip. The first time was uncomfortable and he retracted his fingers like they’d been burned. The second time was better. The third touch he held, his hand resting comfortably on her curve.
Their lips moved together, and it almost felt like a dance. They did that for a long time, long enough for Christoff’s fear to fade away, for it to feel like he understood what it was.
Her tongue slipped in his mouth.
Human saliva. A pink, floppy, slimy tongue. Clacking teeth. That’s how he’d always th
ought about the human mouth, a disgusting thing.
Not Mona’s.
She tasted like cherry wine—from the small glass they’d each drunk at supper—and there was nothing disgusting about the way her tongue found his, how it probed and played, all while his lips were hers, as close to someone as he’d ever been.
And then they got closer.
His hand still clasping her hip—no, both hands; when had his other hand moved into place?—she pushed up against him.
Something stirred inside him. That need for this woman, this one-of-a-kind woman. That want. That desire.
Her lips parted from his just long enough for her to whisper, “Take me to bed,” her breath soft on his skin. In a strange four-legged dance-stumble, they moved across the small space and eased down onto the lumpy bedroll, with him on his back and her on top, leaning over for another kiss.
When she rose again, she began to unbutton her vest.
Christoff couldn’t believe his own ears when he said. “Let me.”
She smiled, her eyes shining, and offered a single nod.
They took turns removing scraps of clothing until it was just them, as nature intended. And it felt right. All of it felt right.
Christoff was changed from the experience. No, he would not want anyone else to touch him, not even a firm handshake, but he wanted Mona to touch him. Always. Forever. The time they had shared bested his very best swordfights.
And the way she looked at him now, resting her head on his chest…perhaps there was magic in the world.
“I love you,” she murmured.
Christoff knew what she meant, for he felt something too, but it wasn’t love. That was a term invented by humans to explain something that was out of their control. “There’s no such thing,” he said with certainty. “What you are feeling is just chemicals mixing in your brain, like a potionmaster stirring a tonic.”