Shattered Kingdom

by Angelina J. Steffort

  Gandrett bared her teeth at the thought and grabbed a second arrow with her free hand, watching the wolf prowl toward her, claws sharp as needles piercing deep into the mossy ground with each step it took.

  “You don’t have anything better to do, do you?” she snarled, readying the arrows to ram them into the beast’s chest or neck should it attack.

  The wolf stared back at her, growling again as it studied its prey. Easy prey, too easy.

  Then it leaped off the ground, a gray thunderstorm, coming at her. And Gandrett braced herself for the impact of claws and teeth.

  That wasn’t how he’d planned things. Not like that.

  Nehelon leashed his rage and unleashed his magic as he heard the deadly growl through the forest. He didn’t need the birds to tell him what was happening even though he had instructed a few to follow Gandrett through the woods, to alert him if things went wrong.

  They had. He could feel it in his very core as the forest shuddered with her scream—

  And Denderlain’s horses and hounds were nowhere near her. If he didn’t react, she might die.

  How he wished he’d had time to pick a wolf and tame it so he could order it to protect Gandrett rather than let a random one eat her alive. But that took time. The wilder, the more predatory the animal, the more difficult.

  Tendrils of power probed their path through the tree branches and roots until he found her, too far away to draw his sword and strike the wolf down, but he made the closest willow grow some branches that put a leash on the beast so he could at least pause it until his arrival.

  The wolf struggled under his power. He didn’t need to see it to feel the wild energy, the fury of the predator. It was a fully-grown male, ready to sink its teeth into the girl he needed to save his world.

  So Nehelon ran. He ran like the wind, commanding the latter to carry her scent toward him, to tell him if she was alive. Until he could hear her heartbeat, slow and weak instead of thrumming of fear as he’d been expecting.

  When he broke through the thicket, the wolf was growling in his prison of willow rods, some curling around its flanks and haunches, some around his neck and maw.

  “I’m sorry, friend,” he said to the wolf as he scanned the area for Gandrett, “but this woman is not meant to be your meal.”

  He spotted her near a tree trunk, chest moving with slow, labored breaths, her gold-flecked eyes hidden behind her lids.

  “Gandrett.” He was on his knees beside her, his own heart uncertain of whether to gallop at the pace of panic at her motionless form or the pace of quiet relief at her flat breath and remaining heartbeat. “Open your eyes.”

  She didn’t respond. Neither did she open her eyes or twitch, nor did the rhythm of her heart change. Unconscious, he diagnosed and sniffed. The iron tang of blood filled the air, and when he scanned the scene, he found a spot of crimson blood at the bark of the tree behind her.

  And a matching spot on the side of her head.

  Nehelon cursed violently. What had he been thinking? He should have stayed closer.

  His hand reached for hers, squeezing gently.

  No response.

  His free hand reached for her chest, checking if the knife was still there and careful that the knife was the only thing he touched. It was there—resting solid and lethal between her breasts. He swallowed at the thought and turned his attention to her thigh where, without lifting her skirts, he could tell that the dagger was still strapped and sheathed.

  He should have listened to her, should have given her a hunting knife to protect herself from the wolf. His mind had been set on Denderlain and Denderlain only. That she’d need protection from him, but from the wolf—

  “I’m so sorry,” he breathed as he studied her shape, stroking over her forehead with one hand before he rested it there, ready to heal her. Just enough to be certain she’d survive the attack. It was a miracle the wolf hadn’t shredded her apart with its claws. He scanned her body for more wounds, scratches he had missed, and when he found none—only a half-torn sleeve—he let his magic flow into her. In the background, the wolf continued his growls.

  It tingled in his fingers when he touched her with his power. A sensation that slowly spread through his hands, his arms, and ventured into his chest where it lingered for a long moment until he let go as her scalp knitted itself together enough so he was convinced she would wake up again.

  “I am so sorry, Gandrett,” he repeated. And as he drank in her slender shape, her waist so small his hands might fit around it if he dared hold her, he sat back on his legs, knowing that this might be the last time he saw her. She had promised she’d return with Joshua so she could see her family again. Not for him. She hadn’t promised that. And it had torn him apart, still was tearing him apart that she couldn’t give him that little. He would never ask anything of her. Never demand. Not the way the men in this world did. For his world—the world of a different time, of a kingdom that was unscathed—no longer existed. Unless she made it back to him.

  “If you can’t promise me,” he leaned down, bracing one hand beside her head, the other one brushing along her temple, “I promise I will make sure you make it back in one piece.” He studied her face. The thick rim of lashes, which were two dark half-moons against her sun-kissed skin, her lips pale from fright and unconsciousness. “Back to me.” And he closed that gap between them, brushing his lips against hers ever so slightly. Just to feel what it could be like if he had a choice—even if Vala would damn him for this.

  He lingered. A moment. Two. Even the wolf had gone silent ensnared in the willow branches.

  And it was one moment too long.

  Her mouth opened, not for him but to suck in a breath as she opened her eyes and found him so close. Too close.

  He pulled back enough to let her sit up, but she remained on the ground, eyes shuttering as if she wasn’t certain she was dreaming, her expression dazed. But no word rose from her lips though the color returned to them with every breath she took anew.

  He wanted to tell her, wanted her to know that she was the key. That he needed her. And that this had never been meant to happen.

  But the whinny of horses and howling of hounds closing in stopped him dead before he could even find the words to say it.

  They were coming. Denderlain and his hunting party. And it was time for Nehelon to leave.

  So he squeezed her hand once before he got to his feet. “Don’t forget I promised.”

  With those words, he freed the wolf and vanished into the thicket.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The trampling of hooves, too many of them, too close, and excited barks woke her. And there were voices—

  Gandrett blinked her eyes open to find Lim’s black eyes gazing down at her as if to inquire if she was all right.

  In response, she groaned, alerting the riders of the other horses and their hounds alike.

  “Are you hurt, Miss?” a middle-aged man asked as he slid down his horse. “Did it get you?”

  Gandrett tried to shake her head but found the throbbing too painful. So she just blinked.

  What happened? She remembered the cracking sound of a whip that had followed the wolf as it had launched itself toward her. She had tumbled back to escape the beast and positioned her arrows before her chest, bracing herself to pierce it in whatever way she could. But something had swirled the animal to the side, making its shoulder hit her rather than its claws and teeth. Instead, the impact had propelled her into the nearest tree trunk at which’s roots she was now sprawled.

  Then there were those memories of him. His calloused hands on her forehead, his breath on her face. And his lips—

  As if in trance, she gingerly reached up and touched her fingers to her mouth. A kiss. Had he kissed her? She couldn’t tell if it had been a dream, if she had seen him there or imagined him so close to her face, his mouth warm and gentle, kindling a sensation Vala would damn her for.

  And his words—

  Don’t forget I p
romised.

  Promised what?

  “I don’t understand, Miss,” the man said with pity.

  Gandrett realized she had spoken aloud.

  “What happened?” This time, Gandrett moved. With all her strength, she braced one hand at her side and lifted her head.

  Her mission. She had to make sure Armand Denderlain found her…

  The man looked back over his shoulder and called, “I need help here.” To whom, Gandrett couldn’t tell.

  If this was Armand, even if he wasn’t pretty, at least he seemed to care that she could hardly move. Lim nudged her with his nose as if to make sure she was really awake this time.

  She let her head drop back into the moss and groaned.

  “We found your horse a couple of miles back in the clearing, and when no one showed up to claim it for a while, we started looking,” the man explained, bushy eyebrows raising. “He belongs to you, doesn’t he?”

  Gandrett nodded carefully and looked past Lim’s legs at the massive, gray shape that was perched on a tree trunk.

  “You killed it,” she breathed as her surroundings blurred in and out of focus. “You—”

  A pair of polished, black boots stopped right before her and a voice, smooth like satin, said, “Did the beauty awake from her eternal sleep?” It wasn’t really a question.

  Gandrett’s eyes followed the boots up to black leather pants and a hunting jacket in blue velvet—blue like her dress. And atop the midnight-blue, a pale and elegant face greeted her with a smile.

  Gandrett blinked.

  “You are safe, Miss,” the owner of the face spoke, his lips curling at one side as he noticed she was staring at him. “The beast has met its deserved end.”

  Gandrett felt the urge to raise her eyebrows and ask if he was serious but remembered Mckenzie’s final instruction: smile.

  So she did. It was a joke of a smile compared to what she had mastered in the weeks at Ackwood, but a smile anyway. A smile with the same lips which might or might not have been kissed by a Fae. Gandrett swallowed, her mouth suddenly gone dry.

  The young man returning her gaze seemed to wait for something. So she searched for words but found none.

  In the meantime, the man kneeling beside her had placed his hands on her head, inspecting the source of the throbbing pain.

  “She hit her head pretty hard,” he reported to the man in polished boots. “Apart from that, she seems unharmed.”

  The one in midnight-blue nodded. “And have we learned her name yet?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  While Gandrett shuttered her eyelids to clear her vision, the boots descended toward her shoulders, shoving aside the other man, and the young man crouched down beside her and cocked his head, exposing a ponytail of honey-blond. “So,” he studied her with depthless, hazel eyes, “does the sleeping beauty have a name?”

  Gandrett tried to speak, but as she opened her mouth, no sound emerged.

  “Lord Armand,” the middle-aged man with the concerned look spoke cautiously, “maybe we should get her some water.”

  So this was Armand Denderlain. Gandrett blinked at him, acknowledging that despite what had gone wrong, something had gone right. She had found Armand Denderlain.

  “So get her some water,” Armand hissed at the man, who stumbled to his feet and scurried away.

  “You are lucky we found you,” Armand said blithely, “The beast was coiling to spring when I sent my arrow right between its eyes.”

  Gandrett’s stomach roiled.

  Armand read her twisting face as fear and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you make it out of this forest in one piece.”

  Meanwhile, the other man returned with a waterskin, which he held out for Armand, who took it to offer it to Gandrett. “You should drink,” he suggested as she didn’t lift a hand to take it, and opened it for her before he led it to her mouth. “I’d truly like to know what birdlike voice goes with a face that Nyssa herself would envy.”

  Gandrett opened her mouth, intending to say she served the goddess of life, not the goddess of love, but remembered that she was not to give away who she was. Armand, however, took the opportunity to pour some water between her lips, and she sat upright, coughing the liquid that had been going down the wrong pipe back up in a spray.

  Armand chuckled, his hazel eyes gleaming with amusement. “Is it really that bad?”

  Great. She hadn’t even spoken a word, and already she had embarrassed herself. That wasn’t how she had envisioned facing the enemy—the startlingly handsome enemy—but with a strong voice to speak for herself, with legs to carry her. Instead, the young lord pulled a silken handkerchief from inside his jacket and handed it to her with a leather-gloved hand.

  Gandrett gingerly took the fabric and wiped her face and the splatter of wet on her chest and stomach, fully aware Armand’s gaze was following where her hands went.

  “Thank you.” She folded the silk and was about to hand it back to him.

  “Keep it.” He just smiled. “A token from the man who saved your life.

  Gandrett was about to slap his smirking face with her fist for that statement—a token from the girl who kicked his ass.

  “So you don’t forget me when you return to—” He cocked his head. “Where did you come from exactly?”

  Gandrett internally frowned and fashioned a painful smile. “From the south of Eedwood,” she told the lie Nehelon had provided her with. “I rode up to hunt in Demea’s honor, and when I was about to rest after the three-hour trip north—” She paused, pulling up her trained frightened face.

  “The wolf attacked you,” Armand finished her sentence, understanding in his eyes.

  “It chased me all the way here…” Gandrett managed to authentically shake, voice raw. “Then…” Her eyes searched the forest ground for her broken bow. “Then, the bow snapped… I don’t understand it. My father inspected it for me before I left. He is a merchant specializing in carved weapons and jeweled blades.” She gave just enough context to hint toward her alter ego’s family’s wealth. Armand’s groomed eyebrows rose. “If it hadn’t been for you…” Her words tasted sour on her tongue. Wrong. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have pulled her knife and dagger and slaughtered that damned beast. But this way, she was bound to act like a helpless little girl in need of saving.

  She shoved aside the memory of Nehelon kneeling before her on the mossy ground, his lips—

  A dream. It couldn’t have been anything else.

  “I am most certainly pleased I chose to follow your footsteps into the thicket. Otherwise—” He gestured at her in general. “—I would have missed this.”

  Gandrett watched his hands, hidden under a thin layer of black leather, as they elegantly waved along her form, waterskin still clasped between his fingers.

  He held it out for her again with a smile. Less amused, more genuine this time. “You should drink. Shock makes people do the weirdest things.” A low chuckle followed his words.

  Gandrett took it with her free hand and led it to her lips, aware that most of the other men were now staring in their direction, apparently bored having inspected the slain wolf for several minutes.

  “If I offered you a hand,” he rose back to his feet, “would you take it and let me help you up, milady—” He cocked his head. “I still don’t know your name.”

  “Gandrett,” she said and looked at him from under her lashes the way Mckenzie had shown her. The way that had made Brax pause while he spoke. “Gandrett Starhaeven.”

  Armand held out a hand, face tense as he bit his lower lip while he waited.

  For a moment, Gandrett considered ignoring the gesture and simply staggering to her feet on her own. But this was not about what she felt like doing.

  So she managed her temper and tucked Armand’s handkerchief into her sleeve before she placed her calloused hand into his gloved one.

  He responded with a gallant bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Starhaeven.” He pulled her
up with a powerful tug on her hand, making her half-tumble into him.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” Gandrett stifled a groan as she balanced her weighed and failed, sagging into him, and his arms caught her around the waist before she could hit the ground again.

  She fashioned an apologetic look, hoping to web some mystery into her gaze as she glanced up at him, his head towering above her as he stabilized her.

  He just continued smiling. “I was going to ask you which direction to take you to the edges of the forest so you can make your way home, but—” He tried to set her back on her feet.

  This time, Gandrett purposely let her knees buckle. No. He couldn’t send her off. Then all would have been in vain.

  “But it seems you need more than an escort back to the road.” Something in his face informed her he was pleased about it.

  “I think I need a healer,” was what Gandrett said in response, attempting to sound ladylike and not like she wanted to hit him over the head with her spare arrows. For her family, she reminded herself. She was doing this for her family. A deep breath, as deep as was possible in the tight bodice, helped her stomach his answering smirk.

  “We have the best healers in all of Sives at the castle.”

  There it was. Her ticket in. And she swayed again, trying to ignore the tightening of Armand’s arm around her.

  The gray crow perched on Nehelon’s shoulder sang of Gandrett’s success.

  He had stayed behind, listening, hidden in the treetops, far away from where any of the hunting party could spot them. Far enough that not even his Fae sense could make out if Gandrett was all right.

  So he had summoned the bird, asked it to bring him the news of the girl with the depthless eyes and the heart of iron. A heart that would destroy him eventually.

  And when the bird whispered to him that Gandrett was riding with him, that they were on their way to Eedwood, he pictured Armand Denderlain’s smirking face and how entertaining it would be to plant his flat hand on his fine-boned nose.