by Amy Raby
“I offered him and his people asylum in Mosar. Seemed a harmless thing to do, a bit of basic human decency, but now my brother’s giving me a hard time about it, saying they’re going to be trouble, and this is Silverside all over again.” He exhaled forcefully. “I know it sounds trivial—nothing I should get out of sorts over—but it’s always like this with Kal. I’m not good enough; my judgment is faulty; I should step aside and let him be king.” He shook his head. “There was more, but I won’t share it. Ugly stuff.”
Rhianne slipped an arm around his waist. In response, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him. It felt good to touch him again.
“I hesitate in telling you about the Riorcans,” added Janto. “You’re Kjallan. You see things differently where Riorca is concerned.”
“The way we treat the Riorcans is wrong,” Rhianne said softly. “I’m not blind to that. But Lucien has no choice. If he can’t make a decisive show of strength following this humiliating invasion, he’ll be challenged by a usurper, or several of them. We could have civil war.”
“I know.”
Dear Janto. Or was it Jan-Torres? Now that her anger had calmed and she was paying more attention to the way he’d handled the invasion and its aftermath, she realized it made no difference; he was the same man, and he was always trying to do the right thing, even when it cost him. Maybe she could help, in her small way. She slipped her hand under his shirt and found back muscles knotted tight with accumulated stress. “You’re tense.”
He nodded, groaning dully as her hands worked their way up to even tighter shoulders.
She removed her hand from his shirt and pointed at a wrought-iron chair, one of two that flanked a marble table on the balcony. Switching from diplomatic to the command form of the Kjallan language, she ordered, “Sit.”
His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” He sat in the chair.
She stood behind him, caressing his neck, but his collar was in the way. She tugged at his Mosari outer tunic. “May I take this off?”
He helped her remove it, and her hands went to work on his shoulders, massaging and kneading. She was no professional, but it didn’t seem to matter. His knotted muscles untangled anyway, melting to smoothness beneath her fingers. When she finished, he slumped groaning in the chair, his eyes half lidded—but he seemed in no danger of falling asleep. He eyed her over his shoulder. “Rhianne, are you seducing me?”
Her eyelids dropped, and her cheeks warmed. “Maybe.”
He held his hand out to her.
After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it. He guided her to the front of the chair, pulled her into his lap, and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around his bare back and buried her head in his shoulder. Gods, she’d missed this. She’d been lonely without her Janto. “I’m so sorry. I assumed the worst of you, and I’m ashamed of the way I’ve been treating you.”
“The blame’s as much mine as it is yours.” Janto pulled her closer. “Vagabond’s breath, why did I think it necessary to lock up the woman I loved and trusted more than anyone in the world? No wonder you thought poorly of me—I was an absolute fool. Shall we forgive each other and never let it happen again?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good,” said Janto. “That’s settled, then. You met my brother, did you not? Kal-Torres.”
“Your brother. I figured that was him. He looks so much like you, though not as handsome, of course.”
“You don’t think he’s handsomer than me?”
“Gods, no. Also, he’s too forward.”
Janto chuckled. “That’s his way. Usually it works for him.”
Rhianne leaned back so she could see his face and pushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes. “I know it’s easy for me to say, but ignore your brother’s empty words. You did the right thing in offering the Riorcans asylum, and you’ll just have to be compassionate with Kal. Think how it must be for him, always in the great man’s shadow.”
He blinked. “Did you just call me a great man?”
“You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known.”
Janto’s eyes glistened.
“I want you to know,” she added, “that if Kal-Torres ever picks a fight with you again, I’m slapping him silly.”
“Now I want him to fight with me, just so I can see that.” He kissed her, slow and languorously, reacquainting himself with every inch of her mouth.
“Alligator,” she breathed. “I missed you.”
“You decided I’m the Janto you knew from the garden after all?”
“Janto and Jan-Torres were the same man all along. I just didn’t believe it until you proved it to me.”
He brushed the hair out of her face so he could look her in the eye. “And do you think you might love this Jan-Torres enough to marry him?”
“I don’t think I could bear it if I didn’t,” said Rhianne. “I thought of you far away on Mosar, all by yourself, or maybe even courting some Inyan princess, and the thought horrified me! You’re my alligator. I’m going with you to Mosar, and if you try to tell me otherwise, I shall be stowing away on your ship.”
Janto broke into a grin. “We can’t have stowaways, so we’d better make it official.”
“I do have one condition,” said Rhianne. “We take Morgan with us and bring him into our royal service. He’s unhappy here and needs a new beginning.”
Janto grunted his displeasure. “I don’t like that Morgan fellow.”
“Two conditions,” said Rhianne. “You get over being jealous of Morgan.”
“Do I get another kiss if I agree to these conditions?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s a deal,” said Janto.
Rhianne seized his mouth with her own, not giving a kiss but taking one. He was her delicious Mosari islander, and she’d been away from him for a long time, and they had until dawn. If Jan-Torres thought he was getting any sleep tonight, he was mistaken.
When they separated, he said, “What’s Lucien going to say?”
“Since I’m going of my own accord, he won’t interfere. I’ll tell him.”
“Not now, I hope.” He nuzzled her neck.
“Tomorrow,” she breathed.
“I have a confession to make,” said Janto.
Her eyebrows rose. “What?”
“I’m a poor traveler. I get seasick.”
“If you’re going to get sick tomorrow, we’ll have to get our fill of each other now.” She sought his lips again.
Janto rose from the seat, lifting her with him, and laid her on the marble table. He leaned over her, framed her face in his hands, and kissed her deeply.
“Janto,” she murmured into his mouth, “this table is marble.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
The kiss was lovely. The cold, hard surface beneath her, less so. She pinched him to get his attention. “Do you have any idea how hard marble is?”
“I know something harder,” he growled. He straightened, lifted her off the table, and set her on her feet. “All right. Let’s go inside and do this properly. Now, if you please.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Her laughter, born of pure happiness, floated up like bubbles in a champagne glass. She tripped toward the entryway with Janto at her heels.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next book
in Amy Raby’s Hearts and Thrones Series,
PRINCE’S FIRE
Available from Signet Eclipse in April 2014
Celeste smoothed the folds of her gown, wishing her tumultuous insides could be similarly reduced to a semblance of order. She was waiting in the anteroom on Lucien, who had trapped himself in a conversation with his adviser Trenian. Celeste drummed her fingers against her gown. When those two got going, they could prattle all night. It was unfortunate that the empress wa
s out of town. Celeste would have taken some comfort from Vitala’s presence.
At length, Lucien disengaged, stepped to her side, and took her arm. “Ready?”
She nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
Lucien called over his shoulder, “Trenian, let’s meet the Inyans.” He nodded to the guards, who opened the doors, and they headed in to dinner.
State dinners were normally held in the Cerularius Hall, but Lucien had selected the west dining hall—a family room—for this meeting. While the significance of this gesture would be lost on the Inyans, Celeste understood it perfectly. It meant he was more interested in cultivating intimacy with his guests than in impressing them with opulence. The west dining hall lacked the Cerularius Hall’s cavernous size and decadence. Still, it would hardly insult their guests. It was lavish on a smaller scale, with sculpted walls, silk tapestries, and a chandelier hung with a thousand colored light-glows.
The glows were dimmed, but Celeste had a clear view of the three Inyans as they milled about the room. They’d separated. One man stood alone and the other two stood next to each other, admiring the tapestries. Though they were the only people in the dining room, she’d have sorted them out easily even if they’d been strewn among a pack of Kjallans. Inyans stood out. Most were blond, and they all wore their hair long, the women in a variety of styles and the men in a braid that hung down the back. Celeste looked these men over, hoping to pick out her prince and fiancé.
The one standing alone she wrote off immediately. He was an older man and sallow faced. He couldn’t be her twenty-two-year-old prince.
Next, the two who were together. Her eyes fixed on the leftmost figure. Tall and muscular, with his golden braid falling to his waist and a furred cloak slung about his shoulders, he put her in mind of a lion, maned and regal. His features were pleasant and honest, and he moved with an easy confidence. Though he did nothing to call attention to himself, she had the impression that everyone in the room was subconsciously aware of him and in his orbit.
Celeste’s heart made a strange little jump. She clutched at Lucien’s arm, feeling a little dizzy. That one, she pleaded. Let the prince be that one.
In the interest of fairness, she studied the third man. He was handsome too, but in a different way. Long and lean, a bit older, with well-defined features. She could learn to like him, but the man in the furred cloak—he was the one she wanted. It ought to be him. He was the only man who looked the proper age.
Lucien led her toward the two younger men. “Prince Rayn,” he said, speaking diplomatic Kjallan.
The man in the furred cloak stepped forward and clasped wrists with the emperor. Celeste’s heart leapt. The young lion was her future husband! But it remained to be seen how well he liked her. Or whether his character matched his good looks.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” said the Inyan prince, answering in diplomatic Kjallan. “An honor.”
She liked his voice: a pleasant, rumbly tenor. “Allow me to introduce the Imperial Princess, my sister, Celeste.” Lucien held out Celeste’s hand.
Rayn’s eyes slid over her. He took her hand and bowed slightly. “Imperial Highness. Your beauty lights up the very room.”
“Thank you,” said Celeste, her heart doing little flip-flops. An empty compliment, obviously prepared in advance, but she appreciated his courtesy. Nervous, she pushed her hair back from her face. “I’ve heard much about you, Your Highness. The stories don’t begin to do you justice.”
His eyebrows inched upward, as did the corners of his mouth. “Let us hope you heard the right stories.”
The onlookers chuckled.
Lucien waved Rayn and the others toward their seats. “Let’s take our seats, and we can finish the introductions at the table. I don’t want this to be overly formal. Are you comfortable speaking in Kjallan, or would you prefer we spoke Inyan?”
“Magister Lornis and I are fluent in Kjallan,” said Rayn. “Councillor Burr knows enough to get by. I’ve always felt that when abroad, one should speak the host’s language.”
“Very well,” said Lucien. “We’ll translate if need be. Celeste and I speak passable Inyan.”
Celeste took her seat directly across from her future husband. Lucien introduced his adviser Legatus Trenian, and Prince Rayn named the two men in his company. The man Rayn had been walking with when they’d entered the room was Magister Lornis, apparently a royal adviser or teacher or judge—she was not clear on the exact role. And the older man was a member of a Land Council on Inya that drafted laws and operated in some sort of power balance with the king.
The servants placed before each of them a white soup sprinkled with pistachios and pomegranate seeds. Celeste stirred and sipped at her soup, wanting to talk to the prince but feeling shy. Kjall needed this alliance, and she’d have gone through with the marriage even if the man had been a toad, but there was nothing amphibian about Rayn. He was so handsome, so charming, but she couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look at her much.
“This soup is delicious,” said Magister Lornis.
Lucien acknowledged the compliment and then turned to Prince Rayn. “For the benefit of we Kjallans who have never been to Inya, perhaps you could tell us a bit about it. Particularly the volcanoes.”
Magister Lornis gestured with his spoon and grinned. “Now you’ve done it—you’ve said the magic word. He’ll talk your ear off.”
“I talk no one’s ear off,” said Rayn, yet he settled into his chair, making himself comfortable. He was clearly well practiced at speaking on this subject. “We’ve eight smokers at present, three on the mainland and five on the islands.”
“Smokers?” said Lucien.
“Active volcanoes,” said Rayn. “You’re aware, I take it, that there are different types of volcanoes?”
“Not really,” said Lucien. “We’ve not a single one in Kjall.”
“That you know of,” said Rayn. “A volcano can remain dormant for centuries before coming to life again. But you know about the ones on Dori. Those are a different type than ours. They look different. They’re taller, more conical in shape. And when they erupt, they’re more devastating, as you know by the recent catastrophe.”
“The year with no summer,” said Lucien. “Of course.”
“Our volcanoes erupt frequently,” said Rayn. “Some of them more than once a year. But they’re rarely explosive. Occasionally they belch a little steam or ash, but mostly we have lava flows.”
“Which it is Rayn’s job to manage,” said Magister Lornis.
Celeste, determined to be part of the conversation, jumped in. “How is that done? How can a person manage a lava flow from a volcanic eruption?”
Rayn opened his mouth to speak, but Councillor Burr cut him off, saying, “Rayn and the other fire mages use their magic to halt the lava flows before they make their way into the lowlands.”
“That is not what we do,” said Rayn.
“It ought to be,” said Burr. “Fire mages of old used to stop the flows entirely rather than redirecting them. There are mentions in the old texts—”
Rayn snapped, “Hang the old texts! It depends on the volume of lava. Small eruptions, yes, those can be stopped. The major ones, no. It cannot be done.”
The servants returned to the table and refilled the wineglasses. The silence stretched awkwardly.
Lucien leapt in. “I’m afraid we Kjallans don’t understand. Please elaborate.”
Magister Lornis said, “Prince Rayn is a fire mage, along with all of his extended family. For generations, their collective job has been to manage the volcanic eruptions. Whenever there is a lava flow, they stop it outright if they can, or if they cannot halt it, they redirect the flow into an unpopulated area where it can do no damage.”
“That’s wonderful!” said Celeste. “I love that the ruling family of Inya serves the people in such a direct and visible way.�
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Rayn set down his soup spoon. “Unfortunately, the Land Council upon which Councillor Burr sits authorized farmers to begin developing the formerly uninhabited Four Trees Valley, which leaves us no place at all to send lava flows from either Mount Fyor or Mount Drav, both of which are prone to serious eruptions.”
Councillor Burr replied, “We cannot let that valley go to waste. Four Trees has the most fertile soil in all of Inya.”
“As a hunting preserve, it was not going to waste. The soil is fertile because it lies in the shadow of two volcanoes.” said Rayn. “Because we have sent so many lava flows there. Would you rather we sent them into Tiasa?”
“You must stop the flows,” said the Councillor. “What are our fire mages for if not to control the god in the mountain?”
“The god in the mountain cannot be controlled,” said Rayn.
Lucien’s eyes sparkled. “I see you care deeply about your people and the management of your country.”
“I’m sure you would do no less for Kjall,” said Rayn, tucking into his newly delivered second course, a steak of sturgeon with capers.
Celeste forced herself to eat, mechanically chewing each bite. Her insides were all twisted up. She liked Rayn. He wasn’t just handsome but passionate, and about all the right things—protecting his people, making the right decisions for Inya. Whether Rayn or the Councillor had the right of the argument about stopping or diverting the lava flows, she couldn’t say, but it was clear Rayn believed in the rightness of his arguments.
If only the tiniest bit of that passion could be directed toward her. He cared about his “smokers,” but he had yet to address her, or even look at her, really. He answered her questions, but asked her none in return. He seemed to perceive this dinner as something to be borne as a courtesy, not as a valuable opportunity to get to know his future wife. Perhaps it was only nerves on his part. But he didn’t seem like a nervous man.
There was only one answer that made sense: he didn’t find her attractive. She hadn’t expected that he would. Still, she’d hoped. She would marry him regardless; Kjall needed the match, and so did Inya. But it would have been nice if he wanted her.