The Bridge Kingdom

by Danielle L. Jensen

But as Lara had stood there in the pouring rain, her father’s soldiers watching her with bored interest, Master Erik’s voice had filled her ears: Do not let your temper get the better of you, little cockroach. For when you do, you risk your enemies getting the better of you.

  It would be one thing if her loss of temper only cost her. But as she stood there, skin prickling with some sixth sense warning her of danger, it occurred to Lara that it would be Ithicana—and Aren—who would pay the price. The sheets of paper in Aren’s rooms at Midwatch still bore all of the bridge’s secrets. If even one of them reached Serin’s hands . . . that was damage that could never be undone. She needed to ensure they were destroyed. Once that was accomplished, she could turn to vengeance with a clear conscience.

  She’d returned, intending to leave Aren a note explaining everything and instructing him to destroy the papers, but the vision of Aren’s face when he read it kept spinning across her thoughts. He, who was loyal to his very core, would take her act of disloyalty personally. He’d hate her. Lara swallowed the contents of her glass in big gulps, wishing the alcohol would work faster. Wishing it would numb her traitorous heart.

  Filling her glass again and again, she ruminated until the bottle was empty, the whiskey doing nothing to numb the dull ache in her chest. She would’ve ordered another and kept on drinking, but there was no one left to serve her, all the bottles and glassware put away for the night, the room silent and still.

  Rising to her feet, Lara turned to discover the common room empty of patrons and staff, chairs pushed into tables, floors swept, and door latched. Devoid of life. Except for Aren, who sat at the table behind her.

  She stared blearily at him, her heart feeling as though it had been torn into a thousand pieces, then set aflame.

  “Waiting for me to go to bed so you can go find Marisol?” The words were slurred. Spiteful. But she almost wished he’d do it if for no other reason than it would give her a valid reason to hate him. A valid reason to leave and never look back.

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Who do you think came to find me to deal with my shit-mouthed little cousin?”

  Lara made a face. “She knows I’m not your cousin. She knows exactly who I am, and, by extension, who you are.”

  “Clever Marisol.”

  “You aren’t concerned?”

  Aren shook his head, then rose to his feet. His clothes were wet, but whatever rainwater he’d tracked in had long since dried. How long had he been sitting there?

  “She’s been spying for Ithicana for almost a decade—since your father hung hers and then spiked his head on Vencia’s gates. She’s loyal.”

  Jealous words danced on Lara’s tongue, but she swallowed them. “She’s beautiful. And kind.”

  “Yes.” His gaze was intense. “But she’s not you.”

  Her body swayed, the room spinning. Aren closed the distance between them in two strides, hands catching her sides. Steadying her. Lara closed her eyes to try to stop the spinning, but the rotating room was replaced with the memory of his hard, muscled body, his tanned skin beneath her fingers. Heat blossomed low in her belly.

  You can’t, she told herself. You’re a liar and a traitor. You aren’t the woman he believes you to be, and you never can be. You can never be yourself. Not without risking him discovering the truth. If she couldn’t find the courage to tell him the truth, then she needed to get back to Ithicana to destroy all evidence of her betrayal, and then disappear. Fake her death. Return to Maridrina for vengeance.

  And never see Aren again.

  Her eyes burned, her breath threatening to catch in a sob and betray her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She clenched her teeth. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Not surprising given the amount you drank. You have a royal’s taste, by the way. That’s not a cheap bottle.”

  “Paid for it myself.” She said the words slowly in attempt to make them clearer.

  “You mean with the coins you stole from my ship.”

  “If you’re stupid enough to leave them lying around, you deserve to lose them.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that through all the slurring.”

  “Asshole.”

  He laughed. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” Untangling herself from his grip, she staggered toward the stairs, when all of a sudden, the bottom step was flying up to meet her. But before Lara’s face could slam against the wood, Aren caught hold of her, swinging her up into his arms. “Let’s not tempt fate.”

  “Just need water.”

  “You need a pillow. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the storm will linger long enough for you to sleep this off. But I doubt it.”

  Lara made an angry sound against his chest, but it was more for herself. At the ease with which she curled against him. At how appealing a few more nights with him would be, despite knowing that it was only delaying the inevitable.

  “Did the whiskey help?”

  “No.”

  “It’s never helped me much, either.”

  A tear leaked onto her cheek, and she turned her face into his chest to hide it. “I’m sorry I’ve been so terrible. You deserve someone better than me.”

  Aren exhaled, but said nothing. The methodical movement of him climbing the stairs lulled her, consciousness slowly fading away. She didn’t fight it, because against all the odds, she trusted him implicitly. Still, she was aware enough to hear him, his voice hoarse as he said, “Since the moment I set eyes on you in Southwatch, there’s been no one but you. Even if I’m a goddamned fool for it, there will never be anyone but you.”

  You are a fool, she thought as darkness took her.

  And that made two of them.

  29

  Aren

  He’d never been able to sleep past dawn on a clear day.

  How his sleeping body knew the winds had died and the rain ceased was a mystery. A sixth sense from a lifetime in Ithicana that warned him when the Tempest Seas lowered their guard, and that it was time to raise his. So when his eyes snapped open with the faintest glow on the horizon, Aren rose from where he’d slept on the floor, dressed silently so as not to disturb Lara, who was still faintly snoring into her pillow, then ventured downstairs for something to eat.

  It was as though a burden had lifted from his shoulders. Coming to Vencia was always a risk, but it had been a thousandfold more so with Lara in tow. Yet it had been worth it. Worth having her discover the truth of the circumstances in Maridrina with her own eyes and ears. Having her understand that it was her father, not Ithicana, who was the oppressor of her homeland. Having Lara finally see with eyes unclouded by whatever bullshit her mind had been filled with over the years.

  Those things had been worth the risk that she’d turn on him and spill every cursed secret she’d learned. Worth those torturous moments when Aren had believed he’d have to stop her.

  Worth the moment when Aren became certain that her allegiance had, if not entirely turned to Ithicana, at least abandoned his enemy.

  That she’d made that choice had been clear from the time he’d watched her sitting at the bar, drinking whiskey like her life depended on it. Aren knew his wife well enough to tell when she was pissed off. That silent simmering burn that caused any sane individual to give her a wide berth, whether they realized it or not. Last night, she’d been furious. But for the first time, it wasn’t at him. No, when she’d turned around and saw him, her anger had been vanquished by another emotion entirely. One that he’d been desperate to see in her eyes for longer than he cared to admit.

  Down in the common room, Jor was seated with Gorrick, but Aren only gave them a nod and took a seat in the corner by himself, content to watch the comings and goings while sipping the coffee that Marisol brought him, his friend and former lover too busy with the rush to do more than squeeze his shoulder in passing.

  The room was half filled with traveling merchants. Some wore the clear gaze of those keen to make a profit once the markets opened
. Others wore the blurry eyes and green faces of those who’d enjoyed a night out in Vencia and were awake only because they feared their masters’ wrath.

  Aren had far more in common with the latter group. Since he was fifteen, he’d been venturing out of Ithicana. Ostensibly, it was to spy. To learn the ways of his kingdom’s pseudo-allies and clear-cut enemies, but there was no denying that he also used the trips to step away from the ceaseless burdens that came with his title. Vencia had always been his favorite, and he’d rode out a dozen or more typhoons drinking and gambling and laughing in one common room or another, more often than not with a local girl to warm his bed, no one believing him to be anything other than a son of a successful merchant.

  While the Kingdom of Maridrina was a thorn in Ithicana’s backside, the Maridrinian people had long been friends to Aren, which created a certain conflict. He was not supposed to like them, but he did. Liked how they haggled and argued about every damned thing; how they were brash and brave, even the most cowardly of them prone to picking fistfights to defend a friend’s honor; how they sang and laughed and lived, every one of them with grand ambitions for more.

  Vencia itself was a beautiful place, a hillside of whitewashed buildings with blue roofs that always seemed to gleam as he approached from the sea, its streets thrumming with people hailing from every nation, north and south. A metropolis that thrived despite its king, who ruled with an iron fist and who used taxes to all but plunder his own people.

  No, if Maridrina found itself a new ruler and Aren wasn’t the king of his own kingdom, he’d be happy to make a life in Vencia. Sometimes he wondered if that was half of what his council feared about opening up Ithicana’s borders and allowing its citizens to leave: that they’d see how bloody easy life was in other kingdoms, and never come back. That Ithicana wouldn’t be conquered, but rather slowly fade from existence.

  Except he didn’t think that was how it would go. There was something about the wild thrill of living in Ithicana that spoke to the souls of those born to it, and neither people nor kingdom would ever willingly let each other go.

  Aren’s thoughts were interrupted by a shadow falling across his table.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” a nasally voice said. “I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting your breakfast.”

  Aren’s fork hesitated halfway to his mouth, and it took a great deal of effort to swallow his mouthful of eggs. He lifted his head. “I’ve been called a great many things in this room, but never that.”

  The Magpie gave a thin smile and took the seat across from Aren. “I appreciate the game as much as anyone, Your Grace, but perhaps we might forgo the pretense that you are anyone other than the King of Ithicana.” His smile grew. “For expedience’s sake.”

  Aren set down his fork and leaned back in his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jor and Gorrick lift their heads, Serin’s face deeply familiar to them. But they’d only seen Maridrina’s spymaster from afar, because never, never, had their cover been compromised.

  Every Ithicanian spy knew going into enemy territory that if they were caught they should fall on their own sword before giving up their kingdom’s secrets, and Aren had no doubt that everyone with him would do just that. Except, perhaps, for the woman upstairs.

  “It’s the scar on your hand that gave you away.” Serin jerked his chin toward Aren’s left hand, which rested on the table, the curved white scar from an old knife fight clearly visible. “Along with the mask, you always wore gloves when you met with outsiders. But not at your wedding, which of course I was in attendance for. Such a dramatic ceremony it was.”

  Gorrick stood, yawning, then strolled over to the bar as though to sweet-talk Marisol. His friend smiled and laughed as she polished the glass she was holding, but a heartbeat later, she’d disappeared from the room. To find Taryn, who’d secure Lara.

  If that was even a possibility.

  God, he was a fool for lowering his guard. For believing that it had ended last night when Lara hadn’t gone into the palace. Perhaps that had only been a ruse, and even now, his Maridrinian wife was spilling out everything she’d learned to her father’s lackeys.

  “Not like you Ithicanians to make a mistake.” Serin lifted his hand to get a servant girl’s attention. “We, of course, suspected that you paid our shores visits from time to time, but not until now did you so blatantly announce your arrival.”

  Aren’s eyebrow rose.

  “It was the steel, you see. It was marked at Northwatch for transport through the bridge over a year ago, and yet the load somehow arrived in Vencia only yesterday, offloaded only this very morning. And via a ship claiming to have come from Harendell, not from a Southwatch ferry.”

  Fuck. Ahnna was going to kill him if he managed to survive this.

  “I’d suggest that it was an amateur mistake, but this isn’t your first visit to Vencia, is it, Your Grace?” Serin accepted a coffee from one of Marisol’s girls. “You seem far too comfortable for it to be your first time.”

  Aren picked up his cup, eyeing the spymaster. “I’ve always had a fondness for Vencia. Plenty of attractive women.”

  Serin gave an amused sniff. “I would’ve thought those days would be behind you now that you’re a married man.”

  “Perhaps they would be if you hadn’t sent me such a harridan.”

  The coffee in Serin’s cup quivered, and the tiny man set it down swiftly to hide the reaction. Apparently, Lara had not stuck to the spymaster’s plan in her methods of seduction. Which was probably a good thing, because Aren suspected he and Serin had quite different tastes when it came to women.

  “We could send you another . . . perhaps one with a kinder, gentler disposition.” Serin’s eyes flicked to Marisol. “I see you have a fondness for blondes. I can think of just the princess for you. She was my first choice, but fate conspired against me. Against both of us, it would appear.”

  Aren’s curiosity over why Lara had been chosen flared once again before being pushed aside by concern for his friend. Marisol had been linked to him; that meant she was in danger. “Tempting. Unfortunately, such practices are frowned upon by my people. I’ll have to content myself with what you sent me.”

  “Speaking of Lara, how is she? It’s been some time since we received word from her, and her father has grown . . . concerned.”

  Aren’s mind raced. If the steel hadn’t been unloaded and processed until this morning, it was possible they’d only been under the Magpie’s scrutiny for a matter of hours, all of which Lara had spent passed out in a bed upstairs. Alternatively, this could be a ruse to distract Aren while the Maridrinians secured their princess. “She’s well enough.”

  “Her father would like some proof of that.”

  “When I return home, I’ll suggest she put pen to paper. But I must warn you, Lara isn’t the most . . . obedient of wives. She’s more likely to tell me to shove both pen and paper up my ass.”

  Serin’s brow crinkled. “Perhaps remind her of her father’s enduring concern for her welfare.”

  Aren rested his elbows on the table. “Cut the shit, Magpie. We both know your master cares nothing for his daughter. He got what he wanted, which was free trade on steel and weapons. So what else is it you’re after?”

  Waving his hand as though to dispel the tension, Serin gave him an apologetic smile. “Appearances must be maintained, you understand. Frankly, you can slit the little bitch’s throat and my master would care not; what he does care about is your commitment to the alliance between our kingdoms.”

  “He has his steel, as per our agreement. What more does he feel he deserves?”

  A sage nod. “It’s true you’ve held to the letter of the agreement, as have we. What I’m referring to is more . . . the spirit of the agreement. The treaty was for an alliance of peace between Ithicana and Maridrina, and yet you continue to host and trade with our greatest enemy in your market at Southwatch, allowing them to purchase the goods Maridrina so desperately needs. My master asks that y
ou reconsider this practice.”

  “You want me to cut ties with Valcotta?” Cut ties with the kingdom that provided close to a third of the bridge’s revenues every year? Valcotta was no ally, but neither were they Ithicana’s sworn enemy the way Maridrina had been in the past. Yet if Aren did what Serin was asking . . . “I’ve no interest in going to war against Valcotta.”

  “Nor is my master asking you to.” Serin slid an embossed silver cylinder across the table, the lacquered seal Maridrinian blue. “He merely requests that you cease supplying them in their war against us.”

  “They’ll retaliate, and war will be on my doorstep whether I asked for it or not.”

  “Perhaps.” Serin took a mouthful of his coffee. “But if Valcotta attacks your lands, rest assured that Maridrina will retaliate against them tenfold. We do not take kindly to those who interfere with our friends and allies.”

  Words of support, but Aren heard the threat beneath them. Do as my master says, or face the consequences.

  “Think on it, Your Grace.” Serin rose to his feet. “My master looks forward to your written response detailing your commitment to our friendship.” The thin smile returned. “Safe travels back to your homeland, and please, do give Lara my regards.”

  Without another word, the Spymaster of Maridrina left the common room, the door slamming shut in his wake. Picking up the message tube, Aren quickly scanned the contents before shoving it into the bag by his feet, then met Jor’s eyes from across the room.

  Time to go.

  30

  Lara

  Lara woke just before dawn, a blanket covering her from toe to chin, a glass of water sitting on the bedside table, and her head throbbing with the worst headache of her life.

  Moaning, she rolled over to bury her face in the pillow. The events of the prior night were hazy, but she remembered them well enough for her cheeks to burn as she recalled Aren catching her before she could fall smack on her face. The way she’d curled into his arms as he’d carried her up the stairs. The things she’d said. The things he’d said.