by Milla Vane
Maddek left the blacksmith’s not wholly satisfied but lighter on gold and better pleased by the selection than he’d been in the previous villages. As he strode toward the inn, he felt the eyes of the Gogeans upon him, but his attention was captured by the soldiers riding through the village gate. The setting sun gleamed dully on their brass helms, but aside from the Gogean crest upon their armor they were indistinguishable from soldiers in any of the other southern realms.
The captain spotted Maddek and urged his horse forward at a canter, then abruptly reined in his mount a few paces away. If a Parsathean warrior had drawn so hard on his horse’s mouth, he’d have found himself marching on foot for a tennight.
“Greetings, Commander Maddek!” Despite his heavy hands, the captain sat easy in his saddle. His face was shaven in the manner of Gogean men, chin bare and jaw full-bearded. “I am told that I have you to thank for the warning at the ruins. The wraiths had retreated underground when we passed, but we intended to stop there for our midday rest. I do not know that we’d have escaped so easily.”
Maddek inclined his head. “Did you leave warning for others?”
“We did.” The man dismounted. His gaze settled on Danoh, who waited ahead near the entrance to the inn, her keen eyes monitoring their exchange and watching for any threat to Maddek.
Few other people glanced in his direction now. It was Danoh who held the attention of almost every other soldier and villager who had reason to be outside—and it seemed many of them had found reason to leave their homes or had business at the inn that night. All of the Parsatheans drew notice. But Danoh’s tall, lithe figure—and her bare breasts—seemed to draw more notice than any other.
The captain pulled his gaze from Danoh to address Maddek again. “Do you and your warriors stay at the inn?”
“We do.”
“If you have no objection, I will accompany you there. I would ask you how the alliance’s army fares at the river.”
At the river Lave. Though the Gogeans sent only a single company to fight, this soldier might have friends or kin who served there. With a nod, Maddek continued toward the inn. “They fare well. The savages attack without the numbers or the frequency they once did.”
“But the Parsathean army has withdrawn?”
“It has.”
The captain gave no response, but his expression conveyed his uneasiness nonetheless.
“There are still alliance soldiers enough to stop the savages,” Maddek told him. “Did you ride with the Gogeans?”
“At the Lave?” The man shook his head. “I serve on the queen’s guard.”
Maddek frowned. “This far north?”
The walled city of Goge—and the queen—lay almost a fortnight’s ride south. This captain was far from his ruler’s side.
The soldier glanced toward the wagons, within whose beds sat sullen young men and women. “We are recruiting.”
And the recruits looked none too pleased by it. Maddek could not conceive of such reluctance, not when they would protect their families and their people. But perhaps he’d been too hasty when he’d spoken to the alliance council and accused the Gogean minister of only raising farmers, not warriors. “They will be trained to serve at the Lave?”
“To serve the queen’s guard.”
His frown deepened. “In the city? Not at the Gogean border?”
“The southern border is the alliance’s concern.” But the captain did not appear happy to say so. “Goge must be protected if the savages manage to cross the river.”
An entire realm protected by a queen’s guard in the city? “What of the people who live between the Lave and Goge?”
For there were many more villages in the Gogean outlands like this one. The citizens who lived in the city were not the ones who cultivated the fields.
Face troubled, the captain shrugged. “Our queen expects them to flee north.”
Where they would hide behind the city walls—if they reached the city alive. Disgusted, Maddek shook his head, but there was little else to say except, “The alliance forces at the Lave will hold back the Farians. Never would I have withdrawn if they could not.”
Though he didn’t appear completely persuaded, the captain nodded. They neared the inn now, and Danoh pushed away from the wall where she’d settled.
A flush tinged the captain’s dark cheeks as he looked everywhere but her breasts. “I will perhaps see you within, Commander,” he said and, with a nod to Danoh, led his mount around toward the stables.
Danoh made no reply except to nod in return, but when she looked to Maddek, her smirk said much more.
He grinned. The way the southerners wrapped themselves up, it was possible the captain had not seen tits—man’s or woman’s—since he was a suckling babe. Yet he had not stared at Maddek’s bare chest in the same way. Perhaps because the captain had his own male chest to gawk at, but Maddek couldn’t truly say. The southerners’ ways often made little sense.
The inn’s shutters and doors were wide open to let out the heat of the day—or the heat generated by the number of villagers within. When the captain and his soldiers finished tending to their mounts, they would be fortunate to find a seat. It was a lively crowd, though they quieted when Maddek and Danoh made their way between tables to where his warriors had sat down to their meal.
His gaze immediately went to Yvenne. She sat where he would have positioned her—at the center of a long table, with her back to the far wall. Banek, Fassad, and Toric sat across from her, with Kelir and Ardyl at her sides. Protected from every direction.
Protected, and focused on her meal. Her gaze did not lift from her plate, though in every other village they had passed through, it seemed that she could not stop looking, eagerly taking in every detail and questioning Banek about many of them. Here was a crowd of villagers to observe, yet her eyes were downcast and her head bowed, as if she were hiding her face.
Maddek frowned. He had never yet seen her hide from anything—and he had already told her not to fear identification. If her brothers and father were in pursuit, no need to search for a moonstone-eyed woman. The Parsathean warriors she traveled with drew enough attention that every villager along this road could point out their direction.
Kelir’s eyes met his and the big warrior shifted along the bench, making room for Maddek beside his bride.
Yvenne’s moonstone gaze flicked up then, and by the softening curve of her lips, she was relieved to see him. Such naked welcome sent heat directly to his loins, and Maddek left no room between them when he took the seat beside her, pressing his hard thigh against her softer one.
On his left, Kelir asked, “Did you find new mounts?”
“I did.” Maddek reached for the flagon of mead in front of Yvenne’s plate. The drink was half empty, which might account for her subdued manner. Some warriors fell asleep after drinking not much more than this. “Four with Parsathean blood. We collect them from the blacksmith’s in the morning.”
“We’ll pick up our pace, then,” Kelir said, and signaled to a barlad with curled hair and bright eyes. “We’ve not had to pay for a meal or a drink. It is the villagers’ gratitude for keeping the Farians across the Lave.”
With a humorless laugh, Maddek shook his head. “So it is only the minister Kintus who begrudges every grain of wheat our warriors eat.”
Her mouth full, Yvenne abruptly glanced at him again, pale eyes narrowing on his face.
He returned her look evenly. His earlier impression must have been wrong. She did not hide her face. Instead she stared up at him as boldly as ever.
Amused, he drank another swallow of mead and reached for one of the platters of roasted dally bird. Though he held her gaze, he spoke to Banek next. “Did you tell the innkeeper of the blood wraiths?”
“I did,” the older man said. “He’ll see that the warning is spread.”
He
r attention shifting to Banek, Yvenne seemed to hesitate before venturing to say, “At the ruins, you recognized that it was not a simple fog. Have you encountered blood wraiths before?”
Without looking at her, Banek replied, “I have.”
He didn’t continue the story that Maddek had heard a multitude of times. After a long breath, Yvenne bowed her head again, her slim body tense, her throat working.
Maddek’s grip tightened on the pewter flagon. He waited.
All of his warriors remained quiet. Letting her feel their censure, because she had not run at the ruins.
It was a warrior’s punishment. But she was not a warrior.
And she would be their queen.
A better queen than Maddek had known. If they had seen her in the stable yard, they would have known as well—but he had sent them away. She had requested that he not humiliate her in front of his warriors, but Maddek had thought it would be Yvenne who humiliated herself when he asked her to do her duty by his mare. He’d believed she would balk and try to shirk her responsibility.
But she hadn’t balked. She had not even hesitated, except to admit her weakness. Then she had done what any good queen would do: delegate the task to the one who could perform it best.
And he had been angry with her. Angry enough to speak words that should not be said. He’d also mourned his mare. But he would not waste time wishing that his horse were alive, or that he had a more suitable bride.
What was done was done.
Slowly he set down the flagon. “Many warriors would be paralyzed with fear upon seeing a blood wraith, let alone a fog full of them.”
His warriors stopped their eating and looked to his face.
Jaw set, Maddek ripped a leg joint from the roasted bird and continued, “Is that not what you told us, Banek? That half the warriors in your party fell before the wraiths because they were too petrified to run?”
And no one thought ill of those warriors now.
The older man heaved a sigh. “It is.”
That was all that needed to be spoken, then. But it was not all Maddek had to say. “She is sensitive to dark magics. She felt a chill and yet I dismissed the warning it held, trusting instead that the dogs would alert us to any danger. Then I foolishly left her alone, far from proper protection—and so blame for the loss of my mare rests on my shoulders.”
He felt Yvenne’s gaze upon him, yet did not return her look. Instead he met the eyes of each of his warriors and made certain they understood him.
They did.
She had not run, but Yvenne was not theirs to punish. She was Maddek’s. In every way, she was his. If his warriors had an argument with his bride, they had best take it to him—or take it out on him.
Especially as he had failed her, too. She was weak and vulnerable and unprepared to face any threat alone. So if a punishment was to be given, Maddek ought to be the one to receive it.
By sacrificing his mare, he already had. Nothing more needed to be said or done.
Nodding, Kelir said, “Sensing magics is a useful gift.”
“For certain we will not stop anywhere she takes chill again,” Ardyl agreed.
Tearing meat from bone, Maddek said, “It will be her duty to warn us.”
“I will.” Her voice held the solemnity of a vow. “Without hesitation.”
Banek chuckled. “Hesitate if you are soaked to the bone or unclothed at night,” the older warrior told her. “You’ll need to learn the difference between a true chill and magic.”
“We need not fear a true chill.” Maddek eyed her mouth. “I will keep her warm enough.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. Around them erupted his warriors’ ribald laughter, and a slow grin curved her lips. Holding her gaze, Maddek began his meal, and she only looked away from him when Banek began to tell her of his encounter with the blood wraiths. It was an enthralling tale from the early days of the alliance, one that had taken Banek from the walls of Syssia to the cloud-wrapped mountains of Toleh, where a dark warlord had slaughtered and feasted on the villagers there. Maddek had heard it many times before and barely paid attention now. Instead he watched Yvenne’s features as she listened, rapt.
He had thought her as ice when she had killed her brother. He’d thought she felt no emotions at all. But she did, though they were not often worn clearly upon her face. And now he believed that ice had been rage—felt so deep and held so long that it had hardened within her, as steel from a furnace was sharpest after it had been shaped and cooled. For she had wished her brother more pain . . . and she had wished to save a dying horse from feeling any.
That was not ice. That was hatred for one and compassion for the other, and neither emotion sprang from cold ground.
And in truth, whether soaked to the bone or unclothed at night, it was she who would warm him. Even now Maddek could feel the smoldering warmth of her leg through her silk robe and his linens. Against him, she burned as Temra’s own molten heart did. A man might catch fire inside her.
Hanan be merciful, for he was ablaze simply sitting at her side.
Throat suddenly parched, Maddek reached for Yvenne’s mead and found it empty. He did not have to look far for more. Kelir had taken up a flirtation with one of the barmaids, a generously curved woman with pink in her cheeks. That flush might have come from how busy the crowded room had kept her and the other servers—or from whatever the warrior whispered into her ear.
Maddek lifted the mug, but it was not him that the barmaid’s gaze fixed upon. Though Kelir still smiled at her, he and Maddek no longer existed. Instead she stared at Yvenne—as if seeing her moonstone eyes for the first time.
Perhaps it was the first time. For Yvenne’s gaze had been downcast when Maddek arrived.
“By Vela . . .” The sound of the barmaid’s invocation was lost to the room’s din, but the shape was clear upon her lips. “You are goddess-touched?”
Yvenne shook her head. “My foremother was.”
The barmaid seemed no less impressed that it was her ancestor who had been blessed, but she could not hold Yvenne’s gaze for more than a moment. Eyes averted, she breathlessly said, “Is there anything I might bring you, my lady?”
Her pearlescent gaze flicked to the empty flagon Maddek held. “More mead, perhaps?”
The barmaid scurried off. Maddek bowed his head, shoulders shaking as he laughed. Never had he seen anyone move so quickly.
A mock scowl twisted Kelir’s lips. “How humbling it is to know that the prettiest woman in the village can be lured away by a pair of moonstone eyes.”
“Not the prettiest,” Toric corrected softly, color high and gazing into his drink as if all the treasures of Luren might be found at the bottom of it.
Maddek’s laughter deepened. So the young warrior had taken a sweet liking to Yvenne? And she was oblivious. Her gaze had begun flicking around the common room as she tried to determine the woman’s identity.
Chuckling, Fassad shook his head. “That is truth. If she were not already claimed, Kelir and Ardyl would be upon her like raptors.”
Now Ardyl grinned, cocking a pierced eyebrow and tilting her head as she studied Yvenne’s profile, as if looking at her anew—not as Maddek’s bride but a potential lover that she and Kelir would share between them. Her confirmation of Fassad’s claim lay in the long drink she took.
A contemplative frown appeared on Yvenne’s brow. Abruptly she looked across the table at Banek. “You always tell the truth?”
Though any Parsathean might have taken offense at such a question, Banek only nodded. “I do.”
“Am I ugly?” she asked.
The older man began to laugh—before suddenly quieting, as if realizing her question was not in jest. “No, my lady,” he said. “You are not.”
Despite his response, a frown still pleating her brow. “My older brothers said I was, but they often
lied and only spoke to hurt me, so . . .” A shrug finished that. “I have never clearly seen my own face—nor did I have many visitors to my tower. Hardly enough to judge beauty.”
“Is for the best,” Maddek said gruffly. “Such judgments serve no one.”
“Perhaps not.” Those pale eyes met his. “But I was told you were handsome, and so I think you must be the standard by which I judge. Though it also seems there is beauty in everyone I see. I thought Toric must be speaking of Danoh or Ardyl, for there have been times these past days when I have not been able to look away from them. But I cannot truly judge, for I have stared as often at all of you. And so much that I see seems so beautiful. That woman, for example”—she gestured discreetly toward an older woman seated at another table—“has lines beside her mouth and eyes, as if she smiles often. Can you imagine what a happy life she has led that her face is so ready to smile? I look at her and think those lines are the loveliest thing I have ever seen. Or perhaps it is the drops of ale sparkling in that laughing man’s beard, do you see him? He looks as if he has not a care.”
Maddek grunted. “He looks as if he’s had too much to drink.”
Her lips pursed and she leveled a withering gaze upon his face, as if to reprimand him for his sour response. “I would like to have not a care. So perhaps I ought to drink too much,” she said tartly, drawing hearty laughs of agreement from the warriors.
Even Maddek could not find fault in her thinking. With a grin, he said, “When the serving woman returns.”
“Do you think that is how the goddess sees us—as you do? As something beautiful?” Toric’s face was red as he asked, and reddened further when she met his eyes and gave her somber reply.
“If Vela truly looks through me, I think she must.”
Maddek cared little of a goddess’s opinion. He should not have cared for Yvenne’s, either. Yet he was pleased she thought him handsome.
Foolishness. Appearance was nothing. For all that her features were pinched and sallow, they were finely drawn, and her eyes arresting. But she was also treacherous—and there was nothing appealing in that.