Queen of Blood

by Jill Myles

  Before long, though, someone knocked at the door, and Idalla entered the room with a quick curtsy, clearly excited to see her mistress. “Are you ready to awaken, Princesse?”

  She actually wanted nothing more than to hide in bed all day, to pull the covers over her eyes and never have to think about the prince or the Athonite court ever again. But with a reluctant sigh, Seri pulled herself out of bed. When she arose and shrugged on a dressing gown, Idalla sprang into action. Kiane came in and prepared her a bath while Idalla pulled out clothing for Seri to wear for the evening’s court.

  “There you are, my lady,” Kiane said as Seri sank into the warm bathwater, allowing it to soothe the unfamiliar aches in her body. Her mind conjured the image of Graeme, his body sinking into hers, his pale hands on her skin. . . . She squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t be thinking about her wedding night. She should be thinking about the Vidari, whom she’d failed.

  And Rilen.

  A cold feeling settled in her chest. He’d be furious at her. Not only had she failed at her attempt to kill the prince, but she’d given herself to Graeme. She pressed her thighs together, as tender there as her throat was.

  Kiane offered Seri a towel when she stood. “You look troubled.”

  Seri wrapped it around her wet body. “I am.” And heartsore. How would she fix this?

  “Is there anything I can assist you with, Princesse?” Kiane asked. “Please, let me help.”

  Seri turned and clasped Kiane’s hands and then glanced around the room. Idalla had gone to the kitchens in search of sweet rolls; it was just her and Kiane in the room.

  “Will you do me a favor, Kiane?” Seri asked. “It’s very important.”

  Hope shone in Kiane’s face. “Oh yes, Princesse. Anything you ask.”

  “I need you to go down to the Vidari village on the outskirts of the city and find a man named Rilen.”

  Kiane’s expression turned fearful. Her hands tightened in Seri’s. “Into . . . the Vidari village? But . . .” She wavered. “They hate our kind.”

  Seri shook her head. “They will not hurt you if you say you know me. Ask for a man called Rilen. Tell him that you carry a message from Seri.”

  Kiane’s face was pale but she nodded her agreement. “Will you write the letter and give it to me, mistress?”

  “I do not know how to write.” At Kiane’s dismay, she continued. “You’ll just have to tell him something that will let him know it’s me. Tell him . . .” She paused, thinking. What could she say to Rilen that would make this all right? “Tell him that I was unable to use one of his gifts as planned, but the other . . .” She paused again, her mouth dry as she thought of the dagger. “Tell him I still have the other and plan to use it.”

  Kiane repeated the words back to Seri. “I will tell him, mistress.”

  Her hands squeezed the younger girl’s once more. “Also, tell him . . . tell him to visit me if he can? Tell him I am lonely.” Building tears clogged her throat. “Tell him I am frightened and I need to see him.”

  Kiane nodded. She gave Seri a curious look. “Are you all right? Did Prince Graeme—”

  Her cheeks felt hot. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I see.” The look Kiane gave her was understanding. “But I’ve entertained men in my bed before. I could show you a few tricks to keep his interest, if you like.”

  Seri shook her head quickly, her cheeks burning. “More interest is the last thing I want.”

  The maid giggled. “Lucky woman.”

  Oh Gods, this just got worse and worse. “That wasn’t—”

  Kiane just gave her a knowing smile. “When should I leave? Now?”

  Seri glanced at the door. “Yes, if you would,” she said, releasing the girl’s hands.

  The maidservant looked frightened at the prospect of heading to the Vidari village after dark.

  Softening, Seri said, “You can go at dawn tomorrow instead.”

  Kiane nodded gratefully. “I will do as you ask, Princesse.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at Kiane. “This means so much to me.”

  Kiane beamed back and then dashed out of the room. She passed Idalla in the doorway, who gave her a questioning look.

  “Is everything all right?” Idalla asked.

  “Fine,” Seri said, pasting a cheerful look on her face so the maid wouldn’t ask questions. She wanted to keep this between herself and Kiane for now.

  One of the new tunics was ready, and Idalla helped Seri dress, adjusting the high collar to cover her bruised neck. As Seri ate, Idalla fussed with her hair, brushing her thick blond locks.

  “Tell me what you know about the Blood, Idalla,” Seri said, touching the bite on her neck.

  Idalla looked startled at Seri’s request, then uneasy. “The Blood? What is it you wish to know?”

  I want to know everything about this terrible curse so I may escape it, she wanted to say. “Tell me about the prince. How he is different from other men.”

  “Well,” began the maidservant, the strokes of the brush through Seri’s hair slowing down. “To begin, I know that his father is a very old man.”

  “How old?”

  “My mother says that her grandmother served him when she was a young girl, so at least as old as all that. She told me that even back then, the king was beautiful but stern.” She paused, then continued. “Prince Graeme was born before my time, but the Blood do not age like you and I. They live for hundreds of years.”

  Seri mulled that over, toying with the sweetened crust of one of the sticky buns. “I see.”

  “Prince Graeme has always been a good man, though.” Idalla said. “I’ve heard stories. His stepmothers doted on him—all the ladies at court did. Always so thoughtful, that one. So courteous. I suppose that’s why I never understood why his father was so unkind to him.”

  “Oh?” Seri tried to keep her voice casual. “Does the king not care for him?”

  There was a long pause, and she felt Idalla’s hands tremble. “I did not mean to imply that, Princesse. I just . . . I remember seeing the two princes together. You should see Prince Velair. Such a handsome one. Doesn’t look a thing like the king, but he’s of the Blood. Pale haired. Very regal. He’s quick to speak and cares for nothing but war and fighting, just like his father.” She shook her head. “He was always needling Prince Graeme. He was a quiet one, our prince. Always thought before he spoke, and always went out of his way to come to the best decision, one that did not mean bloodshed. His brother would go in sword first and ask questions later, but not Prince Graeme.”

  “I suppose I am lucky the gods did not see fit to marry me to Prince Velair,” Seri murmured, but she knew she lied even to herself. She could have more easily killed that man, a man who destroyed without a thought. It was Graeme’s quiet thoughtfulness that undid her.

  “He’s not much like his father,” Idalla said, securing Seri’s tresses with an ornate jeweled clasp. “Perhaps that is why the king . . .” She stopped, then patted Seri’s shoulder. “I’m done with your hair, my lady.”

  “The king what?” Seri twisted in the wooden chair to look into Idalla’s face. “The king what? Hates him?”

  But the maid had gone pale. “I’ve said too much already, my lady. Forgive me.”

  “You can’t leave it at that,” Seri said. “Please. I don’t know anything about these people. Help me. Don’t make me go in blind.”

  Idalla bit her lip, clearly torn. “You’ve married a good man, though. He will treat you like the highest of ladies. The Goddess has chosen well for you.”

  Seri said nothing to that. Instead, she looked around the room, watching as Idalla took her dressing gown and folded it into a carved, feminine trunk. “So I am to stay here in this room from now on?” she asked.

  Idalla nodded. “We’ll get everything from your room and bring it
here if you desire.”

  “That is quite all right,” Seri said, thinking of the dagger tucked between her mattresses. “I can do it. I don’t want anyone touching my altar but me.” She gave Idalla a smile to take the sting from her words. “Vidari custom.”

  “Of course,” Idalla said. “I’ll help with your dresses, then.”

  The servant chattered merrily as they headed to Seri’s old chambers. Seri smiled and nodded and pretended to pay attention, but her thoughts were on the knife.

  “Here we go,” Idalla said as they entered the room. She headed for the tapestries hanging over the windows and pushed them back, letting sunlight flood in.

  Seri moved to the window and let the light caress her face. She stared at the red cape hanging from the window, and sadness choked her. It was no longer necessary, was it? “I’d like to keep this,” Seri said, rubbing the fabric.

  “It’s filthy,” Idalla said, tugging on the red fabric. “Shall I have it washed and folded for you, my lady?”

  Seri nodded, and sucked in a breath when Idalla took the bundle of fabric into her arms and bustled out of the room. She was alone now. She hesitated for a moment, then sidled toward the bed. When no one entered the room, she slipped a hand between the mattresses and found the knife, then tucked it into the front of her corset.

  The poison had failed; the knife would not.

  The evening passed slowly for Seri. Graeme had been closeted with a few counselors and that left Seri alone with the court as day two of the celebrations continued. She sat at the front of the dining hall in another stiff gown, in the uncomfortable throne on the dais all by herself, a spectacle. While she was able to get away with tunics during the day, Anneve had forced her into a gown for court. People whispered behind their hands as they watched her, and her every move was scrutinized. Once, she yawned and the entire court burst into knowing titters.

  The Athonites, she noticed, did not seem to be a very scholarly court. The nobles danced or played silly parlor games that Vidari children engaged in when they were young. She thought of Graeme and his love of books and wondered how he could stand surrounding himself with such vapid people. It bored her, too. The evening was long and there was nothing to do but watch others cavort and make fools of themselves.

  “My lady,” someone whispered at her side. Seri glanced over and noticed Graeme’s personal servant, Viktor, who had escorted her to court earlier that evening. He had the pale skin of the Athonites, but his hair was a bright, flaming red and he had a sweetly crooked smile. “Prince Graeme awaits you, my lady. In his chambers.”

  A wave of nervous longing struck Seri. “Did he . . . did he say why?”

  Viktor only smiled and dropped into a bow. “I will allow him to explain. Unless, of course, you wish to stay for a few more hours, my—”

  “No,” she cut in hastily, rising with a rustle of her thick, long skirts. “I don’t wish to stay.” She ignored the people as the entire room bent to a knee, acknowledging Seri’s departure.

  She followed Viktor out of the stifling chamber and into the cool, dark halls of Vidara Castle, past bowing courtiers and servants alike, through the endless maze of passages until they were back at Prince Graeme’s chambers. Viktor opened the door for her and bowed but did not enter. “Good evening to you, my lady.”

  When he closed the door behind her, the room was little more than shadows. The curtains were drawn, closing out all moonlight in anticipation of the rising sun, and a single light flickered next to the bed. Graeme’s form was hunched on the edge of the bed, and Seri could see his shoulders rise and fall with the effort of his breathing. As if drawn by the bond that controlled them, she stepped forward, her skirts swishing and rustling in the darkness.

  Graeme looked up as she approached, and she halted at the intense look in his eyes. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and his normally perfect hair was mussed, clinging to his scalp in damp tendrils. The collar of his proper shirt was opened, revealing the skin underneath, and she had to fight the urge to go to him and touch him.

  It wasn’t she who wanted to do so after all, she told herself. It was the gods making her do it. Or . . . his goddess. Her own gods had been woefully absent as of late.

  Graeme looked displeased to see her; the beautiful lines of his mouth thinned and then he glanced away. “Why are you here?”

  Uncertain, Seri looked back at the door. “Your man . . . he said you were asking for me?”

  Graeme’s eyes flicked with understanding, and he ran a hand down his face. “Viktor presumes too much, though he does it in my best interest. You do not have to stay. I will see you shortly.” His words were curt, dismissive.

  She hesitated, then took a step forward, touching his shoulder. The simple contact gave her pleasure, even though she hated to admit it. It took everything she had not to stroke down his arm to soothe his pain. “What ails you?”

  He turned to face her, a swift, sharp gesture made all the more horrific by the baring of his teeth. Two of them had lengthened to sharp points. “You, my lady, are what ails me.”

  Seri flinched even as excitement flared within her. She felt the rush of hunger again as their connection opened. Her hand flew to her throat, and the blistering memory of last night flashed through her mind. “M-me?”

  Graeme averted his face. “It would seem that . . . this Betrothal affects me in a rather severe fashion. Give me time and it will pass.”

  She felt another wave of his hunger, and her gaze flicked to the mattress, where she’d hidden the dagger earlier. Adrenaline rushed through her, mixing with longing. Now was the time to do this. If he was weak now, she could end his life. End this marriage. All she had to do was lure him back into the bed.

  She could do this for her people.

  She gave in to the urge to stroke the hard muscles. “Do you . . . shall we . . . ?” She couldn’t quite force herself to state it so blandly. Her throat closed up.

  Graeme turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. “Your emotions . . .”

  “I’m still . . . a bit frightened.” The quiet statement hung between them. She let her words falter, and she reached behind her back for the long row of buttons that went up her gown. “But I am your wife.”

  “You are.” Graeme stood and came toward her, pulling her into his arms. It felt so good that she nearly whimpered, but she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted. His mouth sought hers, but she broke the kiss and pressed her cheek to his shoulder instead.

  “Help me undo my dress?” She couldn’t kiss him. Couldn’t take his kindness right now. She stared at the pillow instead, thinking of Rilen. Of Josdi, and her Father, and all the Vidari who had been wronged by Athonites. She could do this.

  Graeme’s fingers brushed against her chemise, and the heavy length of gown sagged against her shoulders. His hands slid into the unbuttoned length as if he were desperate to feel her skin through all the cloth. “You do not wear a corset,” he murmured against her hair.

  “No,” she said softly. “If I must wear a dress, I won’t wear that.”

  He kissed her neck as he tugged the dress from her shoulders. She closed her eyes and allowed him to peel away each layer, holding tight against the whirlwind of sensations that ripped through her with every soft touch. She wanted to turn around in his arms and explore his body like he was doing to hers, but her pride held her rigidly still.

  And then she was in nothing but her chemise, and his long fingers worked at the high collar buttons of that, revealing her skin inch by inch. His breath was warm against her, and she found her own breath quickening to match his.

  Her chemise slipped to the floor and then she was naked in front of him. Her nipples pebbled in the cold air and she bit her lip, her pulse racing with need. She was naked with the enemy . . . and she wanted him. Gods, what was wrong with her to be so excited at the thought of touching him?

  Graem
e moved to kiss her again, but she pulled him toward the bed. He followed behind her, his warm body pressing hers against the mattress. She wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the guilt she felt at enjoying his embrace. Just a little bit longer, she told herself.

  “Touch me,” he said, pressing kisses to her shoulder, then her neck. “I’ve dreamed of nothing else all evening.”

  Oh, how she wanted to. Her body ached with the need to touch him, even as her mind protested. She should have been thinking about the dagger under her pillow, but her mind clouded with thoughts of his fine body and handsome face. She trailed her fingers lightly over his back and shoulders, trying to push away the pleasure that flooded her mind at the simple caress. But his hand skimmed down her side, and his hips settled between her own, and she had a hard time thinking again. He took his time with her, touching and kissing every inch of her he could find, until she was moving with him, lost in the same need. Her hips lifted suggestively against his when he did not move fast enough, and his touch sent shudders through her body.

  Then his hands locked around her hips, and her legs parted in anticipation, and she lifted them and wrapped them around his hips. She felt the core of his body nudge against her, and then he ripped into her body with that hot, hard part of him, and it felt so good that a sigh escaped her despite herself, and her fingers dug into his back. He thrust into her roughly, once, twice, and she met him with each hard movement, her limbs quivering as his body slammed on top of hers. Over and over, he thrust into her, the force of his body sliding them across the bed and shoving her head up against the ornate, carved headboard. She put her arms up to brace herself.

  Her fingers brushed against the dagger, where she’d hidden it under a pillow. It was like a splash of cold water through her body. She knew she had to do this, even though he drove into her body with the sweetest of sensations, and his lips tugged at the peak of her breast, and her soft cries echoed in the room. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and when he drove into her again, she closed her eyes and arched her back.