by Milla Vane
Warrior. Never had it felt like an insult before. Yet that was what she had called him almost from the first moment of their meeting.
Almost. Because the first time she had spoken to him, she had called him Ran Maddek. How far and how quickly he had fallen in her estimation.
Perhaps because he asked the wrong questions. “Can you run if you must? Why do you favor your left leg?”
Her pale eyes darted to his face before she deliberately pulled her gaze away from him, offering the stubborn lift of her chin as an answer.
He liked the look of that answer but it was not the one he sought. Did she fear admitting a weakness? She had never seemed reluctant to speak of hers before. “If I am to protect you, Yvenne, I must know what you can and cannot do.”
As he expected, her sense outweighed her stubbornness.
“I cannot run,” she snapped. “Three years past, my knee was shattered. It never properly healed.”
Shattered while she was locked in a tower room? “How were you hurt?” Tension gripped him. “Who hurt you?”
“I prefer not to say. Whenever I reveal anything of myself, warrior, you make weapons from what you learn.” A baleful glance was sent his way. “And it matters not. If any Parsathean sacrifices themself coming to my rescue, you have said you will kill me. Best not to attempt any rescue at all.”
“I said that if my warriors fell. I would risk myself.”
This time the glance she shot in his direction was guarded. Wary. As if she did not trust his word.
The muscles at the back of his neck stiffened. To doubt a Parsathean’s word was a grave insult. But if Maddek was to make peace, he had to let it pass.
Quietly he said, “When I spoke of warriors sacrificing themselves, I knew nothing of your injury or that you cannot run. I spoke in haste and rage and grief.”
Her chin lifted again. “Was it your haste and rage and grief that almost ripped out my tongue?”
That he could not let pass. “You heard my vow and my warning. Yet still you spoke with sly tongue yesterday.”
“So I did. Twice.”
“Three times.”
“Twice.” Her sharpened gaze returned to his. “Once at the ruins and once while we ate our meal. I should not have attempted to slip mention of her into our conversations. I regret that I did. But I also told you I would not again.”
“Yet you did again, in our bed. Unless you will claim it was my warriors and not my mother who said I would please you there?”
“Why would I make such a claim? I was speaking of my mother.”
Maddek frowned. “How could she know such a thing?”
On a shaky breath, she looked away from him again to gaze blindly ahead, her jaw set. After a moment she said, “My mother watched you—as she watched every warrior and noble who might eventually make a suitable match for me. She saw you with your lovers and assured me you would see to my pleasure.”
Maddek had not taken a lover in years. Not since becoming commander of the alliance army more than eight summers past.
Had Queen Vyssen watched him so long?
In disbelief he searched Yvenne’s face. He could not know whether she spoke the truth. But it matched what she had claimed before. Her mother had observed many members of the alliance . . . and after Zhalen had deceived her, surely Queen Vyssen would not let another man deceive her daughter in the same way. What better way to know a man’s character than to watch him for years?
Sick shame returned to his chest. He could still feel Yvenne’s slick tongue between his fingers. He could still hear her panicked sobbing breaths as she seized his wrist and tried to prevent him from fulfilling his vow.
Had he done so, never would he have known the truth. And he would have not been an oathbreaker. He would have been far worse.
He would not ask for her forgiveness. What he had done should not be forgiven. Instead he offered what poor apology he could.
Throat raw, he told her, “I wronged you. For that, I am sorry.”
In either surprise or incredulity, her moonstone eyes darted to his face again. For a long moment she simply looked at him. Finally she said, “Was it your haste and rage and grief again?”
At her measured reply, relief loosened the knot in his chest. “I have been counseled against speaking or making decisions while in the grip of it.”
“It was wise counsel.”
“Yes.” Nayil’s counsel often was. Yet Maddek had discarded the Parsathean minister’s advice almost immediately upon hearing that Zhalen had a daughter. “In the future, I will better heed it.”
“That is also wise,” she said softly, though the ironic smile that followed suggested she did not fully believe it.
“You think I will not succeed?”
“Perhaps.” Her shrug was lightweight, unlike her gaze upon his face. “In truth, I was thinking of my own poor decision. I cannot blame haste or rage, because my choice of husband was years in the making. But still I regret my choice now.”
Regretted him, Maddek realized—and the emotion that rose through him was quick and hot, and felt like anger, but fury had never clawed painfully at his chest as this emotion did.
Still it sounded the same as fury, harsh and unyielding, as he demanded, “Could your marriage to any other man better strengthen the alliance?”
Her jaw tightened before she admitted, “No.”
“Is there another who would defy the council and destroy your father?”
“No.”
“Who will free your people from his tyranny?”
Such a long pause followed, it was as if she desperately tried to think of another name before admitting defeat. “No.”
But it mattered not what her answers were. He gripped the pommel of her saddle, covering her hands with his—as his body had covered hers last eve. As he would cover her again on her moon night and every night thereafter.
His gaze held steadily to hers as he said, “Do you believe I would ever allow you to choose another?”
“No.” A bitter smile curved her lips. “I am your path to vengeance. So let us continue as we are, warrior.”
So they would. But not exactly as they had been. He gave to her the reins and mounted his own horse, then signaled to Kelir to take the lead before coming up alongside Yvenne. At a trot they started away from the stables, with Maddek watching her new mount. Thus far her mare seemed placid and steady, suitable for a new rider.
When they reached the road, he spoke again. “Do you still intend to make a king of me?”
A soft laugh preceded her reply. “I will try.”
“And I will make a warrior-queen of you.” At her sudden frown and searching glance, he continued, “Here is your first lesson: make the best use of what you have. Waste no time with wishes and regrets.”
She stared at him for a long moment before a wry smile touched her mouth. “And I have you, warrior. Is that what you mean to say?”
“No. I say what I mean: a warrior makes use of what she has.”
Her eyebrows arched in challenge. “And I have you.”
“Yes.” Maddek could not deny that. She had him. It was best that she made use of him. And if the lesson she learned from this was to accept Maddek as her only possible suitor, then he would not unteach her. But there was another he wanted her to learn. “Are you prepared for your second lesson?”
Another laugh was her answer. Blown back by the wind, her hood had fallen away from her braided hair, her cheeks already brightened by the ride.
His gaze fell to her linen-wrapped calf, exposed as the sides of her cloak and robe flapped against her mount’s flanks. “It is the same lesson: make use of what you have. And if you are in bed with a warrior who intends to rip out your tongue for a false reason, then use the dagger strapped to your leg to defend yourself.”
Sudden and shar
p was the grin she turned on him. “I will! Even if the reason is not false.”
Maddek did not doubt it—and thought he would be wise to strip her of weapons before joining her in his furs that night. “Will you give me true reason?”
“I have no wish to lose my tongue.” All at once her smile faded, her moonstone gaze solemn. “And a Parsathean warrior who betrays a vow cannot be king—yet that is what I intend to make you. So I will not risk my tongue or your crown again.”
Maddek did not doubt that, either. And a warrior wasted no time on regrets but still must admit the wrongs he’d done . . . and it was not the threat to her tongue that had sent her from their bed. When he’d let her go, she had lain beside him still. Only after he’d spoken again had she left. “What I told you afterward, I should not have. Those were words best left unsaid.”
Her face shuttered. “Yet you spoke truth, did you not? As Parsatheans always do. Through me, you will have your vengeance. And you intend to give me nothing more than your seed.”
Jaw tight, Maddek inclined his head. That was what he intended. A vessel was all Yvenne should be to him.
And he should not need to keep reminding himself of that.
Chin lifting, she looked away from him, casting her gaze down the road ahead. In silence they rode for five long breaths before she spoke again. “It was also true what you said of me. I hoped for more from my marriage and my husband. Yet affection and love are not necessary to our purpose, are they?”
“No,” he answered gruffly—more truth. Yet he had to force it from his tongue.
She yearned for more from him. Being certain of what he’d already guessed should not pull at his chest, as if drawing upon some hidden yearning within his own heart.
A short nod was her reply, followed by a sidelong glance. “Will you ever rescind your vow?”
And let her speak of his mother? “If ever I believed you would only speak truth.”
“I would,” she shot back without hesitation. “I have never lied to you.”
He gave no reply.
Her moonstone gaze searched his face and must have seen the doubt he hadn’t voiced. Emphatically she continued. “I have spoken with sly tongue twice. But I have never lied to you. I never will.”
Such a statement demanded an answer. “Never can I be certain of that.”
“You will always doubt my word?”
Maddek believed he would. No matter how he wished otherwise. She would be his bride, his queen, the mother of his children. Of all the words ever spoken, it was hers that he most wanted to trust.
But he did not. And he would waste no time wishing.
Grimly he nodded. Her delicate features an unmoving mask, she stared at him with wide and unblinking eyes for many breaths.
Finally she faced forward again, her shoulders straight, her spine stiff. “You no longer need to fear that I want more from you, warrior. I require neither your affection nor your trust. All I require is your seed and your protection.”
As it should be. Yet that was another truth he could not voice.
Because even though she no longer wanted more from Maddek, some foolish part of him wanted to give it.
CHAPTER 17
YVENNE
The past few days, Yvenne would have given much for Maddek to ride beside her. So of course on this day, when she would’ve given much to put distance between them, he never left her side.
Her would-be husband said little as they rode, however, and for that she was thankful. Already he had said enough.
Their route had veered away from the great river, its waters a rippling glint of silver to the north. Blanketed in tall grass, the Gogean plains stretched endlessly before them. Yvenne rode with her chin high and her gaze on the western horizon, fixed at the point where the narrowing road vanished from sight.
After a lifetime spent in her tower, she was no good judge of distance. She could not guess how far away the horizon lay. But surely by the time they reached that meeting of ground and sky, this pain would no longer weigh upon her heart so fiercely. Surely by then, the sharpened rage clawing up her throat would dull and retreat. Surely the icy bitterness that rimed her tongue would warm and sweeten.
Yet although Enam’s blinding eye roamed higher through a cloudless sky and Yvenne’s mare consumed a long span of road beneath her hooves, the horizon remained ever distant.
And if Maddek knew of her pain or rage, he seemed not at all burdened by them. He rode as tall as ever—and today he wore armor again. Not since leading the ambush upon the Tolehi road had he donned more than his linens, boots, and belt. Now spaulders and vambraces guarded his strong shoulders and arms. No breastplate covered his broad chest, however. Nor did he wear his silver claws or blacken his brow. Prepared for Syssian soldiers to catch up to them, but not yet anticipating a battle.
Remembering the hardened feel of him behind her, it seemed no wonder that he did not armor his chest. His heavy pectorals were already like steel.
She was looking upon those thick muscles when he glanced over. His dark gaze caught hers as surely as his fingers had caught her tongue, and the ravenous fire in his eyes burned as hot as she had burned against him last eve.
His apology for pulling at her tongue had been as sincere as it had been unexpected. But she had trusted his touch once and been hurt by it. Willingly would she lie beneath him on her moon night and every night after—but renewed trust would not come as easily as the flames he stoked within her.
Steadily she returned his look. Her tongue and her mind were her greatest weapons, but they were not as effective as her eyes. Even her father and brothers faltered beneath her moonstone gaze. Now she silently regarded Maddek, wanting him to back down, wishing that he would just once falter, too. But not for a moment did he glance away.
Despite her wish, it spoke so well of him that he held her gaze. That he could withstand what so many others could not. That he was not cowed by the goddess Vela looking through her eyes. Such a fine king he would be.
Even if he would never love or respect his queen.
It was she who averted her face then, as the raw ache in her throat built into a stinging burn behind her eyes.
This rage and pain would ease, she knew. Perhaps not this day. But Yvenne had spoken truth earlier—to be queen of Syssia and Parsathe, she did not require his affection.
Nor should she give any in return. If Maddek would never believe her word, he deserved no portion of her heart. Which ought to suit them both, as he wanted no portion of it.
But Parsatheans were raiders and thieves, so he’d already stolen some of it, anyway.
By Temra’s fist, she would protect what was left—and to do it, she would heed his lessons well. Not only by using her dagger if he threatened her tongue again, but by wasting no time on wishes and regrets.
She would not even regret the pain his words had brought. With them, he’d taught her a more valuable lesson.
He’d taught her how vulnerable her heart was.
It was not the first time she’d been given that lesson. Her mother had before, but Yvenne had not truly learned it then.
Queen Vyssen had told her that love was not something to avoid. For when love was given freely or genuinely returned, everyone it touched was strengthened by it. Yet love could also blind, just as anger and hatred and fear did. It could be wielded as a weapon. It could hurt, when it was rejected or betrayed or lost. It could be confused with lust, or with pleasure, or with gratitude—for it often entwined with other emotions and was not so easily separated from them.
Her mother had tried to teach her how to recognize the difference. She’d served as Yvenne’s eyes beyond the tower, had discussed the character of everyone she’d seen, and had warned her of all the ways people might attempt to take advantage of her heart. In that, she’d prepared Yvenne as best she could.
It was no
t the manipulations of others that had worried Queen Vyssen most, however, because Yvenne’s father and older brothers had schooled her well. Instead she feared that Yvenne had been starved for love, just as they’d been often starved for food—and that, once released from their tower, Yvenne would grasp for any affection, no matter how slight, simply to feel full.
But Yvenne had not believed herself in so much danger. All of her life, she’d known love that was strong and unwavering. First her mother’s, then her younger brother’s—and, for a short time, Ran Ashev’s. True, she’d been piercingly lonely following her mother’s death, but the memory of Queen Vyssen’s love had sustained her then, as had Yvenne’s love for her people. Love had strengthened her, just as her mother had claimed it would. Love, and the hope that her father’s rule would soon find its end.
And knowing love, Yvenne had never imagined that she would be so hungry for Maddek’s heart, or as dazzled by his touch as she was dazzled by the expanse of the sky and the warmth of the sun.
Perhaps that was why her mother had feared so much. Because after knowing love all her life, Yvenne hadn’t truly conceived of a future without it—especially not from her chosen husband. Not from the warrior she’d spent so many years admiring from afar.
Yet that future was what she faced now. And Maddek had not only denied all possibility of love between them, he’d also destroyed a hope that was so great a part of her that she’d not even realized how much of her heart it had filled. The emotions churning within her were not just pain and anger . . . but also grief, for the hope her warrior had killed.
This grief would pass. When it did, then she would do as he’d suggested, and find the love she longed for with their children and their people. And she would be all the stronger for it.
But that would not be today.
Today, she would begin the painstaking process of disentangling her emotions. For when they stopped at midday, Maddek was at her mount’s side before she had even swung her leg over the saddle. He gripped her waist, easing her from the horse’s back. Unbidden pleasure flared at his touch, her entire body responding to his proximity—and her heart responding to the care he took with her.