by Milla Vane
At a glance from her, Danoh shook her head.
Uncertainty crossed Ardyl’s decorated face when she looked to Maddek. “We have the half-moon milk but not the sleeping draught that accompanies it.” Her gaze shifted to Yvenne’s. “We have neither of us needed to drink it of late.”
Because they had neither been intimate with a man of late, Yvenne understood. So there could be no pregnancy to prevent.
“Is it not effective without the sleeping draught?” Maddek’s voice sounded behind her. Now that they were mounted, the top of her head came to his chin—their heights more even than when they were standing, but he still towered over her.
The two warriors exchanged an uneasy glance. “It is effective,” Ardyl said. “But unpleasant.”
“Then the sleeping draught matters not.”
Ardyl’s gaze turned withering. “You say that only because you have never taken the half-moon milk.”
Neither had Yvenne, but she had little choice. “I will take it now so there can be no doubt that any child I conceive is Maddek’s. You and the other warriors will be my witnesses.”
With a heavy sigh, Ardyl nodded and poured a small measure of white liquid from the vial into the cap. “If Vela truly looks through your eyes, my lady, I pray that she will be merciful upon you now. And upon me for giving it to you,” she added wryly.
Though the potion looked like milk, it tasted nothing of the sort, but rather chalky and bitter. Yvenne swallowed it down—and used the lingering bitterness in her mouth to mask the foul flavor of her next bite of lizard.
Danoh mounted her horse, then looked to Maddek. “Carry her as a babe this day.”
His big hands circled Yvenne’s waist again. Abruptly she found herself sitting sideways upon the saddle, with her legs dangling over his heavy thigh, her side against his bare chest, and his steely arm secured behind her.
Ardyl held out the rags. Yvenne hesitated, the lizard leg clutched in her left hand. She could not grip that bundle with only the weak fingers of her right hand.
Maddek took them instead, and her face flamed when he wasted not a moment parting her silk robes. His hand delved beneath her breechcloth. His callused fingers scraped the soft inner skin of her thighs, and she braced herself for some new humiliation as he had tried to visit upon her the previous day.
But he only tucked the rags securely against her and withdrew his hand, then gripped his reins.
“Let us ride,” he said.
CHAPTER 8
MADDEK
Many warriors joked that an enemy could attack a Parsathean camp on the half moon and find half their army so deeply asleep that even the clash of swords would not wake them. In the morning, the women emerged from their furs with rags so bloodied, it seemed as if they’d fought in a battle—but it was simply that they had passed their menstrual blood in a single night rather than a handful of days.
Now Maddek understood why female warriors always took the potion at night—and why they drugged themselves with the powerful sleeping draught.
Rigid against him, Yvenne had curled forward with her arms crossed over her stomach, her skin sweating and cold. Not a sound passed her gritted teeth, not a single whimper or moan, but Maddek thought he could measure the depth of her pain by the shortness of her breaths. The faster and harder they hissed through her teeth, the greater the agony.
He ought to have waited until they had the sleeping draught. He ought to have heeded his warriors’ warnings. And never again would he ask Yvenne to drink the potion. By Temra’s fist, he vowed it.
But this time could not be undone.
It was midafternoon when they emerged from the forest and onto the high ridge that overlooked the Gogean plains. Finally able to travel at full pace, the horses raced along the ridge track.
Though her stiff form had been jostling against him, Yvenne abruptly went lax in his arms, her head lolling forward against his bare chest.
Sudden dread gripped Maddek’s throat as he let loose his reins to press his palm between her small breasts. Her thin ribs still rose and fell. Her heart still beat, stronger than he expected to find within a body so frail.
He tipped her chin back, examining her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips softly parted, her teeth no longer clenched. Though her brow was lightly furrowed, serenity claimed the rest of her features. She slept, then. Or had fainted from pain and exhaustion. Either was better than still enduring the half-moon milk.
Without slowing pace, Maddek shifted her limp body more securely against his. Dread returned when he saw the crimson stain that soaked through her robes and into the linens covering his thigh.
Chest tight, he glanced back at Ardyl but did not wait for the warrior to catch up to him. His mare was already responding to the pressure of Maddek’s legs, the unthinking directions more effective than a pull on the reins.
Slowing, he rode closer to Ardyl’s mount and lifted Yvenne’s slight form to show her the blood.
“Is it too much?” It seemed too much. Maddek was certain that even his deepest wounds from the savages’ knives had bled less than Yvenne did now.
Ardyl shook her head. “Likely she was close to her natural time.”
About to begin her menses, anyway. So the half-moon milk would not have been necessary to ascertain whether she was already with child.
But Yvenne had spoken true again—taking the potion erased all doubt. Maddek would have known she wasn’t pregnant with another man’s child, first when she needed the rags and again if she bled when he bedded her. Yet Zhalen could have said she wore rags for show and faked her menses. He could have said Maddek had mistaken her virginity. Now the Dragon guard bore witness and the effectiveness of the half-moon milk could not be denied. So she had not taken the potion to prove herself to Maddek, but to prevent any outside claim on the child.
She was always thinking forward, he realized—as the commander of an army did. Trying to outmaneuver her father.
Perhaps trying to outmaneuver Maddek, as well.
Her mind was a shrewd one. To know how she thought made Maddek ever more wary, but it did not mean she lied. He had known many shrewd Parsatheans who never spoke false, and whom he respected over any others. His parents. Nayil.
But they had been raised to honor truth; Yvenne had not. Only a fool would swiftly trust a woman with a mind such as hers.
The mind of a queen.
His queen, whether he would have chosen her or not.
It would be no hardship to bed her. Despite her brother’s words, she was not at all ugly—and with her eyelids closed, he could study her face more easily, for it was difficult to tear his gaze from those eerie moonstone eyes when they looked back at him.
Now her long eyelashes cast fanned shadows against her cheekbones. Thick black hair was drawn back from her forehead in two braids, but the plait at her nape had come undone and fell over his arm in a heavy curtain of curls. The dark eyebrows that always seemed to be arched when she gazed at him had little curve in sleep. Only her lips were curved, pink and full and soft.
Everything else about her features seemed as straight as her eyebrows—and almost painfully delicate. Not just thin. He suspected she would still appear delicate even after the hollows in her cheeks filled.
Maddek also suspected what had put those hollows there. Yvenne had eaten more of that foul-tasting lizard then he had, though his body was twice the size of hers. He’d only taken enough to stave off hunger, yet she had carefully stripped the leg down to the bone, even after the cramps had turned her stomach to stone, even though she looked as if she might vomit while chewing every bite.
Because she could not remember the last time her belly had been full.
Maddek would see it kept full. He would see the sickly, pale cast upon her skin disappear.
Skin that was soft everywhere. Between her thighs, she had been smoother th
an the silk of her robes, as had been the wisps of curls upon her mound. He could still feel that softness upon his fingers and his own hardness in response.
His gaze fell to her lips, her cheeks. Already she was not so sallow. Instead a flush rose beneath her skin, no longer tinged yellow but pink. Perspiration dotted her upper lip.
Too hot. The sun glared down, unblocked by the canopy of trees—and if she had been locked away for these many years, or kept beneath a veil, then her skin must be as tender and as new to the sun as a babe’s.
Frowning, Maddek drew up the outer length of his red linen and draped it over his shoulder, shading her face while she slept.
He did not know if he could trust her. But he would protect her. With his own life, if need be.
But for now, she only needed a bit of shade.
CHAPTER 9
YVENNE
It was full dark when Yvenne woke—still cradled in Maddek’s arms, though his mount no longer ran. Instead they had slowed to a walk, the motion gently rocking her against his hard chest.
Rocking against her right shoulder rather than her left. She had been turned while she slept. Or perhaps the warriors had stopped to rest the horses and when they resumed their travel, Yvenne had been lifted into his arms again, facing the new direction.
The rags between her legs felt less bulky, as if only one or two folded cloths were tucked against her instead of the great wad. So they had changed those, too.
The agonizing cramps had passed. Nothing but a dull ache remained. That was not so bad. All of her body was a dull ache.
Maddek’s arms tightened when she lifted her head. “We still ride,” he told her, as if thinking she might be disoriented from sleep and would roll off the horse as she would her bed.
In the dark and seated sideways against him, she could see little of his features. Just the shadow of his strong jaw above the thick column of his neck. It must not yet be midnight, for the faint glow of the waxing sickle moon on the northwestern horizon still touched him. She faced that moon—so they were riding south and west.
The other warriors rode behind them. She could not see past Maddek’s great form but could hear the clomp of their horses’ hooves.
His big body shifted as he turned to unfasten one of the satchels tied to the back of his saddle. A moment later, a wineskin and a packet of waxed leather dropped into her lap. The scent of cooked meat wafted up, sending her dry mouth instantly to drooling. Her stomach grumbled ravenously.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. Her throat was parched and raw. The wineskin only held water, but she did not care. Her first sip was the sweetest ever taken.
The meat was cut into thin strips. Perhaps because the Parsatheans had been in a hurry for it to roast—but they had roasted a fine amount. Venison, by the rich flavor. Yvenne believed she could have eaten an entire herd, but Maddek had given her so much, her stomach was well filled before she could even finish the packet.
“Enough?” he asked when, try as she might, not another bite could be taken.
“It is.” She folded the packet again. “May I save the rest for later?”
He made a grunting sound that might have been assent. His rough fingers slid against hers when he took the packet and tucked it into one of the pouches fastened to the front of the saddle.
Where she could easily reach it again without asking him for more.
The realization made her throat close with emotion. Her voice was thick when she asked, “May I use this water to wash or ought I conserve it?”
She felt his dark gaze upon her face but did not look up to meet his eyes. After a moment, his answer came. “Wash as you like.”
She carefully rinsed her greasy fingers before wiping them dry on her robe—which was so filthy, Yvenne was uncertain whether her fingers came away clean or dirtier than before.
Oh, but she cared not at all. She was filthy and aching and happier than ever she had been.
So happy that she might weep from it.
But a queen did not cry when there was someone to see her tears, so Yvenne turned her burning eyes to the landscape that lay ahead. They rode upon a rocky ridge overlooking a broad expanse of grassland. Beneath the faint moonlight, she could make out the silhouettes of humpbacked beasts. Short-haired mammoths or their gray-skinned cousins, perhaps—or the bulkier, plated lizards that roamed the plains, though most of those did not move in herds and usually remained near the shores of lakes and riverbanks.
She tied the wineskin to the front of the saddle. “Where are we?”
He gestured north, where a faint silver ribbon unwound in the distance. “There lies the Ageras.”
Which marked the border between Goge and Ephorn. They traveled now on the Gogean side of the river, which emptied into the Boiling Sea—and where they would find a ship to take them to Parsathe.
“When will we reach Drahm?” The port city lay at the mouth of the Ageras.
“In a quarter turn, if we travel at a quick pace.”
Seven days, perhaps. Her gaze touched the Ageras again. “We will take the river road?”
“Yes.”
“Do we ride through this night?”
He shook his head. “A village lies not far ahead. We’ll take our rest when it is in sight and purchase a horse there for you tomorrow morn. My mount has a great heart but we travel too fast and too far to carry two. Especially in this manner, for although you weigh but a feather, that feather is uneven and more difficult to carry.”
So she could imagine, as it was more difficult to ride in this manner, too. “Shall I sit astride, then? It would not be so uneven.”
Maddek’s arm circled her waist and lifted her. Awkwardly Yvenne swung her left leg over the horse’s neck, breath hissing through her teeth as her stiffened muscles screamed a protest. She settled into the saddle and for a long moment, pain blinded her as her hips and inner thighs seemed to tear apart, stretching and adjusting to the new position.
She almost cried out when Maddek’s palm flattened against her stomach and forced her up to sitting instead of curled over the horse’s withers.
The deep, soothing rumble of his voice moved through his warm chest and into the aching muscles of her back. “This pain will be but a few more days.”
Wordlessly she nodded.
Beneath her, the horse’s stride was long and smooth. Yvenne had no reins to grip, so she leaned back against his chest and braced her hands on the heavy thighs alongside hers. Beneath red linen, hard muscles became as iron—but he made no protest and did not push away her hands.
His manner had completely altered since the previous day, but Yvenne would not mistake his care and protection for a deeper change. Still he doubted her. Still he believed she might have taken part in his parents’ murders.
But she would win him over. Just as she had his mother.
At the beginning, Ran Ashev had doubted, too. Enraged and grieving after her husband’s death, the Parsathean queen had wondered if Yvenne’s message had been designed as a lure. Yet Ran Ashev had also seen firsthand the tower chamber where Yvenne was imprisoned and the punishment she’d received for writing that letter. When the two women had met, a fevered and healing Yvenne had not even the strength to leave her bed.
Where Yvenne’s frailty had stirred sympathy within Ran Ashev, however—and had lent truth to Yvenne’s claims—in Maddek, her weakness only stirred contempt. As if he believed strength of body outranked strength of mind or will.
Truly, Yvenne had expected more of him. But that more would come. For now, his anger and grief burned too hot to attempt persuading him to her truth. He would reject her every explanation.
And although his disbelief was a disappointment, perhaps she ought to have anticipated it. Through her mother’s eyes, Yvenne had followed a young Maddek from the Burning Plains to the banks of the Lave. She’d learned how fierce he
was in battle against the savages, how shrewdly he’d commanded the alliance’s army, and how deeply he’d grieved each time another warrior was lost. For years, she’d known what kind of man he was.
But Maddek had not known her. It was not so surprising that he did not immediately trust her.
Yvenne would teach him who she was, then. Slowly. Carefully. If he realized that earning his trust was her purpose, he’d disbelieve her every word.
So tonight, she would not speak of anything that gave him reason to doubt. Let him become accustomed to hearing truth from her tongue—then he might not be so inclined to rip it out.
And let him discover that he and she were not so very different. “The warriors who travel with you—they are your Dragon?”
A slight hesitation. Then, “They are.”
Oh. How unexpected. She’d thought he would say they were not, because only a Ran was protected by a Dragon guard. So it was not strictly true that they served in such a capacity. Yet she also knew Maddek would not lie.
“Even though you have not yet been named Ran?”
“So I would have not yet called them my Dragon,” he replied—and that explained his hesitation, she realized. Just as what followed explained the response he’d given. “But it is what they would call themselves.”
In this matter, then, he would weigh his warriors’ voices more heavily than his own. Never would her father have done the same. Zhalen’s own opinion was the only one with any significance.
And for that reason, her father would never inspire the same loyalty that Maddek did. “I suspect that these warriors would serve as your Dragon even if you never became a Parsathean king.”
Maddek grunted.
Whether that reply was agreement or dissent, Yvenne couldn’t decide—but he did not seem displeased by her observation. “My mother once told me that no matter how many times the raiders from the Burning Plains invaded Syssia before the alliance, nothing the Parsatheans ever stole from us equaled the value of what Queen Nyset took from your people in return.”