“The First has disavowed the actions of Sect Dameron,” said Breon.
“But not denounced it.”
“Lieutenant, please,” Fensin said. “I believe the ambassador’s assurances that Sect Dameron are rogues and their actions were neither ordered nor endorsed by the First. Besides, who knows how to forge steel blades better than the Caleisbahnin?”
“No one,” Geram conceded, resuming his seat.
“There, you see? I suspected the Kragnashian incursion might have prompted your request for a meeting, and I asked the ambassador to come because he could arrange a supply of steel weapons at a reasonable cost. I will gladly work with the Prime Minister to overcome any objections from the Miners as well as secure funding from our Senate colleagues.”
A pause grew into an awkward silence. He wondered if Fensin were after merely graft or if something else was afoot, and he felt very much out of his depth. He was a fisherman and a soldier, sometimes a counselor, but not a spy and certainly not a politician. Both men kept a thick layer of baffling over their thoughts as they waited for Geram’s response. “I am grateful for your help,” he said.
“If you wish to truly secure the home of your monarch, you shouldn’t build it around a Device,” said the ambassador.
“My friend,” Fensin said, “the Manor has been on that site for hundreds of years. Let us change what we can.” His mindvoice sharpened. “Lieutenant, what do you know of the history of King Sashal’s ascension?”
He thought of the royal cousins, arguing in the carriage. “I know Navael was Heir, but the Senate gave Sashal the throne, some say because Elekia brokered a deal with the Kragnashians.”
“Did the prince tell you that?”
“We had a lot of time to talk in Olmlablaire’s dungeon.”
“And I imagine he had much to say. Elekia did indeed convince the Kragnashians to demand that Sashal take the throne. It was a spectacular coup for a pair of seventeen year olds, fresh out of Fembrosh. At the time I was still young enough to be impressed by bold action, and I supported them. I regret that vote now.”
He paused again, and Geram asked the question Fensin wanted. “Why, Senator?”
“Because Elekia of Reinoll Parish, Ruler of Latha, holds the throne through subterfuge and ill-intent. She must be deposed and Timnon of Narath declared Ruler. Of course, a suitable regent must also be appointed.”
Geram’s jaw fell open, and it took some effort to close it. The accusation—subterfuge and ill-intent—was the very language Lornk had used in a declaration he’d wanted Ashel to sign when they were imprisoned in Olmlablaire. Ashel’s torments had culminated in those damn gauntlets, and Geram’s cursed psychic link to the prince. “I don’t understand, Senator,” he replied.
“Succession in Latha is a funny thing. The Senate hasn’t elected a child Ruler for over a hundred years, but there is precedent, and in this case it would be a relief to restore the throne to Rivern’s legitimate line.”
Alarm ticked up Geram’s spine. “Legitimate?”
Fensin chuckled. “I believe the queen is an adulteress, and Bethniel of Narath is a bastard.”
“What?”
“Inlander marriage practices are baffling, aren’t they? In Alna, we marry whom we please, when we please, in a public ceremony. To Inlanders, a first bedding is a wedding. I have on good authority that the queen’s first tryst was not with Sashal, which would make our late king the cad in a sordid love triangle. The cuckold is none other than Lornk Korng.”
Geram pulled up every barrier he could to prevent Ashel from Hearing. “Who told you this?”
“The former Relmlord himself.”
Geram rubbed his chin to hide rising panic. “What about Bethniel? She still has bloodright through Elekia, who was herself fairly elected Ruler.”
“Alas, I regret my former clerk will never be elected to the throne she wants so badly. Her claim isn’t strong enough to survive the scandal when Lornk Korng publicly announces Prince Ashel is his son.”
“Many would prefer Sashal’s daughter over a fourteen-year-old boy. Or the Senate could choose someone else altogether.”
“This nation stands at a precipice, lieutenant, and cannot survive the turmoil from a succession battle in the Senate, where every jumped-up guildmaster and junior Senator puts themselves forward as the next Ruler. No, for stability’s sake, we must restore Rivern’s line to the throne and choose the right regent to guide young Timnon.”
“And you have yourself in mind for that role?”
“Elesendar, no! I’m the Opposition—I cannot be regent. I can, however, ensure the Senate chooses a suitably sober and thoughtful individual.”
Geram eyed the two men, letting his suspicion show. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because we want you to do your part easing this transition. If I’m mistaken about you, and your loyalties in fact lie with Elekia, you will tell her everything you heard here today, and it will only make matters worse. While she tries to fight or squash the scandal, the guilds will continue purging members, making more beggars and robbers in Narath and the rest of the nation. But if you help us, we can stabilize the country before it dissolves into chaos.”
“What is it you want me to do?” Geram asked.
“Bring me proof your queen is a wizard,” Breon said.
“Is that all?” Geram guffawed at the absurdity of the request. Even if he were willing to betray Elekia, she never used wizardry openly.
“Lieutenant,” Fensin tutted. “I’m told your injuries from the Kragnashian attack were very grave, and it was a miracle you survived. Elekia had a hand in that, didn’t she?”
“Elesendar’s grace is not proof the queen worked magic.”
“Is that what saved you? Far be it from me to deny the Father’s power, and you’re absolutely right it isn’t proof. That’s why you must look, lieutenant.”
“And I can hardly do that, Senator.”
“Oh, he is clever, isn’t he, Breon?”
“Get close to the queen,” Breon said. “Gain her trust and friendship. Become her intimate.”
Heat tore up Geram’s neck.
“When the moment is right, you simply ask her to make something for you. A keepsake, which cannot be made by human craft. When you have it, bring it to me.”
“To you?”
“That is the price of Breon’s help with the weaponry you seek, lieutenant. Will you do it?”
Geram snagged the sight of one and swapped it for the other’s, so he could see them both. The ambassador’s expression was sober and inscrutable. Fensin wore a leer, and his thoughts dallied with the seamier meanings of intimate. Shrine, he should just go home. But Fensin had just proven himself in league with Elekia’s enemies. Curse that woman and his own need to please her. He cleared his throat and spoke aloud. “I suppose you’ll want regular reports.”
Fensin’s grin sharpened. “That would be delightful, lieutenant.”
The Declaration
Ashel jerked awake. Firelight painted Kelmair out of the darkness, her hand on his shoulder. “Go in with her,” she whispered. “I’ll watch for you.”
Vic hadn’t woken since raining boulders on the Caleisbahnin, and despite those deaths, Kelmair and the other pirates had hovered around, doing all they could to help him care for her. Kelmair was as solicitous now as she’d been spiteful before. “Why?” he asked.
“We pledged our swords—”
“She doesn’t want pledges from you.”
“It’s true, isn’t it? She was a mistress?” Awe thickened her voice.
“She was my mistress.” Lornk emerged from his tent. Crawling out after him, Wineyll hugged her knees.
“You will not touch her.” Flicking open Vic’s tent, Ashel nodded at Kelmair. “He doesn’t set one foot closer.”
With a slow, vicious smile, she drew her blade. “Not a foot.”
Inside, he lit the lamp and watched Vic’
s chest rise and fall in the flickering light. “Wineyll?” he whispered, hoping she Listened for him.
Leave me alone, Ashel. I won’t go with you. Her reply drifted into his mind, almost like one of Geram’s thoughts.
“When she wakes—”
There’s nothing for me in Latha. There’s nothing for me anywhere.
“What the Guild did to you was wrong. We can still fix it.”
He Heard nothing more from her.
Beating back anger, he used his lone thumb to hook Vic’s hair and tuck it behind her ear. “You left them with me.” Lornk’s taunt had rung all too true. In Olmlablaire, she could have saved him. He pressed the palm of his hand to her cheek, half-expecting her to recoil. Instead she sighed, the skin around her eyes relaxing.
The ceiling groans dust into their eyes, choking the room like mist. She stands in the doorway, her hair fanned out in a halo of static, his avenging angel. But he swallows her name, because she’s staring at Lornk, not him. She saunters closer, casually slapping a jeweled dagger against her palm. He whispers her name. She looks at him, seems to see him for the first time. The dagger falls into his blood—pooling under the chair—and horror clouds her emerald eyes into jade.
She couldn’t have known Lornk’s fury and desire stretched past her, measuring the length of Ashel’s life. He brushed the lone thumb across her cheek. She couldn’t have known.
Her eyes flicked open, and a tear leaked across the bridge of her nose. She laid her hand over his. “Can you ever forgive me?”
He withdrew the maimed hand. “I don’t know.”
“Where are we? How long was I out?”
“Two days. We’re close to the eastern edge of the Kiareinoll.”
Grimacing, she pushed herself upright. “Shrine, I’ve pissed myself, haven’t I?”
Irritation tightened his throat, but he poked his head outside, asked Kelmair to help her clean up. As they walked off, the outlaw warned Lornk to stay away. With a satisfied grunt, Ashel reclined on a mat spread over the dirt. More than a thousand years ago, the Caleisbahn First had pledged the Archipelago to the service of wizards, but Lornk had made a mistake thinking he could bond Vic to these modern-day brigands. “By your laws as well as Betheljin’s, an escaped mistress is still the property of a Citizen,” Lornk had argued. But Thiellin had replied, “A wizard cannot be a mistress. Clearly she is a wizard.” The pirates believed they could convince Vic to help put Lornk in the Commissar’s seat, but the way they hovered around her with eyes full of hope and worry, it seemed half-likely she could order them to return him to Lathan custody. If only it were so easy.
The flap rustled and she ducked in. They sat with shoulders pressed into the canvas, away from each other.
“I’ll be right outside,” Ashel said.
She touched his arm. “Wait. I’ve been looking for you. Geram must have told you. I’m sorry I didn’t find you before they did.” Her voice full of self-recrimination, she told him how she’d set off for Mora but let herself be blown off course. Rubbing her temples, she added, “Every time I’ve used wizardry since the storm, it’s made me so sick I can hardly breathe.”
Chuckling softly, he squeezed her fingers. “I’ve heard I can help with that.”
Her shoulders cringed to her ears. “I know. But it’s wrong for me to ask.”
Humor twisted into anger. “Then what was the point of coming out here? Shrine, Vic. I gave up—” He swallowed the rest and pulled in a breath, looking for a steady current in his own roiling emotions. Her small figure pulled at his blood like a magnet, the scent of her—sweat and woodsmoke and forest detritus and that essence of her—filled his nose and went to his head like a drug. He could see, hear, and smell her—he wanted to taste and feel and know her too. But threaded through his desire was a fury he couldn’t deny and didn’t know how to expunge.
“You gave up everything for me.” Wet streaks glimmered on her cheeks. She sandwiched his maimed hands between her palms. “You let him do this to you to save me, and I let him do it, to save myself. Elekia ordered me to come find you, and I came out here hoping we could . . . we could start over, but it’s not that simple, not with this pack of Caleisbahnin—”
“Shrine, Vic. The Caleisbahnin are just your latest excuse.”
“I’m sick, Ashel. I want nothing more than to rescue you from these brigands, but I’m too sick—”
“I’m talking about us! You dangle hope like a lure and jerk it away every time. I wish you’d make up your bloody mind.”
“I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
“No—”
He put his palm under her chin and forced her head up. “Why not, Vic?”
She jerked free of him. “Because I love you!” Eyes wide, she laid her fingers over her mouth, breathing heavily.
She’d said it. She’d admitted it like confessing a crime, but she’d finally said it. A silly grin pulled at the corners of his mouth; sunshine and the scent of wildberry blossoms colored the air.
“I can’t, but I do,” she mumbled, her breath jagged. “I shouldn’t, but I do. And I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you can’t possibly love me. Or if you do, you’ll come to hate me. I cost you this hand and everything you ever wanted. Sooner or later I’ll be exiled for being a wizard, and . . .” She sucked in a sob. “You’ll have to choose between me and the country and the family you love. Or maybe you’ll just meet someone else who is, is normal—”
He grabbed her neck and kissed her, cutting off the vile forecasts. Trembling, she parted her lips; her tongue tagged his, drew back, and darted forward in invitation. His lips roved down her throat, and she gasped and clasped his head. Her hands grazed tender bruises and scrapes, but the pain melted in the rising heat of a need finally fulfilled. At last he tasted her, a salty tingle on his tongue like spicetarts at Winterfest. At last his fingers twined through hair like spun amber. His palms stroked hard muscles under silky pale skin. His heart pumped yearning to his pores, and the air grew hot and damp. He yanked his shirt off and dove after another kiss. His hands crept beneath her tunic, delighting in the warm, smooth curves—
She shuddered and dropped her arms to her sides. Smoothing her hair aside, he studied her eyes. In the dim light, he couldn’t see their color, but he could see her earnestness. Her fingers crept around his wrists, and he felt the pulse in her thumb echo his own. He kissed her knuckles. “I can forgive, if you can.”
Nodding, she wrapped her arms round his neck and pressed her mouth to his.
* * *
Each kiss restored her. The hammering above her eye ebbed, the churning in her belly eased. Aches melted away. Each caress brought bliss as his tongue explored her clavicle, his fingers brushed a shoulder, slid down a flank. Yet when his hands crept under her tunic, tracked up her ribs, doubt froze her limbs. Military life allowed no space for modesty, and killing sometimes called for a lover’s intimacy, but the last person to know her like this was Lornk. She trembled at how much she had craved the Relmlord, even while she hated him. She’d longed for Ashel too—there was that pull, like iron to a magnet, she’d resisted every time they were together. Her desire for Lornk had felt like a parasite, but the need for Ashel really was an infection—
“I can forgive, if you can,” he said.
Elesendar, had he Heard her? Did it matter? Whether it was the Woern’s need or hers, she wanted him. Her arms flew round him, her lips tasted his, and life passed into her, washing away doubt. She shrugged out of her tunic, shivered and hugged his head as his tongue danced across her breast. An electric charge sparked from skin to skin, and they shimmied out of trousers and nested together, arms and legs wrapped round torsos. Fingers migrated below her navel; he murmured something, a bass rumble she couldn’t discern over the rush of blood to her head. He found the point where heat roiled, stoked it into a blossoming fire that enveloped her loins and surged past her heart and lungs t
o explode in waves behind her eyes.
“How does a chaste Lathan prince know how to do that?” she gasped.
Kissing her neck, he chuckled. “A few tricks a courtesan taught a soldier from Alna.”
“Shrine, is Geram with you now?” She drew back.
Laughing, he tugged her close. “He’s asleep.”
She grinned and straddled his lap, heart pounding, loins tight and dripping need. His breath gushed down her throat as she guided him inside her, but hers caught at the lancing pain.
“Did I hurt you?” He stilled, dark eyes shedding concern.
“No.” She kissed him deeply. How that piece of her could be intact after years of jumping out of trees, dodging blows and taking them, she didn’t know, but as their tongues darted and twined, the virgin sting faded. Her body wrapped him, contained him, shivers passing between them as they forged a bond through shared heat, tempering it in the sweat slicking their skin. Another pierce jabbed inside her, not pain but a burst of dark energy that shuddered up her spine, and as he swelled inside her, the love she felt for him, which had been withered and stunted, began to grow like a parched seedling exposed to light and water. Warm and green, it spread through her blood, cycled through her heart, blossomed and ripened in her mind. Beneath her, Ashel pressed his hips up, pulling hers down, his teeth bared. Then they collapsed into a heap, their arms tight as salvation around each other.
* * *
Dawn seeped through the canvas, sculpting Ashel’s neck and shoulder like an artist carving life from polished wood. “I love you,” Vic whispered, looping an arm over his chest, awed at the potency of the feeling now that she’d finally admitted to it. Admitted it, let it in, into her heart and her head. It wasn’t just the Woern, she promised herself. She’d longed for him long before taking the Elixir, but her preoccupation with Lornk—her shame over the remnants of desire she’d felt for the Relmlord, and her need to purge those sensations through blood and vengeance—hadn’t left any room for love. She swallowed a devilish giggle and hoped Lornk had heard them. In his tower in Traine, he had starved her, terrified her, manipulated, intimidated, abused, and pleasured her. He’d demanded every form of intimacy, except he’d never stuck his cock in her cunt. Why he had left that part of her untouched was a mystery, but she was glad to have shared it first with Ashel. “My love,” she whispered.
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