Siren's Song

by Mary Weber

  He scoffs and pushes a hand through his wet hair. “So that’s why you’re barging into my private rooms right now? To ask me to be a coward to my own people, Nym?” He frowns. “What would you do if you were me?”

  I snort. “Perhaps I see the benefit to barging in on you like this! Maybe it’s the only way I feel you’ll actually listen to me.”

  Any earlier hint of humor falls away, leaving the set look of arrogance. “Oh, I’m listening to you. I just don’t happen to agree with you on this one. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  I let out a laugh. “You don’t listen to anyone. And you’re not the only one at stake here—or have you forgotten that Draewulf is coming to our borders, not Bron’s? He’s already been to your kingdom and guess what? He left them alive! Which is more than I can say he’s going to do here with my people or with Cashlin, not to mention Rasha right now.” My cheeks burn and I look down to mutter, “And could you put some clothes on, please?”

  He gives a sharp snort. “I thought you wanted me at my most vulnerable. Or is this how you imagine—?”

  “No, I don’t imagine.” I refuse to imagine. Stop imagining, Nym. “Just put some bleeding clothes on.” I toss him a tunic and pants that’ve been laid out across the bed in obvious preparation. Then turn around and tap my foot and keep my thoughts on how very nice the stone tiles in his room look. They have lovely, raw hand-cut patterns that look nothing like the cut of Eogan’s chest with or without a shirt on.

  “And hurry up,” I grumble after a moment. “I’m not done discussing this.”

  I swear he utters what sounds like a curse word under his breath. “Is that what you call it? I thought you were yelling and lecturing.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if you had any half-litched sense of self-preservation.” I listen to him pull on his clothing behind the screen in the corner.

  “Done.”

  When I turn around, he’s standing closer than I expected, his broad shoulders taking up the majority of the space in front of me as he repeatedly pushes a hand through his still-damp hair, sending my skin flushing hot all over again. Blast him. “And if you want to talk about danger,” he murmurs, “how about we talk about you? Perhaps you should tell me about the scouting excursions you’re planning to take while you’re rousing support for the war.”

  What? I frown.

  He gives that hard laugh again. “Because I know you, Nym. I’m not a bleeding idiot.” He strides over to one of two chairs near the window and rests his hand on it while staring out over the black landscape beyond.

  I follow. And stop when I see what he’s looking at. His two lit-up airships crawling with men preparing them.

  “You’ll do what you think is best and I’ll do what I believe in. Whether either of us agrees with the other or not.”

  “But you are playing with your life and I didn’t work this hard—I didn’t take on a litched other power—just to have you throw everything away!”

  “I didn’t ask you to take on that power. In fact, I clearly warned you against it.”

  “Who bleeding cares? I don’t need you going off and getting yourself killed! Not when we’re this close! Not when Draewulf is breathing at our front door.” My breath is coming faster now. More furious. For what he’s throwing away. For what will likely happen to him. For his complete lack of seeing the bigger picture. The sky rumbles my frustration. “You said you wouldn’t abandon me.”

  The slight flinch of his eyes says my comment hit home. But the next second he’s leaning in until only inches separate our lips. “If I were abandoning you, I’d return to my people and stay there. I’m not. I’m simply trying to do the best I can for everyone who matters to me.”

  I swallow. Except he’s still putting himself in real danger. And there’s a good chance he won’t ever come back.

  “Kind of like you had to do with Rasha.”

  Is he—? I barely stop from smacking him. “I didn’t choose to leave her behind.”

  “No, but you didn’t fully fight it either. Why? Because you knew what had to be done.”

  I choke. “And what if we were wrong? What if Draewulf uses her to win this war? What if we’re too late and her mother’s right—that she could do more than any of the people I’m supposed to amass?”

  “I’m not trying to be callous. I’m simply pointing out that choices have to be made. And just because you’re suffering guilt over abandoning Rasha and Tulla doesn’t mean you did abandon them. Nor does it equate to me abandoning you now. Our responsibilities are to our people, and sometimes that means we care for both sides. Just in a different order than preferred.”

  His gaze flickers down to my lips, my neck, my chest, and I swear hunger emerges in his eyes. He swallows and pulls away. “I have preparations to make.”

  I soften my voice and try one last time. “Wait to rescue your people until this is over. When I can help you.”

  He runs a hand along the back of his neck again. Over the scar. “I know you’ve carried the bulk of responsibility for so long it’s like skin, Nymia, but maybe it’s time you shared it. I’m technically in charge of myself and my people. So let me.”

  “You forget I was the one who—”

  “I’ve not forgotten anything, love. I simply have to do for my people what you need to do for yours.” He swallows and turns to stare me directly in the eye. “Look, I’m not ignoring your advice. But I am leaving for a few days and trusting you to stay out of trouble and Draewulf’s clutches until I return. This is my way of keeping you safe. Perhaps trusting each other is the only way we’ll keep each other safe.”

  “And what if you die?”

  “Then I’ll have died attempting to give you and my people freedom.”

  “I’m already free.”

  His expression eases. “Then perhaps it’s simply safer this way.”

  Safer?

  I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He opens his mouth. Shuts it. And allows his gaze to slide down my small frame.

  A heavy inhale. “I’m no longer your trainer, Nym. So like I said, you make your choices. I’ll make mine.” He lifts a hand to stroke my lower lip, then turns and strides for the door to hold it open for me.

  CHAPTER 20

  TANNIN WALKS ME BACK TO MY ROOM. I DON’T talk on the way and he, for once, seems bent on silence too.

  “Anything else I can see to?” he asks when I open the door.

  I eye the steaming bath and cup of tea a maid must’ve just poured and shake my head. “But thank you.”

  He’s hardly gone before I’ve slid off my clothing and settled into the warm tub. After swallowing the tea, I slip my head under water and hold my breath for as long as possible while the heat from the tea and steam from the bath seep into my aching joints and muscles and bone—into the soul place in me that aches with memories of a past being slowly revealed and frustration for the present. Frustration with Eogan—for leaving and for saying it was safer, whatever in hulls that was supposed to mean. Frustration with being back here only to realize we’ve lost more than we’ve gained.

  Almost two weeks ago this Castle was full of celebration at the peace treaty declaring the war’s end. Rasha and I even sat at the window celebrating with them as I grieved Colin and Breck. Now I’m here and Rasha’s gone—and, good grief, I miss her airy, confusing speeches—and Myles has lost his stones and Eogan’s walking into a wraith’s nest and there’s never a break. Never. A. Bleeding. Break.

  My chest pounds the refrain: I am so weary of war.

  I’m weary of Draewulf. Why couldn’t I kill him on that airship? Why couldn’t I take h
im out?

  I scream beneath the water. Scream until my lungs are empty and I come up gasping for air that this has all been for nothing. I swear it.

  The black itch beneath my skin flares and presses and introduces the reminder that I never finished carving the branch under the bird in my left arm. The little mugplant-tattooed bluebird I added to the rest of my skin etchings right after I first came to my owner Adora. Right after I first met Eogan.

  My mouth practically salivates with the thirst to create another cutting in my skin.

  I snap my jaw shut and refuse. I refuse. I refuse.

  “She’s a miracle.” My birth mother’s words float through my vision.

  I shake them away.

  “But what if she doesn’t survive?”

  I pause. So what if I don’t survive?

  What will I do until then?

  “Hold it all lightly, my love.”

  Except I need control over something.

  Over this war and my abilities. Over gathering an army.

  Over rescuing Rasha.

  I grit my teeth and pull my hair from the cooling tub water.

  What I will do until then is the only thing I’ve known to do since the day of my birth apparently. Continue fighting.

  Fight until we bring freedom to everyone. And destroy Draewulf before he can fulfill whatever part of the prophecy he thinks he deserves.

  And if not?

  I will defeat him the only way I know how.

  With that in mind I climb out of the tub and grab a drying cloth to wring out my hair and wrap around my body as I go in search of a pair of blue leathers for tomorrow—or rather, later today.

  They’re in the armoire. I press my face to them and inhale the scent that smells good and normal. Like outdoors and fresh air and riding.

  A knock on the door hits just as I’m crawling into bed.

  “Pardon, miss, but . . .”

  I open it to find Kel standing beside Tannin, looking tired and fierce and all kinds of lost.

  “He was asking to see you.”

  “He can stay.” I stifle a yawn and beckon Kel in. “Thank you, Tannin.” And raise a brow at the child.

  “They let me rest in my father’s room while he’s making arrangements for their flight. But I couldn’t sleep.” He runs a hand down his arm. “The floors and walls are too cold and everything smells strange here.”

  I yank a blanket off the bed and hold it out to him. “You’re welcome here, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. Promise to amuse yourself and not disturb me.”

  He takes the blanket with a snort of insult and carries it over to plop down on one of the high-back fancy chairs nearest the window. I smile and crawl under my covers as he peeks out the drapery, and two seconds later I’m tugging the comforter over my eyes and ears and face in an effort to cocoon myself from the world and all thoughts of today and war and of whatever Eogan’s irritable problem is.

  “Nym?

  “Nym?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why do you have to go ask your people to fight? Don’t they want to?”

  I tug the covers down just enough so my mouth isn’t muffled. “They’ve been fighting a long time and they’re worn out from it. War’s not been an easy thing on us.”

  “But we’ve been fighting just as long and we don’t have to ask no one to do it. It’s an honor. Why does your king give your people a choice?”

  Is he jesting right now? I pull the comforter farther until my whole face is showing and peek at him through slit eyelids. “Each nation rules differently. Your people don’t believe in castes but in uniformity, so while they have little autonomy, everyone is committed to the role of bringing honor to the entirety of Bron. My people believe in castes—and thus have slaves and peasants and upper class. However, they also try to value free will—in theory—and thus not everyone should be forced to fight.”

  Mercifully, the room falls silent again and only Kel’s breathing and the breeze picking up outside tickle my hearing.

  I’ve nearly dozed off when his small voice carries over again. “How do you know your people will fight this time, then?”

  “Kel, I need sleep.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And what if they decide not to?”

  I roll over and shove off the blankets enough to look up at the ceiling a moment. And sigh. “Then we lose.”

  “I’M COMING FOR YOU, PET.”

  The paper words float in my hand, in my dreams, in my mouth. Burning their sour taste into my throat until I want to throw Draewulf’s words up onto his disgusting face as he lurches and leers in front of me.

  That toothy smile gets closer as the blood-bathed valley behind him wavers through my vision. So do his claws. They still have the blood of the Luminescent queen on them. I gag as he reaches out to scrape a paw down my face, and suddenly I can’t move, I can’t slip away, because someone is holding me in place.

  Lady Isobel. I wrench my head back to hit her only to discover it’s Lord Myles holding me. His eyes have gone black and his face blank of anything but power and hate and fury.

  Draewulf’s claw slips down to grab my wrist so tight I cry out. Then he’s carving through my arm, slitting my veins to reach the poison inside. He chuckles, and my entire spine stiffens at this monster who has left my people dead upon the field behind him. Who’s torn the hearts out of Princess Rasha and King Sedric.

  I glance over at Eogan, barely alive.

  My blood ripples—then surges—as if that note or melody belonging to my soul has been released to rush through. Except this song’s different. It’s not a refrain of beauty.

  It’s a harmony of rebellion.

  And it’s burning through my skin.

  I flip my wrist over beneath the beast’s claw and press my hand against his, allowing the light and dark in me—the abilities in my blood—to go free. To thirst. To drain his to such a state that he will be weakened too.

  “Nym, don’t,” Eogan slurs, but it’s too late. The monster roars at the burn I’ve created—at the piece of him I’ve just taken. He slashes at me in fury, and as he does, I drop. Allowing the claw to connect with my throat. So that what was meant to be an impulsive wound to my chest is now my death warrant as it slices through the skin and tendons and a heartpulsing artery.

  And I am bleeding out too fast for him to save.

  His roar deafens the Valley, deafens my head, my hearing. All except for the words that keep repeating: “I’m coming for you, pet.

  “I’m coming for you, pet.

  “I’m coming for you.”

  A pounding on the door startles me awake. I yank the covers back to discover daylight is streaming through the sides of the emerald curtains and splaying itself in thin strips along the green tapestry rug and stone floor.

  The pounding sounds again and something inside me says it matches the quick, heavy beating of my horrified heart. That dream . . .

  “Who is it?” I gasp.

  The door squeaks open, and when I roll over to look, Rolf, the Captain of the Guard, peeks his head in. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  Now? “Why?”

  His gaze falls to the foot of the bed where a light snore and movement are the only reminders that someone else is in here with me. Kel. He’s curled up near my feet in the blanket I gave him. A tiny smile on his boyish face.

  Rolf softens his voice. “The king’s urgent request. We would not di
sturb you if we knew what to do.”

  “Sounds dire.” I fail to keep the annoyance from my unsteady tone.

  “It’s Lord Myles.”

  Lovely. I rub away the sleep from my eyes, and with it the blasted dream, and then slide from the bed while being careful not to wake Kel. I don’t even bother running a hand down my hair after pulling on a thin robe and boots before beckoning the guard to lead the way.

  He discreetly hurries us to a set of chambers where a soldier unit is surrounding the door and speaking to one another in agitated voices, only remembering themselves when Rolf and I stride up. They straighten and salute, but I swear their eyes look confused. More than that, they look afraid.

  The door has barely opened when the atmospheric wave hits and threatens to throw me backward. The entire bedroom has disappeared and in its place is a jousting yard outside the Castle with grass and horse stables and a perfect blue sky. And a host of young men playing at swords.

  “What in litches?”

  No answer.

  It takes a moment to recognize the discomfort bubbling up in me isn’t due to the incredible accuracy and strength of the mirage. It’s the intimacy of it.

  Whatever vision Lord Myles is creating is so far different from usual it’s eerie. It’s more personal. More vulnerable. Like walking into a dream you don’t belong in, but you can’t see clearly enough to find your way back out.

  I peer through the images for the oaf, and it takes almost a minute to locate him huddled against the wall in the corner. King Sedric is standing a few feet away from him looking baffled as Myles’s eyes are open but he’s not responding to his cousin’s coaxing.

  Instead, he’s staring at the people in his vision.

  I follow his gaze to the room’s center where a boy is playing with a group of young men, and I watch as the child’s gaze keeps flitting over to a rather pretty girl on the sidelines. She winks and giggles, and the boy lunges his jousting blade harder at one of the taller youths to impress her.