Lord of the Storm

by Justine Davis

  She shrugged; she was growing fond of the gesture. “Then why ask, my lord?”

  “Damn,” he muttered. “You are the most obstinate, contrary, prickly woman—”

  He stopped suddenly as the word he’d used registered. His eyes widened as he stared at her. “My God,” he said. “Is this what I was like?”

  Shaylah shrugged once more. “You were much better at it. But with every right. I find I understand it better now . . . my lord.”

  His mouth twisted ruefully at the repeated designation. “I think I know now why my calling you Captain all the time irritated you.”

  Again she shrugged. And again his mouth twisted, as if he knew perfectly well where she had picked up the habit.

  “Does it make you so very angry that I didn’t . . . tell you?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “No. I can see that you couldn’t risk it becoming known at the Club. Or even Califa’s. If word got out that you were . . . who you are . . .”

  He nodded. “I believe that’s why Corling didn’t order me killed.”

  Shaylah blinked. “General Corling?”

  Wolf’s gaze hardened. “Yes. He ordered me collared personally and watched with great enjoyment. He liked the thought of the prince of Trios in the worst kind of slavery. Anyone else he would have sent to the labor camp. Or executed.”

  Shaylah stiffened at the word, her doubts returning with the reminder. Surely he wouldn’t, not after . . . this. And she had, in fact, saved his life. But she was still a Coalition officer, and the Coalition had nearly wiped out his entire race. Would it not be the sweetest of revenges to remind her what a fool she was, then make her pay the full, ultimate price for it?

  Beside her, Wolf sighed. “What’s wrong now?”

  “Shall I dress?” she asked carefully.

  “Why?” Wolf drawled, running a hand over her hip in a caress that made her shiver. Even now, she thought in amazement, while she was wondering if he intended to murder her, he could make her want him again.

  “I’ve . . . fulfilled the first part of what I was told you would want—”

  “Shaylah,” he interrupted warningly.

  “—I understand the next step is my execution.”

  He swore, short, sharp, and crude. “Renclan. That’s where you’re getting this, isn’t it?”

  “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  “I never made it up to that,” he spat out, “and you know it. Or you should, damn it.”

  “How could I? All I knew was that you hated me for”—she glanced around the chamber—”keeping knowledge of this from you.”

  His expression softened. “I talked to Glendar, Shaylah. He told me what it was like here. What it’s been like for the last five years. You had every reason to believe it would be a death trap.” He let out a breath. “I still wish I had known that some had survived . . . but you were right. If I had, it would have been worse, knowing I could do nothing.”

  Shaylah didn’t know if he had truly forgiven her or if he was just so glad to be home that it didn’t matter to him anymore. He stretched, his lean, naked body beautiful and gleaming gold against the lustrous, soft black cloth. Shaylah felt heat spiral up inside her as she watched taut muscle ripple beneath golden skin. She fought it down. She wasn’t about to humiliate herself once more by admitting that she wanted him again already. He had said nothing about the two of them, or their future, or even acknowledged that there was a “them.” In fact, she thought grimly, he’d done little but tell her that he wasn’t going to have her executed.

  It sounded absurd even as she thought it. Her mind was still having difficulty with the transition from Wolf, the slave, to Dare, the prince, with the power and authority to do just that.

  Yet there was no doubt in her mind that it was true; he looked at home amid all the rich trappings. Glancing around, she saw the gleam of gold, the soft sheen of hand-stitched tapestries, and the glitter of crystal. On one wall of the chamber hung a painting—an actual oil painting, she realized in amazement—draped in black cloth. It was of the old king. Wolf’s father. Whose body had been the last thing Wolf had seen as they dragged him away in chains . . . She looked away.

  “How did these things get here?” she asked at last, running a hand over the soft nap of the cloth beneath her, noticing with interest how the shading changed as her finger trailed over it.

  He’d been staring at the movements of her hand, and it took him a moment to answer. “Glendar.” He shrugged, as if embarrassed. “I don’t know how he did it. He set this room up as sort of a . . . shrine, I guess. No one’s ever used it.”

  “But the royal son is home now,” she said softly, changing the direction of her fingers, watching the darker trail left in the soft nap. “What will you do now?”

  “Go mad,” he said, a little thickly, “if you don’t stop petting that velvet.” She froze. He reached over and took her hand, lifted it, and placed it on his belly. “Pet me instead,” he suggested, his voice husky.

  She realized then that he was already half aroused and felt a little thrill as he began to grow harder the moment her fingers touched his skin. It was much later before she again voiced her question.

  “What will you do now?”

  Wolf yawned. “I have ordered a briefing for this afternoon. Glendar has several small patrols out, due back by then. I must know where we stand, our strength and equipment. Glendar is conducting an inventory now.” He looked at her with an oddly intent expression. “It will be an ugly fight, Shaylah. Even if the Coalition were to pull out tomorrow, it would be decades before life here was anything but hard and brutal.”

  She had the feeling he was telling her, specifically her, something important, but the weariness that was evident in him as he yawned again stopped her from asking.

  “Now,” he said, “I think we could both use some sleep.”

  Shaylah would have sworn that, despite her sated body, she had far too much on her mind to sleep, but found the warmth of Wolf’s body beside her lulling. She fell asleep while dwelling on the absurdity of the fact that she was sleeping with a prince.

  THE DAYS AFTER that settled into a sort of routine that Shaylah found amazing considering the circumstances. They were in the center, the hub of a rebellion, and yet each day seemed much like another. Wolf spent the mornings assessing the resources and looking at what had been done so far. In the afternoon he talked to the people, quizzing them on where they had escaped from and what had been still standing when they had left; he was, as any leader must, planning for the future as if he were certain they would have one.

  He sent out scouts to gather all the grim information possible on what was left of Trios’s infrastructure. It had once been a marvel of technology mixed with tradition; it was all in ruins now. Gradually he put together a map that was as precise and accurate as he could make it, based on the gathered data.

  Shaylah was banned from the council room, although Wolf told her—surprisingly, she thought—it was for the peace of mind of his aides, not himself. And at night, sometimes late, sometimes not until the hours just before dawning, but always, he came to her. It was those nights that gave her hope, a foolish hope that always evaporated in the first light of day.

  Most of the inhabitants of the caves treated Shaylah with careful politeness. She knew some watched her with suspicion; a Coalition officer was a Coalition officer, no matter that she was under the protection of their prince. And in his bed, she thought with a pang; that was hardly a secret. That it was only temporary seemed obvious as well, as Renclan took pains to point out to her.

  “If you think to replace Princess Brielle, think again. She was Triotian, and she will always be the true princess. No one will accept an outworlder, especially Darian, even if, for now, he lets you share his bed.”

  She supposed some
thought less of their prince for consorting with her when in their eyes he was bonded to the dead Brielle, but not for anything would she give up those nights when he would come to her weary from a day of frustrations and seek solace in her arms. In the sweet, quiet aftermath he would talk to her, telling her more than she expected, but less than she wanted to know. Then she didn’t care what the wary ones thought.

  But others, few at first, but more as they became used to her presence, approached her with quiet thanks for the life of their beloved Dare. And he was beloved by them, Shaylah realized. She was learning that the old king had been much more than an absolute monarch. He had had great love and respect for his people and for the wisdom found among them. He had curried it, catered to it, until all people of intelligence on Trios knew they had a chance to achieve whatever they wished in their world. And those of lesser intelligence lived happily, knowing that they would be treated fairly and could make the most of what they had. And the old king had taught his son well.

  She liked the Triotians, she realized one morning with a little shock. She had awakened alone in the big bed; Wolf—Dare, she corrected herself, thinking it was time she should—had again slipped quietly out without waking her. She had missed him, as she always did, yet found herself looking forward to rising anyway.

  In the mornings she had taken to visiting Lisaire, the plump, gray-haired woman who was guardian of what vestiges of Triotian history and culture the rebels had managed to save, and she looked forward to learning even more of the world that had been Wolf’s—Dare’s—and that had been so beloved by her parents. Lisaire was favorably inclined toward anyone with an interest in her precious artifacts and welcomed her.

  This morning, Shaylah startled the woman by telling the story of her parents’ courtship and their bonding here on Trios.

  “Twenty-eight years ago? In the shrine at Triotia?” she asked with raised brows.

  “Yes. And I was conceived in the guest lodge there two years later.”

  The woman turned away and began to dig through the stack of books Shaylah had noticed before. She’d never seen so many of the ancient things before, even in her mother’s extensive collection. Now Lisaire withdrew one, paged through it for a moment, then stopped, a smile spreading across her round face. She reversed the book in her hands and held it out.

  “Here, child.”

  Shaylah leaned over, looking to the line Lisaire was pointing at. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes stung with the beginning of tears; there, in her father’s bold scrawl and her mother’s delicate filigree hand, was the chronicle of their bonding.

  It took her a while to make the connection between that moment and the change that occurred afterward. The remaining suspicion seemed to fade, and the Triotians treated her with a kindness bordering on respect and stopped freezing all conversation whenever she came into a room.

  She made a few friends: Cyrian, the man who ran the kitchen with a quiet efficiency she admired and told her bluntly but with a smile to never plan on making her living as a cook; Alcaron, the slim, attractive young woman who provided her with a few changes of clothing, managing a smile as she patted a belly swollen with a child who would never know his father, killed in one of the first rebel raids; and even the boy Pavel, who was won over when she gravely complimented him on his prowess as a scout.

  But it wasn’t until one tall, imposing older man approached her, saying rather gruffly that he knew her father, liked and respected him, and had indeed been present at the bonding ceremony, did she realize what had turned the tide; Lisaire had apparently wasted no time in spreading Shaylah’s story.

  The tall man, who introduced himself as Freylan, was clearly saddened by the news of her father’s death.

  “I think he was glad to go,” Shaylah said softly. “My mother’s passing took the heart out of him, and . . . I think what happened here took the spirit.”

  “He was a good man, and true. He should have been a Triotian.”

  She already knew that as praise of the highest order, and her throat was tight as she answered. “I think he thought of himself as more Triotian than Arellian.”

  Regardless of the new welcome offered her, Shaylah was restless. She was not used to doing nothing, and the mornings spent in study with Lisaire were not filling the needs of a mind trained to quick thinking and challenging decisions. She wandered toward the council room, wondering if her new acceptance would extend this far.

  They didn’t notice her at first—not surprising, she thought, the way they were shouting. She stopped just inside the entrance, listening.

  “We must take action!”

  “How long are we going to just sit here?”

  “You say wait, my lord, but for what?”

  “Yes, for what? We have left them in peace too long!”

  It was all directed at Dare, and she began to see that there were some drawbacks to this method of ruling; it would be easier to just order them to do as he said. But it was not his way, not the way of Trios, and she knew he would not do it. He had, he’d told her one night, been too long without choices to take them from someone else. No wonder he was looking so utterly tired lately, she thought.

  “We will move,” he said, “when we can be sure of maximum effect with the least damage.”

  “But we have given them time to amass, to prepare,” one of the men protested.

  “Yes,” put in a short, stocky woman across the table, “and even now you know they are searching for us.”

  Dare nodded. “Then they will be in our territory and will have to fight on our terms.”

  “Unless they just decide to blow the mountain to Hades.”

  “I think not. We are too close to their precious mine here.”

  The first man swore vividly. “It’s that snake Corling,” he muttered. “He’s as evil as they come.”

  “He’s a snake, all right,” Glendar put in. “It is too bad that we can’t just chop off his head.”

  “Yes,” another of the group said fervently. “That would make them think twice.”

  “It would,” Dare acknowledged, “make them drop back to regroup. He is the commander of all the Coalition forces in this sector. But it’s futile to dwell on it. We can’t get to him.”

  Shaylah stepped forward at last. All heads snapped toward her, staring. She took a deep breath. Then spoke.

  “I can,” she said.

  Chapter 14

  “WHAT?”

  “It’s an old Triotian legend,” Shaylah explained to the group still gaping at her. It had taken a few moments for them to accept her presence, until Glendar asked pointedly who knew better how to deal with the Coalition than one of its own? There had been doubts, with Renclan the most vocal.

  “If she will betray the Coalition, what makes you think she won’t betray us as easily?”

  They had turned to their prince for the answer to that. He stood silently for a long moment, studying Shaylah through eyes dry with fatigue. “I think,” he said, “her allegiance to the Coalition was given up long ago. And it was not done easily, was it, Shaylah?”

  It was the first time he’d used her name before them, and his tone was so gentle she had to bite back a sob. She lowered her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “It was not.”

  “What old legend?” Glendar repeated now, looking at her with interest. She turned to face him and the others.

  “Of an ancient battle, a siege of an impregnable fortress. The army outside had fought for weeks, with no advance. At last they built a huge mobile structure, a statue of some kind—the archives don’t say what—and presented it as if it were a tribute. The men of the fortress were curious and opened the gates to take it in.” She shrugged. “The army’s best men were inside it, and the battle was won.”

  “That’s fine,” Renclan said sourly, “but we have no
such mobile structure to send to Corling’s ship.”

  Shaylah took a deep breath. “No. But I do.”

  She heard Wolf—Dare—make a sound, and at last she turned to look at him.

  “The Sunbird?” His voice was low. She nodded. His green eyes were fastened on her intently. “I would not ask it of you, Shaylah.”

  “You did not. I offered her.”

  “The Sunbird,” Glendar said, “is your ship?”

  Shaylah looked at the older man and nodded again. “A starfighter of the Rigel class. Her weapons are damaged, but she is otherwise intact. If,” she said dryly, “we can get her out of that canyon your prince parked her in.”

  “I can get her out,” Dare said. “I’ve taken bigger ships than the Sunbird in and out of there.”

  “It might work,” Glendar said, wonder in his voice. “It just might work.”

  “Yes,” Dare agreed. “It is simple, yet brilliant. Congratulations, Shaylah. Just where did you learn of this legend that so many of even our own know nothing of?”

  “Your own,” she said wryly, “spend too much time plotting vengeance and impossible battles instead of remembering the treasures of this world that has given so much to all other worlds.”

  Dare blinked. The others gasped at her impertinence to their monarch. Only Glendar smiled. And then, suddenly, Dare laughed, for an instant wiping the exhaustion from his face. “I stand educated,” he said ruefully, “and justly so. What good is the battle if we forget why we are fighting?”

  The room buzzed with voices as they began to plan. No one asked her to leave, so she stayed, nursing the warmth of their approval. She felt no guilt at her action. Dare had been right; she had surrendered her fealty to the Coalition long ago, when she had at last seen it for what it was.

  Their discussion of weapons brought back a memory. “What of the fusion cannon?” she asked.

  Dare lifted his head, raising his gaze from the map on the table to her face. “The what?”