by Tara West
“It takes three days by carriage,” he answered. “The horses need rest.”
She waited until the guard helped her out and led her to a fire the guards had made in the center of the road. The icy wind whipped her hair around and made her shiver. She checked on Nadia, whose dark brown eyes were the only visible part of her after she wrapped a coarse wool cloak around herself. Clutching her own cloak, Kyria remembered her brother telling her of the wind in Periculi that seeped into your flesh and turned your bones to ice. They hadn’t even reached the outpost and already her teeth were chattering.
On the other side of the fire, a long tent had been erected. The flap was open, revealing plush pillows and furs. That had to be her sleeping quarters. She noted how far it was from the fire, enough that the soldiers wouldn’t hear her screams if Brutus muffled her mouth with a pillow.
Thanking Marcello when he handed her a bowl of soup and a crust of bread, she and Nadia trekked across the gravel road to her tent to dine together. Kyria swore when her heavy boots caught a stone, and she nearly flew face first into the tent. Nadia spilled most of her soup to catch her. She wasn’t normally clumsy.
After they settled in their tent, Nadia hardly ate, choosing instead to down an entire goblet of wine and then climb under Kyria’s furs without so much as a goodnight.
She heard Brutus outside barking orders at the men and prayed he’d stay away from her. Just looking at him made her stomach roil and not because of the puckered skin around his hollow eye socket. It was the way that one eye leered at her.
Though a guard offered her a jug of wine, she refused it, opting for water. She had to keep her wits about her.
No sooner had she crawled into the makeshift bed beside Nadia, pulling the furs close around her to drive out the cold that had seeped into her bones and quell the chattering of her teeth, than the tent flap lifted and Brutus stepped inside, a lantern illuminating his ugly face with a demonic glow.
She shot upright, clutching the blade. “Get out of my tent!”
“I’m sorry.” Unsnapping his belt with his one good hand, he threw down his sword and kicked it aside. “I can’t do that, My Queen. The king says I’m to be your personal guard. I must sleep with you to ensure my men don’t take advantage of you.” There was no mistaking his mocking tone or the malicious gleam in his foggy eye. He intended to rape her this night.
When Nadia sat up, he said, “Get out before I run my sword through your cowardly gut.”
Nadia raced out of the tent. Kyria had no idea where the poor servant girl would go to stay warm and hoped the soldiers wouldn’t take advantage of her, though Nadia wasn’t her primary concern at the moment.
Getting up on her knees, she pointed at the tent flap. “You’re not sleeping here.”
“Oh, but I am, my beauty.” Dropping to his knees, he lurched for her, his rancid breath walloping her like an almost physical thing, making her want to vomit into his hand when he clutched her face in a bruising grip and traced her jaw with the gleaming hook. “Don’t worry. I promised the king I wouldn’t be too rough.” He chuckled. “You might not be able to sit for long, but you’ll still walk.”
When he reached for her, she lashed out, slicing open his arm, and jumped to her feet, then stumbled forward as if she was drunk.
“You stupid bitch!” he seethed, trying to stop the flow of blood. “You’ll pay for this.”
Crouching, she swiped the back of his leg with the knife when he came for her again, thankful her hands were steadier than her feet.
“Damn bitch!” he roared.
He was slow and clumsy, and she realized his rancid breath was probably due to the drink that was rotting his insides. Though he was big, he’d be easy to fell.
When he dove for her again, she swung around and aimed for his back, but kicked his side instead. She frowned. It wasn’t like her to miss. It was enough to do the trick, though. She kicked him again, so hard he fell on the furs and rolled to the other side of the tent.
She made a face, not wanting him to smell up her furs and pillows.
She fell on his neck, kneeing his windpipe. Gasping for breath, he tried to push her off while he flailed and kicked like a fish out of water. Foolish human had underestimated her Fae strength. She managed to stay on top of him while fishing out the vial of life water.
Leaning over him, she peered into his foggy eye. “Stay still, or I will crush your lungs.”
He froze, and though his words were garbled, she could discern the words “fucking bitch.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” She laughed, feeling as if a dark, evil Kyria was speaking through her. After unscrewing the vial, she tipped it over his mouth and let three drops fall on his tongue.
Eyes bulging, he seized like he was having an apoplectic fit. She jumped away from him when his mouth began to foam, making a face of disgust when it dripped down his chin and onto the furs. Grabbing his two swollen ankles, she dragged him off her bed and into the dirt, watching with an odd feeling of detachment as he gasped, shuddered, and went still.
Too afraid to check his pulse, she crouched, watching for signs of life. When there were none, her mind reeled. She’d killed a man! She’d never killed another living being in her life—not even a bug. What would his men do to her when they discovered their dead commander in her tent? Rising on shaky legs, she took a tentative step toward him. The foam had abated, dripping into the dirt and pooling around his neck in liquid form. What would she tell the guards? She couldn’t let them know she’d killed him, but the bloody cuts she’d made on his arm and leg would point straight to her. Struck by an idea, she put one drop of life water on each cut, heaving a sigh of relief when they healed. She wiped the blood off with a damp cloth, then hid it under a layer of furs.
Stepping away from the body, she let out a shrill scream. “Help! Help!”
“I’m here, Your Highness!” Marcello ran in, brandishing his sword and nearly stumbling over Brutus. Three armed guards followed him.
“Good goddess!” he cried. “What happened?”
“I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “He fell down, clutching his heart.”
Marcello checked Brutus’s pulse. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, goodness, no.” She gasped, clutching her throat. “He was my king’s most loyal guard. He will be devastated.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Marcello rose. “I think he had a seizure.” He turned to the other guards. “His older brother died the same way, if you recall.”
They murmured agreement.
“Remove the body,” he said. “Prepare a funeral pyre.”
They bowed to Marcello and carried the corpse from the tent. She was surprised such a baby-faced young man had command of the troops.
She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing Marcello would leave her alone so she could quit pretending to be concerned.
She was shocked when he bowed low before her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner, Your Highness. Brutus slipped away without me noticing. Evander asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Oh?” She’d thought Evander had abandoned her after the way he’d ignored her at her departure. But he’d cared enough to ask another soldier to keep an eye on her? Was Marcello a spy, too?
“I will spread the news that he died of a fit of the heart,” Marcello said with a wink.
He knew she’d killed him, yet he was willing to lie for her. Relief eased her tension. “Yes,” she said on a breathy whisper, “a fit of the heart is exactly what caused his death.”
“His death leaves me in command,” he said. “I’ll be sleeping outside your tent. You’ll be safe for the rest of the journey.”
Gratitude overwhelmed her. “Thank you.”
“No, Your Highness.” Taking her hand, he bowed once more. “Thank you. I will send your servant to you now.”
“Yes, please.” She felt ten shades of selfish for forgetting about Nadia.
As she watched him go, a maelstrom of
emotions, from fear to relief to utter horror at the fact that she felt no remorse for killing a man, surged through her. Since marrying the king, she felt her life had been set on a course of destruction, and killing Brutus was only the beginning.
Chapter Twelve
THE CARRIAGE SHOOK like a leaf in a storm in the howling wind. Good thing they were on the final day of their treacherous climb, because she didn’t think she could handle much more of it. The chill permeated the cabin, and she and Nadia huddled together for warmth. How had her brother survived such harsh conditions?
When the carriage stopped, she looked outside, squinting into the darkness, at a sea of white illuminated by moonlight. Snow. Her brother had told her about the cold white powder, but she’d never seen it up close. Her attention was drawn to an imposing monolith at the end of a line of trees.
The stone fortress of Periculi was as tall as the turrets of her husband’s palace, a massive, imposing wall that curved around the base of the mountain’s snowy peak. Illuminated by huge pyres at each turret, this was the first line of defense against the dragon invaders, for they always came from the cold waters of the north. Long before the Dragon Defenders guarded this hostile land, dragons would be tossed onto Periculi’s cliffs by massive waves, then slither down the mountain and wreak havoc across the land. The defenders built their fortress, and whenever the dragons tried to advance, they were met with canons and spears, barricaded and slaughtered by the brave defenders. No dragon was a match for Delfi’s finest soldiers save one, Fanfir, the mighty black leviathan whose scales were impervious to cannon fire. At least three times the size of a normal dragon, he devoured soldiers whole. Though he hadn’t made an appearance on Periculi’s shores since the day he swallowed her brother, she trembled at the thought of him resurfacing.
The alarm sounded, heralding the arrival of her entourage long before they’d reach the wall. She hung out the window, biting her lip against the pain of the icy wind whipping her hair against her face. Pinching the hood of her cloak at her throat, she peered up at the row of soldiers standing along the wall, arrows drawn and pointed at her party. The pyre’s red flames cast an eerie glow over their bronze helmets, making them appear to be on fire.
“Dragon Defenders,” Marcello called to them, “we bring with us an emissary on behalf of King Ahri Milas, son to the late Cletus Milas.”
“Son or father, makes no difference,” a familiar voice boomed. “His emissary is not welcome here.”
Kyria frowned at that. Her uncle must not have known she was coming. She squinted, barely able to make out his features with the shadows cast over his face, save for his bushy, gray beard, and matching long, wild hair.
“The emissary he sends is his bride,” Marcello called back, “Queen Kyria Milas, formerly Lady Kyria Faustus.”
She was not prepared for the wave of murmurs and cursing that rose from the line of defenders. Were they more dismayed by her presence or that she’d married the king? Her stomach roiled at the thought of causing such displeasure.
Her uncle released several expletives and turned to a defender to murmur into his ear. Finally he waved to Marcello. “Hold there. I will come down and get her.”
Her heart lurched into her throat, and she ducked back inside. Since her wedding she’d been uneasy and felt unsafe, which was why she couldn’t wait to be with Uncle Anton and Alexi’s brothers-in-arms. She prayed the defenders would make her feel safe once more.
Rather than wait for a soldier to come for her, she pushed open the door, gasping when it flew out of her hands and slammed into the side of the carriage with a crack.
Two guards helped her down and then her servant. Snow crunched under her boots, and she was thankful for her heavy cloak.
“I want to go back in the carriage,” Nadia said.
“We’ll be inside soon,” she answered. “At least she hoped so.” She surged forward, ignoring the sting of frigid air. When she reached her guards, she peered around their shoulders, disappointed to see not a single familiar face with her uncle, who was facing her escort with a dozen heavily armed defenders. Where was her brother’s unit? Didn’t they want to see her? She felt momentary panic when she realized they might have been killed, either by a dragon or in a skirmish with the king’s men.
Uncle Anton completely ignored her and spoke to Marcello. “King Milas’s soldiers are not welcome here, but you may send in the queen.”
Marcello took a huge step forward. “Where Her Highness goes, I go.”
Uncle Anton raised his sword. “My niece is in no danger here, but you are if you don’t stand down.”
“Marcello.” She ducked under his arm and stood between them. “Do as he says.”
Marcello gave her a strange look, the same one her brother used to give her when he was trying to communicate telepathically. “I follow orders from my king.”
She got the impression he meant someone other than her husband, but what other king was there? Could he have meant the Fae king?
“The king isn’t here,” she said, “so you will follow my orders. Stand down.” She shot her uncle a look, pleased when he gave her the slightest of smiles. “I will be safe here.”
Kyria held her breath, waiting for Marcello to respond. When he finally stepped back, giving her a stiff bow, she sighed in relief. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Kyria turned to Uncle Anton, motioning to Nadia, who shivered so hard behind the line of guards, she feared her servant was about to start seizing. “May my servant come?”
“No.” His smile was replaced with hard lines that pinched his already weathered face. “You come alone, niece, or you don’t come at all.”
She bristled. She wasn’t used to him speaking to her in that way. She turned to Nadia, mouthing an apology, unsure if her servant even saw her with the hood of her cloak pulled so low.
Placing a hand on Marcello’s arm, she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please don’t let anything happen to her.”
“I won’t. Please don’t let anything happen to yourself.”
She gave him a slight nod. “You need not worry about me.”
She went to her uncle, who held tightly to her hand, his wind-burned skin crackling like old parchment. Her father had said Anton had once been pale, like him, but years spent toiling outside had turned his cheeks ruddy brown with blotches of red.
“Come, my dear niece,” he whispered harshly. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Her knees nearly buckled at his sharpness. Did he think she was to blame for her current situation? As if she could’ve refused the king’s proposal.
UNCLE ANTON LED HER into the fortress, and she jumped when the massive wall closed behind them. Heavy bolts made of thick logs were shoved across the door. A sea of defenders parted as they passed through a busy village made up of soldiers. They went toward a long log hut at the end of rows of smaller huts, each glowing inside from firelight. Though she spotted the occasional woman, child, or dog, she felt like a lone fish swimming in a sea of sharks, and they were all looking at her as if she was a tasty meal.
“Where are Alexi’s brothers-in-arms?” she asked, her heart skipping a beat as she awaited his response.
He navigated her around deep, muddy puddles mixed with snow. “They are on duty on the far side of the cliffs. I will send for them.”
Relief swept through her. They lived after all.
Inside the massive hut, they passed through a hall with a vaulted ceiling, stone floors, and long dining tables. Though the room had several hearths, they were still not enough to warm the space. She imagined it was much warmer when filled with hundreds of bodies gathered for meals. They went into a smaller room, with a bed of furs, a table big enough for four, and a large stone hearth with a blazing fire. Above it hung three shields, a sad reminder of her uncle’s fallen unit. His brothers-in-arms had helped him command Periculi, but now he was solely in charge.
A woman dressed in a servant’s robe bowed to Anton. She was prett
y, with light wrinkles framing her eyes and black hair peppered with gray tied back. The coy look she gave him made her think she was also his lover.
“Give us some privacy,” he said to her. “And send for Commander Titus.”
He’d risen in rank since she’d seen him last. Titus would be a fine commander.
“Yes, General.” The servant bowed again and quickly exited.
Kneeling in front of the fire, she rubbed her hands in front of the flames, trying to ward off the chill that had seeped into her bones.
He removed his heavy fur coat, hat, and gloves, then laid them on the table. His beard had grown longer, the gray tips matted and twisted like tree roots. His hair was equally unkempt. She remembered how clean and trim that beard had been when he’d visited her family. Now he resembled the vagrants that wandered the cobblestone streets of Sawran, begging for handouts.
He held the goblet out to her. “Wine?”
She eagerly nodded. “Please.”
He handed the empty goblet to her. “Say when.”
Licking the roof of her parched mouth, she let him fill it to the top, not feeling one bit like a glutton. She needed this wine, not just to quench her thirst but also to calm her nerves. She drank enthusiastically, hardly aware of its sweet flavor. It was ambrosia wine, Jade’s favorite. The thought of her best friend was like a blade slicing through her heart. Kyria realized guiltily that she hadn’t thought of her much these past few days. What she wouldn’t give to have Jade with her now.
After setting down the jug of wine, Anton crossed beefy arms. “How do you fare, niece?”
She shrugged, licking wine off her lips. “As well as can be.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Has he mistreated you?”
“No, Uncle.” She averted her eyes. Mistreated was an understatement. The monster had brutalized her, heart and soul.
“You’ve never been a good liar.” He sat on the furs beside her, crossing his legs and staring into the fire. He held a bigger goblet swirling with amber liquid she assumed was stronger than wine. “I begged your parents not to send you to that temple. Had they listened, you would not be in this situation now.”