“—and that he shall contact the duchessa and order her forces to withdraw along with his own, before dusk tomorrow. If he does not comply, Her Highness will be executed the dawn after.”
No, he couldn’t—with her life on the line, Papà would comply. But if Papà and the duchessa did withdraw, then there would be no one to stop the Brotherhood from starving out Nozva Rozkveta—causing tens of thousands to suffer.
No, he couldn’t even be allowed to extend this offer to Papà.
She’d come this far. Papà’s forces couldn’t be allowed to abandon Nozva Rozkveta. And Tarquin wouldn’t hurt her, not unless he wanted his entire family reduced to a pool of blood.
Tarquin’s purpose would have to be frustrated to stop this now.
She swallowed. “My father can’t annul the marriage, Tarquin.”
His head snapped to face her, and his eyebrows drew together.
“It’s been consummated.”
Chapter 26
“I am Prince Veron of Nightbloom!” Veron shouted, holding his arms out to his sides as he cleared the forest. He slowly headed toward the sea of purple-and-white-striped tents through the tall grass, finding his footing in stiff boots. “Don’t shoot! I seek an audience with King Macario of Silen!”
Had someone told him a couple of months ago that he’d disobey orders, betray Mati’s trust, leave Nozva Rozkveta on the eve of battle, and would now be turning himself over to the mercy of humans, he never would have believed it.
This wasn’t about trust. This was about protecting the ones he loved.
He’d disobeyed Mati, betrayed her, but people were more than their mistakes, and not every hurtful action was about inflicting hurt. Sometimes hurt, as grave as it could be, had to be a secondary concern to trying to save many lives. Or even just one.
The sun was just beginning to rise in the sky of pinks, golds, and blues as archers shuffled along the top of a hill, yelling to one another and to him.
“Stop right there!” one bellowed, and he did as bidden.
Their bows drawn, the archers descended the hill and surrounded him, demanding he surrender his weapons before they escorted him up and to the center of camp.
Officers in dark-purple coats surveyed him, and the king’s page, Alvaro, confirmed his identity before he was admitted to the yurta at the heart of the royal encampment.
As soon as he entered, long arms pulled him into an embrace—Lorenzo’s. Wearing a dark-purple gambeson, Aless’s brother met him with those dark eyes so like hers, and a broad grin, his shoulder-length dark hair tied back. A dozen knives were sheathed in a bandolier about his chest.
“It’s good to see you.” Lorenzo clapped him on the shoulder.
“I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“We are about to crush the Brotherhood,” King Macario said from behind Lorenzo, eyeing a map as he stroked his close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. “The circumstances are favorable.” He stepped away from the map and gestured to a nearby chair. “How is my daughter? You both did well in Stroppiata and Dunmarrow, as expected. You must have made quite the impression on Duchessa Claudia, as she is here with her forces as well.”
So that was the second army. “Your Majesty, Aless is in the Brotherhood camp.”
Both King Macario and Lorenzo paused, exchanging looks, and Lorenzo closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, rubbing his face as he turned away.
“You were supposed to keep her safe.” The king stepped up to him, but soon deflated. “Only… I know my Aless. Always making a scene of some sort. Relentless, reckless, wild, foolish—”
“Your Majesty,” Veron interrupted, a growl lacing his voice. “We didn’t know whether you were coming, or whether anyone was. Aless traded herself to save two lives, which if they had been taken, would have set us on a course of no return. She didn’t have complete information, but she’s trying to save countless more.” He held the king’s gaze.
Perhaps the king’s words might have once been true, but his Aless was brave, stood up for what she believed was right, and always with forethought. If she was wild, she was like the Bloom in her protectiveness, her boldness, her power.
Alvaro came in with a message that he handed to King Macario, whose face darkened as he read. He crumpled the message and waved off Alvaro, carefully lowering into a chair.
“Is it Aless?” Veron asked, taking a step forward, but the king didn’t react.
Lorenzo pried the message from his hand and read. “To His Majesty, King Macario: You shall annul the princess’s marriage to the beast, and shall contact the duchessa and order her forces to withdraw along with your own, before dusk tomorrow. If you do not comply, Her Highness will be executed the following dawn. General Tarquin Belmonte.”
“Executed?” he demanded, and Lorenzo handed him the message. He read and reread the words, but they were the same.
“That’s it,” the king murmured. “The end of our strategy. He has Aless and isn’t afraid to kill her.”
Lorenzo slapped his hands on the table. “You saw the way Tarquin looked at her, Papà. He’s bluffing.”
“I will not risk her life,” the king shot back, rising. “We have to get her back safely, whatever the cost.”
On that, they agreed.
The king would accept Tarquin’s terms, quit the area along with the duchess, and Aless would be all right…
And the Brotherhood would continue its siege of Nozva Rozkveta. If Tarquin did order his witch to collapse the tunnels, it was only a matter of time before Mati and Nendra would lead their forces to the sky realm and attack, annihilating the Brotherhood—
And putting Aless in danger once again.
At a threat to his daughter’s life, King Macario was ready to surrender completely. Not something any dark-elf queen would ever do for a son—not even Mati.
If it were him—
If it were—
He shook his head, trying to clear it. If it were him in Tarquin’s custody, Aless would be freed, sent back with King Macario, who’d then have no incentive to retreat. Both the royal army and the duchess’s could stay and help Nozva Rozkveta.
And Mati would never sacrifice her people for his sake.
Aless would be safe… Nozva Rozkveta would have its allies…
And Tarquin would have him.
“Tell him to take me instead.”
Aless stared at the paper as Tarquin finished his last bit of writing, but the letters were too small, too blurry, for her to make out the words. Under Siriano’s watchful eyes in the corner of the tent, Tarquin folded the paper, sealed it, and handed it to one of his men.
There had to be some way to talk him out of this. There had to be.
He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded together as he regarded her evenly, some epiphany playing out behind that deep-brown gaze.
“You really did fall in love with that beast,” he said expressionlessly.
“He’s not a beast!” she shot back, and Tiny chattered in her hair, but she ignored it. “Veron’s loving, kind, gentle—”
“Sorcery,” Tarquin bit out. “He’s bewitched you somehow. Those beasts have fangs, claws—”
“Dark-elves don’t have magic! All they have is sangremancy, which anyone with blood, knowledge, and skill can use. You’d know that if you tried learning about them instead of just hating them from a position of ignorance.”
He scoffed. “If they had a way to control your mind, do you think they’d tell you?”
“You’re impossible. If they could control minds, you wouldn’t be able to be here, hating them and waging war.” She crossed her arms, which renewed the scent of cheap wine soaked into her disguise. “You’re an educated man, Tarquin, and a general. Surely you understand the value of facts. You’re acting from an emotional place, and worse, it’s unfounded. Your sister wasn’t killed by the Immortali. She elected to become one.”
“You don’t know that!” he snapped, pounding the table with a palm. “And you have no pr
oof, just some tales you heard from beasts.”
“Well, you don’t have any proof she died, or that the Immortali killed her, yet you believe it!” she shot back. “If there’s even a chance Arabella is alive, even as a unicorn, don’t you at least want to find out if it’s true?”
“You made sure I couldn’t verify your tale when you released the Immortali horse.” His voice dropped to a low, bitter rasp.
“I released the unicorn,” she said, meeting his low voice with her own, “but I didn’t make it run away. Your men did that with their abuse. You did that.” When he only bowed his head, she added, “If that really is Arabella, then out of fear for her life, she had to flee her brother.”
A long quiet settled in. “That’s. Not. Her.” He looked up, eyes fiery. “You knew you’d get caught, so you released that Immortali horse and made up a story. One you hoped would distract me from my purpose.”
She shook her head. “Tarquin, you told me, right here, about Arabella’s love of unicorns. You told me she disappeared in search of one. You told me that unicorn showed up a couple days later. You told me it was destroying things, attacking. That is what I based my conclusion on—what you told me—and I knew none of that before you sat me down in this tent.” She leaned forward and added gently, “Set aside your battle plans and your hatred and everything else you’ve believed, and just think about these facts for a second, rationally. You know I couldn’t have made it up before releasing that unicorn. You know it.”
He took a deep breath and then sighed, meeting her eyes with a soft look. “Your Highness, if any of that is true, then all I’ve done is make one terrible mistake after another, mistakes I can never take back. If any of that is true, how can I live with myself?”
“By not making any more terrible mistakes,” she replied. “You have the chance to find Arabella and tell her that you love her and that you’re sorry. You have the chance to stop all of this before it gets any worse, Tarquin.”
He lowered his gaze a moment, then glanced at Siriano before turning back to her. “I don’t, Your Highness. Even if Arabella is still alive, even as one of the Immortali, the only people here who would stop this are Siriano and me. But there is an army outside who won’t back down until a river of blood flows. And the two of us can’t stop them.” Before she could reply, he cut in, “So you see, Your Highness, what you’re saying can’t be true, and I have to believe that it isn’t.”
Heaving a breath, he rose and headed for the tent flap.
“Not just you and Siriano, Tarquin,” she said, twisting around toward him. “I would stop this, too, with both of you. With everything in me.”
He looked over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The Brotherhood wants blood. King Macario offered to trade Veron of Nightbloom for you, and I just accepted.”
Chapter 27
The glowing red sun was faltering through the cloudy titian sky, and as Aless stood at the front of a company of Brotherhood soldiers, that dusky sky looked to her like a fire amid clouds of ash, billowing and graying as far as the eye could see.
The forested horizon was darkening. When she’d told Veron that Tarquin wouldn’t hurt her, he might have believed that, trusted it, but Papà? Papà had never listened to her before, and he wouldn’t have started now. If he’d believed Tarquin would kill her, if he’d agreed to retreat in exchange for her, that would have left Nozva Rozkveta exposed to the Brotherhood. Vulnerable.
And that, Veron wouldn’t allow. He wouldn’t allow his people to be abandoned by their allies, to starve, to do battle out of desperation, not if he could stop it. He’d sacrificed himself in marriage for them before. And if he arrived tonight, he would be sacrificing his life for them now.
Tarquin wouldn’t hurt her, and not even the Brotherhood army would. But there was no such certainty for Veron.
Don’t show up. Don’t show up, Veron. Please. Don’t show up.
Maybe Tarquin was wrong. Maybe Papà wouldn’t agree to trading Veron. Maybe this was all part of a maneuver and an attack was imminent instead, while Veron would be kept safe, and the shifting feeling in her chest would dissipate.
In the darkness, the full moon rose in the sky, golden, enormous.
Tiny peeked out of her hair over her shoulder.
“Stay hidden, Tiny,” she whispered, just barely audible. If any of the Brotherhood caught one of the Immortali—albeit a minuscule one—things could go badly.
Tiny flitted back into her locks and climbed up by her ear, chiming softly in her little bell voice.
Tarquin stood stiff as a rod next to her, his eyes searching the horizon, Siriano next to him, and a company of rigid men behind them. They were hard men, with hard eyes and hard faces, a sort of darkness emanating from them, a coldness, and it made her shiver. These were not men looking to make peace, no matter what the offer would be. That was not what they had come for.
She might have been able to turn Tarquin from this course, but the hundreds here, the thousands with him? Some had their own Arabella, and a truth behind her, and others believed things that were completely false, and yet others were so afraid of sharing the world that they cloaked that fear with aggression. They hated from a place of bitter ignorance, one they preferred to take out on the Immortali instead of taking responsibility for.
This world needed a library like the one she and Veron dreamed of building. This world needed a hundred libraries. A thousand.
She looked away from them to the dim horizon, where a small group of silhouetted figures approached.
No, Holy Mother, please…
Yet she’d know the shape of him anywhere, his gait, from a mile away, in the dark—she’d know him.
Her feet were moving before she could think, but Tarquin grabbed her forearm and pulled her back.
“Not yet,” he said sternly, and yanked her into place. “One hundred yards.”
Holy Mother’s mercy, she’d wanted to stop a war, had wanted to protect Veron, had never dreamed he’d disobey Queen Zara and come after her. She loved him for it, but now what had seemed like her best course of action had become her gravest miscalculation.
Papà had to have a contingency plan. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t just be turning over Veron. He couldn’t.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she stared into the distance, at the broadness of his shoulders, his long hair tousled by the wind, and as he approached, the shape of his face cleared, his sculpted jaw, his straight nose, his pale eyebrows, his jutting chin… and those intense golden eyes she had looked into countless times, had seen in kindness, in anger, in frustration, in pleasure, in love…
“Veron,” she whispered, and every part of her trembled, willed her to go to him, to wrap herself around him and never let go.
Next to him was Lorenzo, in a violet brigandine over a darker gambeson, with a bandolier of knives around his chest and a small squad of Royal Guard. His face was slack, eyes downcast. So Papà had sent him.
“Aless,” Veron said, his voice breaking, and a pain formed in her throat.
“Veron,” she whispered, leaning forward, pulling at her arm in Tarquin’s hold.
Finally, Tarquin moved forward with her in his grasp, Siriano at his side, and a squad of soldiers with him. She struggled in his hold, trying to break free, until at last he released her, and she ran to Veron, into his waiting arms. His embrace closed around her, and held her close, kissed the top of her head, and when she looked up at him, brushed her lips with his.
Holy Mother’s mercy, after hurting him as she had, she had no right to this, to him, and he should push her away, shun her, hate her, but even knowing all of that, in this one moment, she couldn’t fathom not holding him with everything she had.
“Veron, I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her eyes aching as they watered. “I thought if they took me instead, they wouldn’t kill me, and Papà would have to intervene… and that he could stop the war. I’m so sorry—”
“Shhh,” he whispered in her ear,
stroking her hair softly. “No more of that. Not now. You meant well—I know that. It hurt, deeply, but I know you meant well.” He raised her chin gently, rubbing it with the callused pad of his thumb, taking her in with a soft gaze.
“Are Gavri and Valka—”
“They’re safe. Worried about you,” he said with a soft huff, “but safe.” He was so calm, so incredibly, impossibly calm.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she blurted. “I knew about your father, and I—”
“I know why he did it now, Aless.” His voice was even, serene, as he searched her eyes. “My father. He left without a word because he couldn’t let anybody stop him. He was determined to give up his life… because he loved us. It hurt me then, but I understand now. What he did wasn’t a betrayal. It was the ultimate act of love.”
There was something different about him, something settled and peaceful, something so unbelievably calm, and yet it tore her up inside, raged, so much that she wanted to scream and beg and cry, do anything and everything to chase that resigned expression away, and everything and everyone but Veron.
A pair of hands closed around her upper arms—a royal guard’s.
“No,” she said, and swung her head from side to side as Tarquin’s men apprehended Veron, pulled him away from her, dragged him. “Please. Wait—”
She twisted to keep her eyes on him over her shoulder, where his eyes were still on her, too. A hardness rose in them, a restraint that turned his whole body taut as they bound his wrists.
“Veron,” she cried, as Lorenzo took hold of her and whispered words of comfort.
“Live, Aless,” Veron called out, his voice hoarse. “I love you.”
One of his captors kicked at the back of his knee, forcing him to the grass, while another grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back.
She cried out, a shrill sound she didn’t recognize, as Veron kept his jaw clenched, stayed soundless, rigid, and as a blade hissed free of a scabbard, she begged, pleaded, a string of words whimpering from her lips—
No Man Can Tame Page 26