Heir to the Sun

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “You speak as though this is a business transaction.”

  “Forgive me; I’m accustomed to speaking so.” He put his arms around her waist and tried to draw her against him, but she resisted. “Do you not want me?” he implored. “Do you want Torim instead?”

  “You shouldn’t want me,” she whispered. “I’m ruined.”

  “You’re nothing of the sort.”

  “I am!” she insisted. “I am.”

  Lormac rested his chin on her shoulder and reached for her wrist, tracing the jagged scar. “Tell me how this happened.”

  “You…you do not want to know.” Asherah hid her face against her shoulder.

  “I do.” Asherah sighed, and pushed up her sleeve. Lormac saw three more scars, raised and thickened as the first, fanned out like fingers.

  “These are from claws,” she said hoarsely. “It didn’t want to use the chains; at first I was happy about that and thought that maybe I could escape. How I don’t know, for even if I got out of the room, there were still the guards to contend with… If they caught me escaping, I would have been boiled.”

  “Boiled?”

  “When we were used up, or if we proved to be trouble, they boiled us down to broth. Those were the days we had meat.”

  Lormac rested his forehead against the back of her head. “Is that why you don’t—”

  “Yes. I-I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Lormac raised his head, turning his attention back to her wrist. “Then tell my why you didn’t attempt an escape.”

  “I couldn’t. It pulled my arms back and hooked its claws into my flesh. The scars are jagged because I pulled and tried to get it off me, but it wouldn’t budge. It ground itself into me, laughing and taunting…” Asherah’s voice trailed off as she rubbed the marks. “And would you know the worst part of it all? Not that it raped me; I was used to that. Not that it broke my ribs, for bones heal. It pulled my shoulders out of their sockets. My arms were useless, so useless I couldn’t pick up my shift from the floor. I couldn’t even cover myself once it was done with me.”

  Asherah stared at the wall as she related her tale, her body as unyielding as a statue. Lormac tightened his arms about her waist and said, “I’m so sorry. If I could take your past from you, I would.” His shoulders shook, and Lormac turned her around.

  “Little star, little star,” Lormac whispered, “weep now if you must, but while you remain with me, I’ll see to it that you never weep again.” Asherah cried against his chest as Lormac stroked her hair. Once she had calmed, Lormac tilted her chin up and he gazed at her, her black eyes that were like molten pools of darkness. He opened his mouth to speak but thought the better of it. He was a man of action, a king who inspired his followers with deeds, not speeches, and he slid his sacred armband onto her wrist.

  “What?” Asherah asked, shocked out of her despair. “No, Lormac, nonono, you don’t want to do this.” She tried to pull the Sala from her arm, but his hand closed over hers.

  “I do,” Lormac insisted, “and it’s done.” He grasped her hands and held them against his chest. “Wear it, and be mine.” Asherah looked from the armband to Lormac’s face, his eyes telling her what this simple act meant more than words ever could.

  “My lord.” A saffira rushed into the room.

  “Leave!” Lormac shouted over his shoulder.

  “My lord, the Prelate of Parthalan is here!”

  Asherah speaks…

  Of the many things I’d never expected to encounter in the elf king’s home, the arrival of the Prelate of Parthalan, the right hand of Sahlgren, was one. Gods, I hoped he didn’t have legion at his back along with orders to return us to the dojas.

  “No one’s taking you anywhere,” Lormac declared when I voiced my fears. “The Prelate has much power, yes, but not over me.”

  “Should you wear this when you meet him?” I asked, and again tried giving back the armband. I was shocked that Lormac asked me to stay with him, shocked that he would put the Sala on me… and despondent, that he’d regain his wits and realize what a mistake he had made.

  “I’m well acquainted with the Prelate. He will recognize me without it.”

  “But Lormac—”

  “We will speak of this later,” he said. “Now, I must deal with my guests.”

  Lormac left his chamber in a flurry of motion, calling out commands to his advisors as they scurried around him. I located Torim and Harek; both were as shocked as I to hear of the king’s visitors. They both eyed the Sala but said nothing, which was good, since I myself didn’t know what I thought about wearing the most sacred object in Tingu. Worse, I understood all too well what my wearing of the Sala meant.

  I was jolted free of my musings when we entered the hall and saw the two men standing before Lormac’s throne. The one speaking was short for a faerie, but solidly muscled, his yellow hair shot through with strands of silver. I knew he was the Prelate; his authority hung around him like a royal mantle. The man next to him bore an uncanny resemblance, though he was a head taller and his hair more the color of the sun.

  As we approached, the Prelate was attempting to berate Lormac for offering us aid without first consulting with Teg’urnan. I wanted to shout at the Prelate, accuse him of complicity in the enslavement of our kind and indifference to our plight. I also suppressed a wave of guilt, for while I’d come to Lormac for help I hadn’t wanted to cause him or his kingdom strife.

  “When I learned that there were faeries plotting rebellion against Sahlgren I expected that they would hide beyond our borders,” the Prelate was saying, “but I didn’t expect to find them camped before the Seat of Tingu.”

  “As always, an elf to clean up a faerie’s mess,” Lormac replied. The jibe made the taller man’s eyes flame, but the Prelate remained composed. “History does repeat itself often amongst your kind.”

  “They’re all guilty of treason,” the Prelate continued. “I can have them executed where they stand.” Torim gasped and clutched my arm; Harek set his jaw as if he were about to be sentenced; I tried very hard not to faint. Lormac, however, was unaffected by the threat.

  “You forget, Parthalan’s border is a two day ride south,” Lormac stated. “These are my lands. You’ll be executing no one, and you’ll speak to none without my consent.” Lormac and the Prelate glared at each other, but before the threats could escalate further the taller man spoke.

  “We’re not here to punish them,” he said. “We believe their cause is sound!”

  The man’s outburst, an unthinkable breach of propriety before a king, silenced the entire hall. Torim, Harek, and I exchanged glances; none of us had anticipated that the Prelate might also be against the king. Lormac met my eyes, and I gave him the slightest of nods. Had the Lord of Tingu just looked to me for approval?

  “Here are those who would remove your king,” Lormac stated, rising from his throne, “perhaps you’ll find their claims interesting.” Lormac brushed past the men as if they weren’t there and strode toward us. “This is Asherah, who was herself a slave by Sahlgren’s leave and now leads her followers, along with her companions, Torim and Harek.” Lormac’s hand hovered over the small of my back, careful not to touch me; I noted that he positioned himself in such a way as to display the armband I wore. The Prelate must have been familiar with it, for he eyed it silently.

  “My lady,” Lormac continued, “if you’re willing, the Prelate would like to discuss your claims against Sahlgren.” He then shifted his stance so my face was hidden and spoke softly, only to me. “If you don’t wish to speak to them, say the word and I’ll handle it.”

  In that moment, as Lormac stood between us and the Prelate, willing to defend us against those who could—and possibly should—make us answer for our deeds, I felt the tough shell around my heart crack. I’d already known that Lormac believed our claims—hells, his riders had seen the evidence firsthand—and he had already pledged his aid. But this was different. Never before had anyone put themselves bodily
between me and harm, nor had anyone ever had such faith in me.

  Gods, how I would miss him once he realized what a pathetic shell of a person I was.

  “I am willing,” I replied, fighting the urge to smile. Something in my voice must have told him how I felt, and he drew me closer.

  “Very well,” he said, and then turned back to the Prelate and his man. “Once you’ve refreshed yourselves, we will meet in my chambers. A private room will better suit our needs.”

  “We need no refreshment,” said the Prelate. “We’re ready to discuss this now.”

  “You may be ready, but I am not,” Lormac said. “I’ll send for you shortly.”

  With that, Lormac dismissed the Prelate, albeit against his wishes. As one of the saffira led them away, I turned to follow Torim and Harek, believing that we all had a short reprieve.

  “Asherah.”

  Lormac spoke as a king, and his tone made me stop instantly. Torim also stopped; I could only imagine what my dearest companion was thinking, perhaps why was I wearing the Sala? Had I forsaken her for the elf king? But she asked nothing, and after she squeezed my hand, she followed Harek from the hall.

  “My lord?” I turned to face Lormac. He beckoned me to follow, and we entered his much smaller receiving chamber.

  “I meant what I said,” he said once we were alone. “I will handle the Prelate and send him on his way. You do not need to be so indisposed.”

  “His man said that they also question Sahlgren. What if they know of the dojas? What if they also want to stop him?” I paced the room, speculating on how they may have learned of the king’s transgressions.

  Lormac shook his head; it seemed that my behavior amused him. “Little star, you are a woman like no other.”

  “Will you forever call me little star?”

  “Tell me you’ll stay in Tingu, and I’ll call you many other names.” He reached for me, stopping before he made contact. “May I?”

  I watched his face for long moments; here was a man who was accustomed to getting whatever he desired, taking whatever he wanted, yet he made sure to check himself before he touched me. In his every action, Lormac was sensitive to who I was and what I’d endured. To this day, I wonder what he saw in me.

  I didn’t answer with words; instead, I went into his arms and let him hold me. No, I let myself be held, and I availed myself of all the comfort he was willing to share. It was more than enough.

  “If you stay, I’ll call you my beloved,” Lormac murmured. “You’ll be my companion, my advisor, my equal in all things. My star, my light, my love.” I leaned back and watched him for a moment, taking in his craggy brow and merry eyes that were suddenly so somber.

  I touched his face. “Why do you want me so? You already have everything. I have nothing to offer you.”

  “You’re wrong,” he replied, “I see what you really are, not what others have done to you. You can give me the one thing I truly want.”

  “What is that?” I asked, fearful of his reply.

  “You.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  While Tor sat calmly, Caol’nir paced the small chamber for easily the hundredth time; it seemed like they had been left rotting in that room for days. It bothered Caol’nir that Lormac had shoved them aside while he went off with his faerie mate, his face smug as he forced them to wait.

  “You miss her,” Tor observed, and Caol’nir had to admit that his unsettled state owed little to Lormac’s tardiness. Caol’nir scrubbed his face with his hands, the image of Alluria standing before the gates as he rode away still sharp in his mind.

  “I hope I wasn’t wrong to leave her,” Caol’nir said. “I told her that she must remain in Teg’urnan for her safety, but now I wonder if she would have been better off with me.”

  “Fiornacht is there, and Caol’non,” Tor reminded him, “they won’t let anything happen to Alluria.” Caol’nir didn’t mention that Ethnia and Keena had thought themselves safe, too.

  Lormac arrived, and his second and an advisor laden with maps closely followed. “Asherah will be with us presently,” Lormac stated as he selected a map. He unrolled the parchment and spread it across the table.

  “Congratulations on your new queen,” Tor stated. “I see that she wears the Sala.” Lormac acknowledged Tor with a nod, then returned his attention to the map. “Tell me, old friend, did she bend your ear and convince you to war with Sahlgren?”

  “When were we ever friends?” Lormac asked without looking up. “I will remind you, Prelate, you only remain here by her leave. If I had my way, you would have been gone shortly after you arrived.”

  “Then your consort does advise you,” Tor said as he baited Lormac. Caol’nir didn’t know what his father hoped to accomplish, but he didn’t think antagonizing the Lord of Tingu was wise.

  “Father,” Caol’nir began but fell silent when Asherah, Torim, and Harek entered the room; Sarfek remained skulking in the corridor.

  “She does not,” Asherah stated as she took her place at Lormac’s side. “My lord has his own opinions.”

  “You claim an elf as your lord?” demanded Tor. Asherah’s eyes flamed at the Prelate, but it was Torim that spoke.

  “Lormac is not the one who sent us to the dojas,” Torim said softly. “He’s trying to put right all the harm that Sahlgren has done.”

  Caol’nir watched his father as Torim spoke. It pained Caol’nir to think that such a seemingly gentle creature as she had been a slave; he guessed that Tor felt the same. Torim’s words had the desired effect, and the Prelate turned his attention back to Lormac.

  “This is a map of Thurnda,” Lormac began, “where Ehkron was sighted this past Winter Eve, and this,” he traced a path across the mountains, “is the trail of carnage he has wrought among my people. As you can see, Prelate, your king’s actions have brought strife to my lands as well.”

  “You’re certain it was Ehkron?” Caol’nir asked. “Seven days prior to Winter Eve, I saw him meet with Sahlgren in the High Desert. He couldn’t have made the journey so fast, unless…” Caol’nir looked to his father, and then continued. “Rahlle mentioned that the king has use of a portal.”

  “And a portal would allow Ehkron to journey from the High Desert to the World’s Spine in the blink of an eye,” Lormac concluded. “Did the mad magician say what the portal is used for?”

  “By demons, to gain entry to Teg’urnan and the Great Temple.” Caol’nir leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. “One of the priestesses was torn to pieces.” Torim gasped, and even Harek’s immovable features were touched by the image of an innocent priestess’s murder. “Rahlle said it was likely a mordeth that killed her.”

  “Was she marked?” Torim asked quietly.

  “Marked?” Caol’nir asked.

  “Mordeth’s mark their property by burning their handprint into flesh,” Torim replied. “They use their own blood, so they may always know where the bearer lies. It makes escape near impossible unless the mordeth is killed.”

  “Blood burns heal,” Caol’nir said. “I’ve had many, yet I bear no scars. Why do the handprints remain?”

  “I don’t know why a mordeth’s blood is different,” replied Torim. “I only know that it is.”

  “There was no way to know if she’d been marked,” Caol’nir said, remembering the gore that had once been Ethnia. He did not remember any pieces of her being large enough to carry such an imprint.

  “May I ask what has given you cause to believe these claims against Sahlgren?” Lormac asked, breaking the pall of silence.

  “Rahlle claims that Sahlgren wants a new legion that carries demon blood in its veins,” Tor said. “Apparently, once he has conquered this realm, he will use them to conquer the rest.”

  “Is that why only the pureblooded are enslaved?” Lormac asked. Tor and Caol’nir looked quizzically at Lormac, and he retrieved another map. “My information states that the demons only take those of pure faerie blood. You’ll notice that most of the dojas
are in the west and south, where few other races live. There are almost none near the dark fae, and few to the north.”

  Tor studied the map for a time, and then retrieved a scroll of his own. “We had reports filtering in of slave camps, but we only verified the location of a very few,” he said as he unrolled the parchment. “By the time we reached them, they were burnt out.”

  “This is where we were held,” Asherah said, indicating a spot on Tor’s map. “And these are dojas that we burnt.” She traced their route northward.

  “You engineered the destruction of each of these dojas?” Tor asked incredulously.

  “I did,” Asherah answered. Tor looked at her with a new measure of respect, while Lormac looked on her with an abundance of pride.

  “What I still don’t understand is how we’ve only learned this of late,” Caol’nir stated. “Based on your information there are dojas all across Parthalan, yet we have received no reports of trouble. How could so many faeries be captured and no one come to the legion for aid?”

  “Your legion was the first to be compromised,” Harek stated flatly. “We were kidnapped from the legion and tortured nearly to death, then put under a thrall that kept us from helping the women, no matter how they screamed or fought.”

  “Helping the women?” Tor repeated, and Harek nodded. “One thing I do need said plainly, what was the purpose of these dojas?” Asherah squeezed her eyes shut, and Torim looked away. Caol’nir did not know why Tor needed an explicit description; perhaps his loyalty to Sahlgren ran too deeply. Perhaps he just needed to hear it with his own ears in order to believe it.

  It seemed that Lormac thought such talk unnecessary as well, and he whispered something in Asherah’s ear, to which she shook her head and assured him that she was fine. Caol’nir then remembered that Lormac had said that Asherah was a former slave—He took a slave as his queen?—and realized that this delicate girl had been subjected to the same horrors he was trying to keep from Alluria.