The memories triggered something deep within her, an irrational wash of rage and fury and fear. A hatred for this place. An even deeper hatred for the man sitting across from her.
Slowly, she shoved the emotions deep down inside her, but as she lifted her head, Lara could tell Aren had seen all of it play across of her face.
Give him a truth.
“I was born in the harem in Vencia. I lived there with my mother among all the other wives and younger children. After the treaty was signed, my father had all of his female children of appropriate age taken to the compound for their—for our—protection from Valcotta and Amarid and anyone else who sought to disrupt the alliance. I was five years old.” She swallowed, the vision of the memory fuzzy, but the sounds and smells sharp as though they were yesterday. “There was no warning. I was playing when the soldiers grabbed me, and I remember kicking and screaming as they dragged me away. They smelled awful—like sweat and wine. I remember more men holding my mother against the ground. Her fighting, trying to get to me. Trying to stop them from taking me.” Lara’s eyes burned, and she chased away the tears with a mouthful of brandy. Then another. “I never saw her again.”
“I wasn’t fond of your father before,” Aren said quietly. “Less so, now.”
“The worst part is . . .” She trailed off, staring at the insides of her eyelids, trying to find what she was looking for. “Is that I can’t remember her face. If I met her on a street, I’m not sure I’d even know it was her.”
“You’d know.”
Lara bit the insides of her cheeks, hating that he, of all people, would say something that would bring her comfort. It’s because of him you were taken from your mother. It’s his fault. He is the enemy. The enemy. The enemy.
A knock sounded loudly against the door, and Lara jumped, ripped from her thoughts by the interruption.
“Come in,” Aren said, and the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman dripping with weapons. Her long black hair was shaved on the sides, the rest pulled into a tail on top of her head—a style that seemed to be favored by the female warriors—and her eyes were a pale grey. Half a head taller that Lara, her bare arms were solid with muscle, her skin marked with old scars.
“This is Lia. She’s part of my guard. Lia, this is Lara. She’s…”
“Queen.” The young woman inclined her head. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
Lara inclined her head, curious about Ithicana’s female warriors. Her father had told Lara and her sisters that they’d be underestimated because they were women, but the women here seemed to be as respected as any man.
Lia had turned her attention back to her king and was handing him a folded piece of paper. “Season’s been declared over.”
“I heard the horns. Two weeks earlier than last year.”
Lara picked up her own letter, hoping they’d say more if they believed her distracted. Serin had written about her eldest brother, Rask, who was heir. He’d apparently fought successfully in some tourney, and the Magpie described the events in vivid detail. Not that she cared, having never had anything to do with her brother. The Ithicanian codebreaker had circled the letters that formed the code, but not, she realized, Marylyn’s code. Rereading the document with an eye for the code her eldest sister had created, Lara contained a smile as she lifted the pattern from the page. Apparently the Ithicanians were fallible, after all.
Her hidden smile vanished as she parsed the code. Maridrina receiving only rotten produce. Molding grains. Diseased cattle. Valcottan ships departing with holds full of superior goods.
Serin had explained the new trade terms that had been negotiated as part of the treaty. The elimination of taxes on goods Maridrina purchased in Northwatch, which would then be shipped to Southwatch with no tolls. On the surface, it was a good deal for Maridrina and a large concession for Ithicana. Unless one considered that it placed all the risk of goods deteriorating during transport on Maridrina’s shoulders. If the grain purchased in Northwatch rotted before it reached Southwatch, it was Maridrina’s loss and not Ithicana’s problem. And what wonder Maridrina was receiving the worst of goods when it was Ithicana who coordinated the transport. The pages crumpled slightly under Lara’s grip, and she tore her eyes from the writing as she heard Aren say, “No getting around her request, I suppose.”
Lia agreed, then inclined her head. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Lara watched the other woman leave, struggling to master her expression. Serin’s message didn’t surprise her, but it was still infuriating to know that the man calmly sitting across from her playing cards was consciously making choices to harm her people.
Cards snapped against the table. Another hand. Another truth.
Picking them up, Lara eyed the hand, knowing they were high and that she should think up a question that gained her something. But when she won, the question that came out was something different. “How did your parents die?”
Aren stiffened, then scrubbed a hand through his hair. Reaching over, he jerked the bottle out of her hand, draining it dry.
Lara waited. In her failed searches for maps, she’d found other things. Personal things. Drawings of the prior king and queen, the resemblance between Aren and Ahnna and their beautiful mother striking. She’d also found a box full of treasures that only a mother would keep. Baby teeth in a jar. Portraits. Notes written in a childish script. There had been rough little carvings, too, with Aren’s name scratched on the bottom. A much different family than her own.
“They drowned in a storm,” he answered flatly. “Or at least, he did. She was probably already dead.”
There was more to that story, but it was clear he had no intention of sharing it. And that he was running out of patience for this horrible game of chance. More cards on the table. Lara won again.
You rattled him, she told herself. He’s been drinking. Now is the time to push.
“What’s it like inside the bridge?” Her eyes skipped from the cards, to the empty bottle, to his hands, resting on the arms of his chair. Strong. Capable. The sensation of them running across her body danced across her skin, the taste of his mouth on hers, and she shoved the thoughts away as her cheeks—and other parts of her body—heated.
His eyes sharpened, the haze of brandy wiped away. “You need not concern yourself with what the bridge is or is not like, as you’ll never have cause to be in it.”
Aren rose to his feet. “My grandmother wishes to meet you, and she is not one to be denied. We’ll go tomorrow at dawn. By boat.” He leaned down, resting his hands on the sides of her chair, the muscles of his arms standing out in stark relief. Invading her space. Attempting to intimidate her the way his damned kingdom intimidated every other.
“Let me make myself abundantly clear, Lara. Ithicana has not held the bridge by spilling its secrets over a bottle of brandy, so if that’s your intent, you’ll have to get more creative. Better yet, save us all the trouble and forget it even exists.”
Lara leaned back in her chair, never breaking eye contact. With both hands, she pulled up the skirt of her dress, higher and higher until her thighs were revealed, seeing the intensity of his gaze shift to a different target. Lifting one leg, she pressed a naked foot against his chest, watching his eyes race from her knee to her thigh to the silken underthings she wore beneath.
“How about you take your bridge,” she said sweetly, “and shove it up your ass.” His eyes widened right as she straightened her leg, shoving him out of her space. Picking up her book, she tugged her skirt back into place. “I’ll see you at dawn. Goodnight, Your Grace.”
A faint chuckle filled her ears, but she refused to look up even as he said, “Goodnight, Princess,” and disappeared from the room.
13
Aren
Vitex wove his way in a serpentine pattern between Aren’s ankles, purring as he went, seemingly not inclined to desist in his pursuit of attention, despite the fact that Aren had been ignoring him for at least ten minutes.
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br /> The nearly blank sheet of paper on the desk taunted him, golden edges glinting in the lamplight. He’d gotten as far as writing out the formal greeting to King Silas Veliant of Maridrina, but not a word further. His intention had been to accede to Lara’s request and correspond with her father, to assure the man of his daughter’s wellbeing. But now, the pen in his hand on the verge of dripping onto the expensive stationery, Aren found himself at a loss of what to say.
Mostly because Lara remained an enigma. He’d attempted to learn more about her nature during that awful card game, and after hearing how she’d been taken from her mother, it was very clear that if she was a spy, it wasn’t out of love for her father. But that didn’t mean she was innocent. Loyalty, to a certain extent, could be purchased, and Silas had means.
Irritated with the circular nature of his thoughts, Aren tossed his pen aside. Picking up the box of stationery, he pulled up the false side to reveal the narrow drawer designed to hide documents from prying eyes, and shoved the letter to Lara’s father inside. He would complete it once he was more certain that Lara’s welfare was something he could assure.
Patting his cat once on the head, he shooed the animal out the door and strode down the hallway. Eli was polishing silverware, but he looked up at Aren’s approach. “Going to the barracks, Your Grace?”
It was painfully tempting to escape down to the barracks where he could sit around the fire with his soldiers, drink and properly gamble, but that would raise questions as to why he wasn’t spending his nights with his new wife. “Just a walk down to the cliffs.”
“I’ll leave a lamp burning for you, Your Grace.” The boy turned back to his work.
Forgoing a lantern, Aren walked down the narrow path to a spot where naked rock overhung the sea. Waves crashed against the black rock of the cliffs below, water rushing as it retreated only to surge forth again, slamming against Midwatch like an implacable, relentless hammer. Ferocious, yet somehow peaceful, the sound lulling Aren’s senses as he stared at the blackness over the sea.
Groaning, he laid back, the water pooled on the rocks soaking into his clothes as he stared up into the night, the sky a patchwork of cloud and stars, not a light in any direction to distract from their glimmer. His civilians knew better than that, especially in the shoulder season. The moment in the year when the storms ceased to protect Ithicana, and his kingdom was forced to rely on steel, wits, and secrecy.
Would that ever change? Could it?
Paper crinkled against his chest, the pages tucked inside his tunic what had driven him to seek Lara tonight. They were kill orders.
Two fifteen-year-old girls had stolen a boat in an apparent attempt to escape Ithicana. They’d planned to go north to Harendell, according to the information that had been gleaned from their friends.
The kill order was for them. The charge: treason.
It was forbidden for civilians to leave Ithicana. Only highly trained spies were granted the right to do so, and always on the order that if they were ever caught, they’d die on their own sword before revealing Ithicana’s secrets. Only the career soldiers in his army knew all the ways in and out of the bridge, but it was impossible to keep the island defenses from the civilians who lived on them, and everyone knew about Eranahl. Which was why any civilian caught attempting to leave was flogged. And any who succeeded in the attempt were hunted.
And Ithicana’s hunters always caught their quarry.
Fifteen. Aren clenched his teeth, feeling sickness rising in his guts. The report didn’t give a reason for why the girls had fled. It didn’t need to. At fifteen, they’d been assigned to their first garrison. It would be their first War Tides, and they’d have no choice but to fight. And rather than doing so, they risked their lives to flee. To find another path. Another life.
And he was supposed to order their execution for the offense.
His parents had rarely fought, but this law had brought out the shouts and slammed doors, his mother pacing the rooms in such fervor that he and Ahnna had both listened in fear of one of her fits taking her, of her heart stopping, never to beat again. Closing his eyes, he heard the echo of her voice, shouting at his father, “We are in a cage, a prison of our own making. Why can’t you see that?”
“It’s what keeps our people safe,” his father would shout back. “Let down our guard, and Ithicana is done. They will tear us apart in their fight to possess the bridge.”
“You don’t know that. It could be different, if we tried to make it so.”
“The raiders who come every year say otherwise, Delia. This is how we keep Ithicana alive.”
And always, she would whisper, “Alive isn’t living. They deserve more.”
Aren shook his head to drive away the memory. Except it only receded, content to haunt him.
Allowing civilians to come and go from Ithicana all but ensured every one of the kingdom’s secrets would leak. Aren knew that. But if Ithicana had strong alliances with Harendell and Maridrina, the consequences of those leaks would be far more palatable. With the navies of those two kingdoms supporting the bridge’s defense, it would give some of his people a chance to pursue paths other than the sword. To leave and educate themselves. To bring that knowledge home and share it. It would mean he’d no longer have to sign kill orders for children.
But the older generations were adamantly against such a move. A lifetime of war had turned them against outsiders, filled them with hate. And filled them with fear. He needed Lara to help him change that, to make them see Maridrinians as friends, not foes. To convince them to fight for a better future, no matter the risks.
Because how things were . . . It couldn’t continue forever.
Pulling the papers from his pocket, Aren shredded them, allowing the breeze to carry them out to sea.
Then there was a commotion in the bushes, and Aren was on his feet, blade in hand in time to see Eli burst into the open. The servant boy skidded to a stop, breathless, and said, “It’s the queen, Your Grace. She needs your help.”
14
Lara
Hands held her wrists, pinning them to the table. Cloth covered her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth.
Water poured down, an endless torrent.
Only to cease.
“Why were you sent to Ithicana?” a voice whispered in her ear. “What is your purpose? What do you want?”
“To be a bride. To be queen,” she choked, fighting her restraints. “I want peace.”
“Liar.” The voice sent fear through her. “You’re a spy.”
“No.”
“Admit it!”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“Liar!”
The water poured, and she drowned all over again. Unable to voice the truth to save herself. Unable to breathe.
There was sand beneath the fingers, cold and dry. She couldn’t move, her wrists and ankles bound and tied to her waist. Trussed up like a pig.
Darkness.
She rolled, colliding with a wall, more sand falling onto her head, dragging at her hair. Backward, the same.
No way out.
Except up.
Fear binding her in place, she lifted her head to see faceless figures staring down at her.
So far away. With her wrists tied so tight the skin sloughed off, there was no way to climb.
“Why have you come to Ithicana? What is your purpose? Are you a spy for your father?”
“To be queen.” Her throat burned, so dry. So thirsty. “To be a bride of peace. I am no spy.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not.”
Sand struck her in the face. Not just tiny grains, but chunks of rock that bruised and sliced. Forcing her to cringe. To grovel. Eleven shovels flung sand at her from all sides. Striking her. Hurting her. Filling the hole.
Burying her alive.
“Tell us the truth!”
“I am!” The sand was up to her chin.
“Liar!”
She couldn’t breathe.
&nbs
p; She was seated on a chair, her wrists bound together. Her nails picked and scratched at the ropes, blood trickling down her palms. Fabric covered her eyes, but she could feel the heat of flames.
“They will do worse to you in Ithicana, Lara,” Serin’s voice crooned in her ear. “Far worse.” He whispered the horrors, and she screamed, needing to get away. Needing to escape.
“Worse things will be done to your sisters,” he sang, pulling off her hood.
There was fire in her eyes. Burning. Burning. Burning.
“You will not touch my sisters,” she screamed. “You cannot have them. You will not hurt them.”
Except it was Marylyn holding the coals to her feet, not Serin. Sarhina, tears running down her face, who tightened the noose.
And it was Lara who was burning. Her hair. Her clothes. Her flesh.
She could not breathe.
A hand was gripping her, shaking her. “Lara? Lara!”
Lara reached up, catching hold of the hilt of her knife, remembering herself just in time to stop from stabbing Aren in the face.
“You were having a nightmare. Eli fetched me when they heard you screaming.”
A nightmare. Lara took a deep breath, digging deep into her core for some semblance of calm. Only then did she see the door hanging crooked on its frame, the latch in pieces scattered across the floor. Aren wore the same clothes he had earlier, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead.
Tearing her eyes away, Lara reached for a water glass, her mouth tasting sour from too much brandy. “I can’t remember anything.” A lie, given the smell of burning hair still filled her nose. Nightmares that weren’t dreams, but memories of her training. Had she said anything incriminating? Had he realized she was reaching for the knife under her pillow?
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