The Twelve Kingdoms: Heart's Blood

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Heart’s Blood

  A Twelve Kingdoms Novella

  Jeffe Kennedy

  Brightlynx Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Jeffe Kennedy

  Copyright © 2016 by Jeffe Kennedy

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This copy is intended for the purchaser of this ebook only, or sharing as permitted by your ebook vendor.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

  Thank you for reading!

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Even the gray crystals sleeting down contributed to the dinginess of the day. The old snow of the inner courtyard, scuffed by the passage of many feet, lay in stripes of darkest mud crossing the drifts of iron-toned ice, absorbing the dismal new snowfall without a sign of change.

  The new arrivals—Cavan couldn’t quite think of the woman as his bride, not yet, though the vows had been said and sealed—showed their relief at reaching the castle in the lines of their sagging shoulders, their hurried movements as they dismounted. Astonishing that she had journeyed to Marcellum with only a waiting woman for company. But then, rumor had Old Queen Isyn of the Remus Isles eccentric in more ways than that. She’d sent a ship to carry her daughter, Natilde, to the shores of Erie, and promised protection she’d sent with the princess would see her arrive safely.

  Cavan had assumed that meant an actual guard, but apparently not.

  He’d stayed back instead of greeting this Natilde personally, needing those moments to process his first impressions of her without guarding his true reaction. A moment of honesty with himself, even if he must forever hide it after this. He’d liked her letters, but people were not always the same in person as in their writing. As if feeling his gaze, the dark haired woman looked up, scanning the tower and fixing on the window where he stood. Out of long habit, though she could hardly see him clearly, he shuttered his expression, the moment of honesty already over.

  “What do you think?” His father laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Does it matter?” Cavan bled the bitterness from his voice before it could snake in, keeping it smooth, courtly. All any king could wish of his heir. “I’ve made my vows and will keep them.”

  “She seems to be as beautiful as promised. That will help.”

  “All cats are gray in the dark.”

  King Wyn made a disapproving sound. “You’ll find yourself out of bed more than in it. In time you’ll appreciate at least a pleasant visage to look upon. Her beauty will do credit to the throne of Erie.”

  The woman—Natilde, he reminded himself—tilted her head and, with a wry curve of her reddened lips, sank into a curtsy. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, feeling nothing but a vague dread at the sight of her. He’d known better than to expect any kind of instant affection, but he had hoped, in the cynical way one looked forward to distant spring, to be at least attracted. Like a stallion bred to a mare, he had little choice in this pairing. He envied the horses in this moment, subject only to their basest urges, not requiring more than that to breed and be done.

  He supposed he didn’t require more either. But glimpsing the potential for affection might have helped. Of course, the horses wouldn’t be spending the rest of their lives together, either.

  “Regard grows over time.” his father squeezed his shoulder. “Complete the alliance, get an heir, then dally with all the maids you like.”

  Not something Cavan would ever do. Vows were meant to be kept, not discarded at whim or convenience. He’d seen enough of how his father’s dallying had wounded his mother, weakening the marriage and her, until she finally slipped into poor health, then death. Cavan steeled himself to keep his promises, do his duty by the throne—and hardened his instinctive flinch at that vision of the future. Below, servants escorted Natilde inside the great doors, taking her to the bridal chamber where they would put the final seal on their marriage before the sun rose again.

  Conducted long-distance and bloodlessly, the rites that bound them to each other had been as cold as the flat sky. No reason this final coming together should be any different. Or so Cavan had tried to resign himself, his heart as bleak and gray as the endless winter. He’d seen the model with other kings and queens, with their carefully formal, soulless marriages, and all his life had known better than to expect more.

  And yet, some part of him had hoped regardless.

  He should go and get it done with, but instead he lingered at the window, though delay and denial would change nothing. Telling himself the tableau fascinated him, he observed as the waiting woman, head bowed, stopped a groom from taking one of the horses. She slipped a pale hand, transparent ice like the snow around her, along the mare’s fine-boned jaw. Inclining her head, she seemed to speak to the horse, then nodded as if hearing a reply.

  He smiled a little at it, feeling the crack in the stone of his own face. Not at her speaking to the horse—he did that with his own steeds, as many good horsemen did—but that she fancied the animal could answer. Superstitious. Perhaps peasant stock, given her rough garb, with their many uneducated beliefs. But enviable in her simplicity, her childlike affection for the horse. Something he’d long left behind. Pitiful. Envying first his own stallion, then a waiting woman.

  “I suppose we’ll have to find a place for her.” His father looked out also. “We can hardly send her home immediately. I have no ships to spare or guard to take her back to the port.”

  “Princess Natilde will no doubt wish to have a familiar servant. I’ll inquire.”

  “Do so. And, take my advice, delay no longer. Starting your marriage with the insult of apparent reluctance will only poison things between you.” The king sighed, a rare sound of regret, and clasped him on the shoulder again. Squeezed and met his gaze, eyes paler than the gray snow. “I know this isn’t easy and you are strangers, but perhaps you will find that you enjoy one another.”

  Despite the steadiness of the king’s assurance, doubt crept through his tone like the feathers of frost threading across the window pane as the sun set in midwinter haste.

  Taking hold of himself, Cavan turned from the scene below and went to meet his bride.

  * * *

  Natilde indulged one moment longer in the silken texture of Falada’s hide, the sweet, hay-scented breath washing warmly over her as the horse murmured words of encouragement. At least, now that they’d arrived, she could talk with Falada again, as long as no one overheard them. A small happiness, but she suspected she would subsist on a similar diet of scant crumbs of pleasure for the rest of her life. And be grateful to have that much. At least they’d lived to reach the castle.

  “If your mother only knew,” Falada muttered, “her heart would break.”

  “One reason she can’t ever know. She cannot help me, not without our kingdoms going to war. I’ll find a place here and it will be fine. I never needed to be queen. Or wife to a man I’ve never
met.”

  “It’s who you are, wanted or not.” The mare gnashed over the words with her blunt teeth. “Not that viper’s, who even now beds your lawful husband.”

  “Not mine. Never mine. Not now.” The sullen gray castle walls rose around her, a deeper shade than the empty sky that shed gritty snow, pricking her cold cheeks. “He belongs to Princess Natilde and I am no longer her. I am no one now, and there is freedom in that.”

  “Unless she’s discovered.”

  “She won’t be. Remember I vowed never to tell, and guaranteed your silence also.”

  “An oath made under duress carries no weight.”

  “This one does. She won’t hesitate to carry out her threats. You saw—.” She broke off, unwilling to admit the images to her mind of what had happened. How she’d promised and groveled, just to have it come to an end. That Falada had witnessed her violation and degradation only made it worse.

  Falada nuzzled her in comfort. “It grieves me that I couldn’t stop it. If I could trade this horse’s body and have my magic again, I would.”

  “You made the choice for good reasons. And came with me to be my companion, not my protector. The talisman Mother gave me should have—” The illness of terror rose up, choking her. That, too, had been easily wrested from her. “No. I’ll keep to my word and so will you. Tell no one our secret. In truth, better not to talk at all—the people here...they won’t understand. Erie and the Twelve have been so long without magic, none of them believe in it anymore. And she will kill you if you tell. I can’t lose you along with everything else.”

  The horse shook her head in irritation as the groom returned, laying a hand to her bridle. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I’d best get this one stabled.”

  She took his measure. Stocky, coarse-featured but with gentle hands. “This one is Falada. Treat her with care as she’s of rare and fine breeding.”

  “Aye, miss.” He ducked his head at her, clucked to Falada and led her away, leaving Natilde standing alone in the yard, uncertain what to do with herself. How did servants know where to go?

  “Well, come inside then,” a woman called from a side doorway, one wafting smoke-tinged steam. The kitchens, no doubt. “The Princess says you’ve not many skills and you’re not needed to attend her.” The woman sized her up as she approached. “Prince Cavan says to find you a place.”

  The woman pulled the door shut behind her, the kitchens thankfully warmer and considerably brighter than the frozen yard. “I’m Brenna Crocker, housekeeper and thus head of all the servants. What do they call you?”

  Taken aback, Natilde had no immediate answer. Not her own name, as that had been stripped from her along with her clothes, dignity, pride and rank. Innocence. Leaving only self-loathing behind. She could not take the viper’s name as her own, no more than she’d wrap herself in the discarded skin of a snake.

  “You speak Common Tongue, don’t you?” Mrs. Crocker spoke more slowly, enunciating the words. Then frowned at her. “Not a mute or an idiot, are ye?”

  For a long moment, she considered it. Play mute. Be the idiot without fully formed thoughts and she’d never be expected to answer questions, a barrier against accidentally speaking of what had happened and bringing down the promised wrath. Easier, especially given how the sudden, intense tumble to her current status had left her battered in some crushing unnamable way. If your mother only knew, her heart would break. But her mother wouldn’t know. The promised magic, her mother’s protection had shredded as easily as the delicate silk of her undergarments under the claws and knife of the vicious waiting woman. Reducing her to nothing.

  But pretending to idiocy would be the coward’s way and she’d already been too much of that.

  “Nix,” she breathed. Then spoke it louder, laying claim to it, the nothingness that remained her one belonging. They would belong to each other, her and the empty space. Better to embrace it, the final end of her tentative dreams and the grander ones her mother had nursed for her.

  Mrs. Crocker wiped her mouth with the back of a coal-stained hand. “Can’t say as I think much of your mother, laying that fate upon you with such a name. But so be it, Nix. Sit with some tea and tell me what you know how to do. We’ll find a place for you.”

  2

  Natilde’s dark beauty matched the bridal chamber perfectly, as if she—or her people—had somehow known and planned for it. An absurd notion, that her appearance could have been engineered. And yet, her crimson-painted lips matched the brocade spread, her glossy chestnut hair an echo of the carved wooden bed posts, the ice green of her eyes shades lighter than the malachite tiles of the fireplace she posed in front of. Striking, indeed, but somehow not at all pleasant to look upon.

  That glittering gaze drank him in as he approached, with all the ardent hunger any man would wish for from his wife. Yet something in the avaricious edge of it curdled his gut, a sense of illness Cavan bore down on. He’d bedded women before and she would be no better or worse than they, royal blood or not. All cats are gray in the dark. His men bantered that one about, that phrase he’d unwisely lobbed back at his father, though the king had let it pass. Douse the candles and one woman would be the same as the next. Maidservant, peasant wench or virgin bride. All the same betwixt their thighs.

  “My prince.” Natilde curtseyed as she had in the courtyard, with studied grace and a sultry pout. “I’m gratified to see your handsomeness and royal mien were most accurately reflected in your portrait.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, my lady.” He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss over the back of it, vaguely unsettled by the scent of her perfumed flesh, as heavily floral as the brocaded bed curtains. Of course, she’d traveled many days and likely wished to cover the odors of her journey. A thought that did nothing to appease his distaste. “I never received a likeness of you.”

  “My mother, Queen Isyn, does not believe in such things.” Natilde gave him a conspiratorial smile that oddly made him like her less. “You’ve no doubt heard the rumors.”

  “No?” He made it a question, to invite her to confide more, though of course he had heard bits and bits. If nothing else, the king’s spies had gathered all they could—innuendo or otherwise—about their potential new ally. Which wasn’t much. The people of the Isles of Remus had always been insular. Far enough off the coast and scattered enough to make conquest difficult, the Queen Isyn’s kingdom had evaded being drawn under High King Uorsin’s rule.

  With Queen Isyn failing and his marriage to Natilde, he’d be king of both lands eventually. It paid to know what that would mean. Wild tales of witchcraft, sorcery and faeries obscured the picture more than a bit.

  “Paintings steal the soul, didn’t you know?” Her green eyes caressed him with feline glee, daring him to fall for her bait. “Which means I hold yours, a tighter bond than any wedding vows your priests could tie us with.”

  The hair raising on the back of his neck, he released her hand and stepped back. “The marriage is not yet consummated.”

  She clasped her hands together and held them between her breasts, drawing his gaze to her generously displayed bosom. He tried to savor the sight, to prime himself for his duty. He needed be looking for reasons to like her, not the reverse. “A jest only!” She laughed gaily. “I meant to tease, my prince. Don’t let a sour old woman’s superstitious beliefs color what should be a passionate new beginning for us.”

  “Have you no affection for your mother then?”

  A sneer rippled over her lovely face, wrenching it into a flash of ugliness, quickly banished with a pretty smile. “I am glad to be away from her and her provincial islands. I shall be a far greater, more powerful queen than she could ever hope to be.”

  “My father continues hale and hearty,” he warned her. “You will remain a princess for some time yet.”

  “A status that suits me exceedingly well.” She closed the distance between them and stroked his cheek, almost as he’d check the soundness of the hocks in a horse
he meant to buy. “Husband,” she added, in a tone of satisfaction.

  “Not entirely,” he said, unsettled by the prick of his instincts, warning him to escape. “Not yet.”

  “Then, by all means...” She smiled, her red mouth seductive in the firelight. “Let’s put that to rights, as we both vowed to do.”

  The reminder pricked him. He had so vowed, and he would see it through. “I’ll call your serving woman to tend you.”

  “No.” As if realizing she’d sounded sharp, Natilde stroked his cheek, her nails a scrape of omen, and gave a rueful shake of her head. “She is a coarse, useless thing, recruited for this journey only because no one else wished to travel so far from home. More superstition. I suspect she lied and falsified her references. She might not even be from Remus. I’d prefer another servant. Surely anyone you have will be far better.”

  “I shall see to it then.” He moved away from her with a sense of reprieve. One he shouldn’t cling to. “I’ll see that a bath is prepared for you and then shall return later.”

  Her face hardened slightly. Insulted, perhaps. So be it. He’d yet to feel any stirrings of lust for her that would enable him to bed her as duty and his vows required. Ridding her of the heavy perfume could only help.

  “You could stay,” she pouted, though her simmering ire rendered it less effective. “Assist me yourself.”

  “I’m a prince,” he told her, “not a bath servant. Speaking of which—how shall we occupy your former waiting woman?”

  “Send her away.”

  He raised a brow at her callousness to the companion of her long journey. “It is winter, my lady, and a harsh one. Your isles are gentle in climate, but not so this far inland. She would likely not survive, were we to turn her out. At best she’d fall to an unwelcome fate.”