by Amy Raby
• • •
Someone knocked on the door.
“It’s open,” she called, looking up from The Seventh Life of the Potter’s Daughter.
Ista came in. “Are you well enough to ride?”
“Depends on the distance.”
“Your emperor and his army are marching for home,” said Ista. “They’re out of the gulch now, and they’ll pass within a few hours’ ride of the enclave tomorrow morning. An escort will be arranged for you, if you think you can ride that far.”
Vitala looked up. “I can ride that far, yes.” This was it, then—back to Lucien and her new role as the Empress of Kjall. Good-bye to the Obsidian Circle. Her stomach fluttered. Was it excitement she was feeling, or fear? “Thank you, Ista. This couldn’t have happened without you.”
Ista smiled cynically. “I know.”
“What will you do now?” asked Vitala. “With Riorca and Kjall at peace, there is little need for assassins. Would you like a position in the palace? Most of the Legaciatti are dead. Lucien and I will need to establish a new intelligence network. You could head it up. “
“Palace life isn’t for me. And what do you mean, there’s no need for assassins?”
“Riorca is free, and I intend to make sure it stays that way.”
Ista snorted. “You’ve too much faith in that husband of yours. Kjallans are Kjallans. They’re always going to want a free ride on the backs of Riorcan labor, and they’ll take it if we roll over and let them. Besides, what about the Riorcan slaves in Kjall? You think your precious emperor is going to free them, when he has promised them nothing? You go fight the Kjallans your way, in the palace, and I’ll fight them here at home.”
Vitala sighed, conceding that Ista was at least partially correct. Lucien wasn’t the only man in Kjall with power—and even he might need a stern reminder from time to time that the Riorcans needed to be treated fairly. “Very well,” she said. “But don’t forget we’re on the same side. And if you change your mind, let me know.” She held out her arms, hoping to draw Ista into a hug.
Ista accepted the embrace and hugged her back stiffly. “If you change your mind and decide to be an assassin again, let me know. But I can see why you’d rather not. After all, while you’re not bad at it, you’ll always be second best.”
Vitala rolled her eyes. “I’d better go. I think Riorca’s too small for the both of us.”
• • •
As her mare crested the top of the hill, Vitala spotted the battalion. A long, thin serpent of soldiers, mules, and supply wagons humped its way over the hills and valleys. The battle standards, glorious flying eagles against the blue and orange, glittered in the sunshine. Her heart leapt at the sight.
She searched for the head of the column, but it was hidden behind the next hill.
She clucked to her horse and galloped onward, leaving her escort behind. Heads turned at the tail of the column and eyes widened. The men whispered to their fellows ahead of them, and word of her arrival spread through the troop column like a snake’s undulation.
The wave disappeared over the rise. After a few moments, three horn blasts in quick succession called a halt. Hot and dusty soldiers turned to face her as she flew past them at a gallop, racing for the head of the column. Some soldiers bowed to her, others saluted with a thumb to the chest. She nodded to a few that she knew by name, but she wouldn’t stop, not until she saw Lucien.
Another horn blasted, then Quincius’s shout carried over the hills. “White Eagle salutes the Empress of Kjall!”
A thousand Kjallan boots struck the ground. “HURRAH!” shouted the soldiers, their voices full-throated and powerful. Vitala’s mare shied, almost unseating her. She reined the animal to a halt and turned to face the battalion with a tight throat.
Their swords clashed against one another in unison. “HURRAH!”
Then came the shattering blast of muskets. “HURRAH!”
She hardly knew how to respond. What was one supposed to do when saluted by the battalion? She stayed where she was, trembling and wiping tears from her eyes.
A trio of riders appeared over the rise ahead. In the middle was Lucien, astride a magnificent black warhorse. The loros, recently restored by the Obsidian Circle, glittered on his chest. On his left rode Celeste, and on his right Quincius. Between the horses trotted a fluffy, recently bathed Flavia.
Lucien reined up in front of her, and she leapt off her horse to meet him. He dismounted, landing on his artificial leg, and in a few paces they were in each other’s arms with the gold-and-white dog bounding happily around them.
“You are the world’s most disobedient wife. Do you know that?” Lucien crushed her in an embrace and tucked her tearful face into his chest. Softer, he said, “Gods, woman. You saved us all.”
She wrapped her arms around him, suddenly feeling that even skin-to-skin contact wouldn’t get her close enough to this man. “I couldn’t have done it without Ista and Celeste.”
“So I heard.” He pulled away enough to look her in the eye. “I couldn’t be prouder of you and of Celeste. But don’t ever run off again.” He kissed her, rough and possessive.
Dizzy at the taste of him, she wished they didn’t have the entire battalion as an audience. If she could, she’d drag him off to a tent right now. She grinned up at him with a gleam in her eye. “Are you going to punish me later?” she whispered.
He grinned back at her. “Absolutely.”
“There was something I meant to say on the riverbank,” she said. “At the time, I . . . forgot to say it. I meant to say I loved you too.”
“I knew that already,” said Lucien.
Dimly, she became aware of the soldiers’ applause and catcalling, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. These were her people, she realized. Never before had she felt so accepted, so valued. Not in her parents’ house, not in Riorca, not in the Obsidian Circle.
It had finally happened. She’d come home.
35
His flesh moved against hers deliciously. Vitala shivered with delight and burrowed into the sheets, dragging the emperor with her. He kissed his way down her neck, toward her breasts, and she stiffened in anticipation—she was so sensitive there. Her back would arch, and he would have no mercy as he drove her to greater heights of pleasure.
“Lucien,” she whispered.
“Mm?” he grunted.
He found her nipple. She hissed, muscles contracting. “I think it’s time to try again.”
“Try what?” He tongued her some more, grinning at her response.
“You in me.”
He rolled off her, his playfulness gone, and propped himself on his side. He stroked her cheek, looking her in the eye. “Are you sure you’re ready? You only just got back. And we’d have to wait for the fertility wards to wear off before you could get pregnant, anyway.”
“But I’m a wardbreaker.” She relaxed her mind and located the tinge of purple swirling through Lucien’s body. She followed it to the contact point and, with a tweak of her mind, released it, sending the magic back into the Rift. She found her own ward and did the same. “There. You’re ready now, and so am I.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I did. You just can’t see it.” He looked impressed, but Vitala shivered in fear. Releasing the wards was the easy part.
He pulled her close, stroking her back in a way that was more soothing than erotic. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I have an idea,” he said.
“What’s your idea?”
“Well—the episode you told me about, with the young soldier. What position were you in when he made love to you? Was it you on the bottom and him on top, face-to-face?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s the position we were in when you had your event.”
“Yes.”
“So I thought maybe if we try another position, we might avoid the problem.”
Vitala blinked. She’d never thought of that before. “Wha
t position did you have in mind?”
“Do you have a favorite?”
She winced with embarrassment. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried any other.”
He stifled a laugh. “You Riorcans are so conservative. Well, a from-behind position might be our best bet, at least in the beginning. That way you won’t see my face, so there won’t be a visible trigger. I’ll show you what I mean. Don’t panic; I’m not going to do anything.” He rolled her onto her side and positioned himself behind her, grasping her around the shoulders. “You see?”
It felt strange to have Lucien behind her for something so intimate. “I don’t know. I want to see you.” She turned in his arms and stroked the stubble on his chin.
“It’s better than you think. A lot of women love this position—you get deep penetration. And my hands are free, so I can do this.” He fondled her breasts.
“I want to see you,” she insisted. “At least this first time. Is that possible?”
“Well, we could try putting you on top.” He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him, positioning her arms and legs. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
She swallowed, tamping down her fear. It was very different from what she’d done with the young soldier. “Let’s try this.”
He lifted her a little and placed his erection directly beneath her. She needed only lower herself onto him. She did so partially, supporting herself with her hands, and he slipped halfway inside her. She jumped, a little startled. “Gods.”
“Gods is right,” he gasped.
She lowered herself the rest of the way, until she was essentially sitting on him. She swallowed, waiting for the madness to take her, but nothing happened. “Lucien, it’s working,” she said, jubilant. Then she realized it felt good, him being in her.
“Yes.” His voice was tight. “Now when you’re ready, just move. In your own time—no rush.” He reached for her face, framed it in his hands, and drew her downward for a kiss.
She leaned over him, brushing her nipples against his chest. He tasted clean and masculine. His hands roamed along her back and shoulders, and she relaxed, simply enjoying the sensations: Lucien loving her, kissing her, filling her.
She discovered she was moving. She’d made no conscious decision to move, and yet it was happening, anyway, her body responding to the sensations in a way that women’s bodies had responded since the gods had whispered the first breath of life into them. She experimented, trying one form of movement and then another, until she found one that made her dizzy with pleasure.
Lucien’s breath quickened and she watched him, loving the way his face contracted. He was moving now too, his rhythm matching and accentuating hers. He reached between them and touched her, finding the little nub that always sent her pleasure skyward, and she moved, delirious, until their bodies convulsed, one after the other. They rolled over and lay in each other’s arms, side by side, still joined, their sweat mingled together.
I may have conceived Kjall’s heir, she realized. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if not? Well, she’d be doing this again. Many, many times. And maybe that other position was worth trying too.
She lay on the bed boneless, devoid of energy, but inwardly she was exultant. Lucien had been right. Her problem was fixable. Well, maybe not fixable, but it could be worked around.
“You are a brilliant, brilliant man,” she murmured.
“Mmph,” he said sleepily. “At the moment, I haven’t a single coherent thought in my head.”
She kissed him. “I don’t think I fully appreciated the benefits of marrying such a clever fellow.”
“And to think, if the Obsidian Circle hadn’t sent you to kill me, we never would have met. At least, not for very long.” He closed his eyes. “Wake me in half an hour and I’ll show you some more positions.”
She nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Just remember, you’re not out of danger yet. If you break your promises to Riorca, I’ll still kill you.”
His eyes cracked open. “Keep talking dirty to me, and I may not need that half hour.” He propped himself on an elbow and stroked her cheek. “So, what will you do to me if I keep my promises?”
“Make you a very happy man.”
He wrapped his arms around her and grinned. “Now, that’s what I want to hear.”
Read on for a look at the next book in
Amy Raby’s Hearts and Thrones series
SPY’S HONOR
Available from Signet Eclipse in October 2013.
The guards dragged open the double doors, and Rhianne swept into her cousin’s sitting room. “Is the council over? I need your fifteen tetrals.”
Lucien whirled on his wooden leg, jumpy as a winter partridge. He wore his imperial garments, the silk syrtos and the thin, jeweled loros that marked him as the son and heir of the Kjallan Emperor. His dress suggested he’d only just returned from the council or was about to head out again, since he never wore the loros in his private chambers except to receive important visitors. Rhianne could not blame him. As the emperor’s niece, she possessed a similar garment and found its weight onerous. Lucien, whose left leg had been amputated below the knee and who walked with the aid of a crutch, probably liked it even less.
He glanced at the door. “This is a bad time.”
She could see that it was. Lucien had neither retreated to his Caturanga board for a war game nor settled on one of the many chairs and couches in his finely appointed sitting room to read one of Cinna’s treatises on battle tactics. He seemed to be standing in the middle of the room, waiting to receive someone, and the someone he’d been waiting for had not been her. She glanced back at the door, but aside from the guards, she and Lucien were alone. “I only need the tetrals. Hand them over and I’ll go. We can talk later.”
Lucien frowned. “This business with the money—it has to stop.”
Rhianne straightened her shoulders. He’d never balked over this before. “But we agreed to it. Fifteen tetrals from each of us. And besides—”
“There are more important things going on right now.” Lucien’s eyes went anxiously to the door. “And I can’t afford to upset him any more than I already have.”
“Who? His Royal Unreasonableness?”
Lucien grimaced. “We should stop calling him that.”
Rhianne smiled sadly. Lucien was trying so hard to grow up, and he seemed to forget sometimes that she, three years senior to his tender age of seventeen, already had. And she wasn’t leaving without her tetrals. “How am I supposed to come up with the full amount if you don’t kick in your share? When you’ve got an obligation to somebody, you don’t walk out on that obligation because something else came up—”
“It’s not just me,” snapped Lucien. “Your name came up at the council meeting.”
“Mine?” She couldn’t imagine why. It was a war council, and why should anyone, in the context of talking about the war with Mosar, bring up the emperor’s niece? She was royal, but from a side branch of the family with a somewhat questionable pedigree. She wasn’t important the way Lucien was.
“Well,” thundered a voice from the doorway, “if it isn’t our yapping dog from the War Council.”
Rhianne, recognizing the deep tones of her uncle, the emperor, sank into a welcome curtsy. She glanced at Lucien long enough to see him steel his face and bow to his father.
“Emperor,” said Lucien coolly.
Now she understood why Lucien was off-color. He and Florian were about to have a fight, and in these frequent and unavoidable conflicts, Lucien, the subordinate figure, always came off worse. She ought to have left when Lucien had told her to. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said. “I’ll leave you to your privacy.”
“No, no,” said Florian, his eyes on Lucien. Though the emperor and his heir were cut from the same cloth, the resemblance one noted on first glance was superficial. They shared the same black hair, black eyes, and aquiline profile, but Florian was broader and taller by several inches
. Florian reminded Rhianne of an eagle with his sharp eyes, craggy nose, and severe face. His elder sons had looked like stamped woodcut copies of him, but Lucien and his sister, the two youngest, with their slighter builds and finer features, resembled their late mother. Lucien was handsomer and smarter than his father, but Florian had never forgiven him for losing his leg to a trio of Riorcan assassins or for becoming his only choice of heir when the assassins had also murdered Lucien’s elder brothers. “Stay,” continued Florian. “I should like to hear your opinion. I should like to know what you think of a son and heir who openly criticizes his father’s strategic decisions in a Council of War.”
Rhianne winced. “Well, without knowing the particulars—”
“Father,” Lucien broke in, “it is a private council, and its purpose is the discussion of strategy. If the council members cannot speak their minds—”
Emperor Florian backhanded him hard across the face. Lucien cried out, and his crutch clattered to the ground. Bodyguards, both Florian’s and Lucien’s, stiffened, ready for action, but nobody touched the pair. “The Legati are there to speak their minds,” hissed Florian. “You are there as a courtesy. Your purpose on the council is to agree enthusiastically with everything I say. Is that clear?”
Lucien nodded. Limping on his wooden leg, he recovered his crutch and straightened his syrtos. His hand moved instinctively to his face, a protective gesture, but then dropped back to his side. Florian tolerated nothing he could interpret as a sign of weakness.
“Rhianne understands. Don’t you, my dear?” said Florian. “We have enemies, and to protect ourselves, we must present a united front. Family solidarity. Isn’t that right?”
“Absolutely,” said Rhianne. “But when Lucien led White Eagle battalion in Riorca, he was regarded as a brilliant military tactician. If the War Council isn’t the right place for his ideas to be heard, perhaps they should be heard somewhere?”