by Milla Vane
That desire, she would allow to grow. Yvenne would accept no less than pleasure from him in their bed, and arousal could be separated from love. She had seen it herself. Ardyl and Kelir had no deep feelings for the barmaid, yet pleasure was had by each of them.
But within Yvenne, desire’s roots were entwined with futile hope—and with the sweet emotion that had been nurtured by years of Queen Vyssen telling her what sort of man Maddek was, by the short time his mother had told her the same, and by the even shorter time Yvenne had known him. So she had to let that sweeter emotion wither. She had to starve it. Until only physical arousal remained, and until she never mistook the gentleness in his touch for affection.
Because although Maddek helped her dismount, assistance was not caring. He helped her down because her knee might collapse under her weight, and an injury might slow their journey. Because she was a vessel, and of no use to him broken.
Yet even as that knowledge dug painfully into her heart, where the roots of hope were still so deeply embedded, happiness bloomed when Maddek did not immediately set her down. Instead he held her above the ground with his hands clasped around her waist and his eyes locked upon her own. And the warmth that spread through her was not only physical but so sweet again. This love within her was a tenacious weed that kept reaching for Maddek as if he were the sun.
Strong, just as her mother had said. Love—and hope—would not wither in a day. Perhaps not even within a sevennight.
But she had to starve them to the roots. So if his touch nurtured those emotions, then to protect herself it was best that she avoid his touch. At least until her moon night, when she could avoid it no longer.
She could not avoid it now. Stiffly, she waited for Maddek to let her down.
Instead he held her, his gaze level with hers, her feet dangling. Automatically Yvenne gripped his forearms to steady herself. Heated by the sun, the drepa skin covering his vambraces was warm as life, the pebbled texture worn smooth between the scars of battle.
Aside from that small movement, she remained quiet, her body rigid.
Abruptly a frown darkened Maddek’s expression. She couldn’t imagine what prompted it, until he said, “You no longer soften against me. Have I made you fear my touch?”
No. Trust would not come easy again, yet she feared no physical harm at his hands. But she was already hurt and feared that her future held more pain if she softened.
So there was no simple answer, yet his question was likely simple. He wondered if she was terrified of him. So there was truth in the shake of her head.
That response seemed not to relieve Maddek—or perhaps he assumed that she lied again. His frown deepened into angry frustration. “Your face tells me nothing.”
Yvenne could not be sorry for that. If she wore her emotions as plainly as the Parsatheans did, what would her face say to him now? That her heart yearned and ached? Should she give him reason to declare again that she could never earn his trust or his love?
She should not. So this time she gave no reply at all.
Eyes narrowing, he studied her for a moment longer, before hissing a breath from between his teeth. “Do you sense dark magics here?”
Irritation burned away the ache. Did he trust nothing she said? “I vowed to tell you when I do,” she snapped. “And as I have no desire to see thrice-cursed wraiths sucking the blood from my dripping entrails while I scream my last mortal breaths, if I sense anything amiss I will let you know.”
And Yvenne could read his face easily, but she could make no sense of what it told her now, for Maddek seemed pleased. Not amused, as if finding humor in her answer or laughing at her vehemence, but satisfied by it. Yet what pleasure could he take in her response?
“So my punishment has come to an end?” he softly asked.
What punishment? Utterly confused now, she arched her brows in question—Maddek could surely read that upon her face—but instead of giving an answer he gently set her to her feet.
“You will ride the roan mare when we start off again.” Wearing a faint smile, he loosened her cinch knot before turning to unsaddle his own horse. “If you must tend to your own needs while they rest, do it quickly. We will not remain here long.”
Only long enough for the horses to drink and briefly eat. However, it was not the length of this rest that concerned Yvenne, but the next, when they would stop to make camp.
Slipping her fingers beneath the band of leather he’d loosened, she tugged until the knot came free. “How far until the next village?”
“Two days’ hard ride.” A soft grunt accompanied his answer, and then he turned again to face her, his great roll of furs propped upon his shoulder and his saddle gripped in his left hand. “Did you hope for another bed at an inn? My furs will be soft enough. Only this time, I would keep you against me the full night.”
Then he must have forgotten what she’d told him when she left the bed—that she had no desire to share his until her moon night.
That had been absolute truth. And although she yearned for the pleasure he’d given her, she could not protect her heart if she allowed him so close. Even now, it pounded like the hoofbeats of a galloping steed, as the thought of another night with him raced through her blood.
Yet she had to starve the sweeter emotions that accompanied that fire. Not feed them.
“I hoped not for an inn,” she said, reaching up and taking firm hold of her pommel and cantle, “but to purchase my own bedding.”
Dragging the saddle from her mount’s back took all of her strength—as did bearing its weight without staggering—and so she could not even note Maddek’s response until, abruptly, she bore no weight at all. He hauled the seat out of her grip. Then his response was all she could see, for he crowded close. Thick biceps bulged, the sinews of his wrists and hands standing in sharp relief, as if holding her saddle were an effort, yet she knew it was not. Leather creaked under the tightness of his grip, the knuckles of his powerful fingers whitening. His faint smile had vanished. Below dark eyes that flashed hot and feral, volcanic tension pulled the skin across his cheekbones taut.
Yet despite the barely restrained violence within his massive body, still Yvenne did not fear him. Lifting her chin, she met his enraged gaze and silently challenged him to deny her.
He did, his response emerging on a dangerous snarl. “You will sleep in my furs this night. And every night.”
“And as I said last eve, I will not lie beside you until my moon night.”
Perhaps he had not forgotten. Perhaps he had—once again—not believed her word. Now his smoldering gaze scoured her face, as if searching for truth. He must have realized that this was no lie, for the rage in his gaze dimmed. She knew not what to make of the bleak resolve that replaced it, or the softness of his gruff reply.
“Then I will let you sleep alone. But you will be in my furs.”
That distance would have to be enough, then. She could see no use in arguing further, as purchasing her own bedding today was impossible—and, if they were to be married and serve as queen and king of two territories, surely it would not be the first compromise that she and Maddek made.
They had both made demands. They would both get what they wanted . . . with modifications.
On a sharp nod, she offered her agreement—then looked for more anger but could see none.
Instead he wore that same grim resolve in his firmed mouth and clenched jaw. His dark gaze held hers for another long moment, and then he glanced over her head, to where Banek and Ardyl were caring for the extra horses. “Shall I carry this for you?”
Her heavy saddle. Her throat oddly tight, she shook her head. “I prefer to do as much as I can.”
Carefully he gave it back to her, making certain she had a steady grip before releasing the full weight.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
An equally soft grunt dismisse
d her gratitude. He gathered her horse’s lead. “I will take them to water. Stay near Ardyl when you piss. You are not yet a warrior-queen.”
And able to protect herself. Yvenne knew that very well. Maddek did, too, and he had told her so many times before. But to hear him say it so differently now—not yet a warrior-queen—filled her with such pain and hope and confusion.
She bore them along with the saddle’s weight across the small clearing—though it was not even properly a clearing, but an area of flattened grasses that formed a thick mat upon the ground. All around them grew stalks taller than Yvenne. When mounted, she could see over their seed-heavy heads. Now she could not, and it was as if a nodding wall of green surrounded them.
A stream burbled across the western edge of the clearing, the water cutting deeply into the soft earth, so that the horses had to be led carefully down its steep banks. Ardyl and Banek had not yet led theirs to drink.
Because they were waiting for her. Ardyl had already singled out the roan, holding it ready to saddle.
Which Yvenne would not be doing alone, she realized the moment she stepped up beside the mare. Though this mount was not as tall as the full-blooded Parsathean horses, it was much taller than her gelding had been—and to lift the seat onto that horse’s back, she had always needed a stone or a stump to step upon. There was nothing of the like here.
Lips flattened in irritation, she looked to Ardyl for help.
The warrior grinned as she took the heavy saddle and easily set it into place.
With the strain upon her shoulders and back relieved, Yvenne let out a long breath, then rolled her neck from side to side. As soon as Ardyl stepped aside, she moved forward again, stalks crunching beneath her sandals. Banek had made her practice tying the cinch strap repeatedly during her first days upon the gelding, and she did again under his watchful eye. The process of making the leather knot, walking the horse a few steps, then tightening the cinch again was so familiar now, however, that she need not give it her full attention.
“What do you think happened here, that these grasses are stamped into the ground?”
The older warrior answered, “It was a bed for a family of mirens.”
Armored reptiles with hammerlike tails. Yvenne had seen trails broken through the grass where the reptiles had crossed the road but had not yet laid eyes on one. Though they were large animals, they weren’t tall and remained concealed within the grass.
Many dangers lurked between the stalks. Which was why Ardyl would accompany Yvenne when she relieved herself.
Because she was not yet a warrior-queen. Throat aching, she pulled hard upon the leather.
Beside her, Banek continued, “In the autumn, when the great herds move through, not a blade of grass will be left standing. They strip this plain to the soil.”
“And Temra be merciful to anyone traveling upon this road then,” Ardyl added with a laugh. “They are more likely to be trampled beneath a fanhead’s feet than reach Drahm.”
So they would take the road on the northern side of the Ageras instead. Yes. Yvenne knew all of that.
But there was something she didn’t know. In a thick voice, she asked, “Are Parsatheans allowed to speak lies if it is in jest?”
The amusement on Ardyl’s face vanished into a frown of displeasure. “There is no joke in a lie. It dishonors the speaker and insults the listener.”
“Oh.” Hope and happiness filled Yvenne’s breast, yet the confusion remained. She was not a warrior-queen yet. Did Maddek truly mean to make her one, then?
How?
Even Yvenne’s mother and younger brother, the two people who believed in her most and loved her best, had never suggested the possibility. In their tower, Queen Vyssen had made her run and exercise her muscles, had shown her how to conceal a knife within her robes, but never had Yvenne’s lessons extended beyond that. Given the weakness of Yvenne’s body, her mother had often said that her mind was her best weapon. So they had focused on sharpening her brain and her tongue instead of sharpening blades.
Ran Ashev had put a bow into her hands and taught her to use it, true. If she’d ever intended to teach Yvenne more, however, she’d never spoken of it. They’d only spoken of the single arrow that would fly from Yvenne’s bow and facilitate Ran Ashev’s escape. Yet Yvenne had dreamed of more arrows, and of being free—and using that bow to defend herself and her people. She needed no great strength for that. Only strength enough to draw a bowstring.
Then her father had cut off her fingers and severed any hope she had of using that weapon again.
Maddek knew of her weakness. He knew of her missing fingers. He knew of her shattered knee. Yet still he claimed that a warrior-queen could be made of her?
Even knowing he always spoke truth, she hardly dared believe it.
Perhaps Banek sensed her turmoil, for he was studying her face with concern deepening the lines beside his eyes. “Why do you ask, my lady?”
This newer doubt and pain had too sharp an edge, so she choose the pain that had already dulled. “That first eve, I told you all that I had never ridden a horse. None of you believed me. Yet you did not respond as if you were insulted by a lie. Instead you laughed, as if I had been making fun.”
Except for Maddek, whose laughter had been cruel and mocking. Because he had immediately understood that she spoke the truth.
“Ah!” Now Ardyl’s face cleared. “If it is something that everyone knows cannot be true, that can be a joke. There is no deception if a truth is well known.”
And to a Parsathean, the idea that someone might have never sat upon a horse was unbelievable. It could only be a joke.
So, too, would be making a warrior-queen of Yvenne.
The crushing disappointment within her chest threatened to fold her over, but she hid that pain in the task of untying her wineskin from the saddle.
Behind her, Banek confirmed, “Such it is. If someone were to say your father was a fine king, everyone would know it for a joke.”
Yvenne forced herself to answer. “And if the speaker meant it?”
“Then we would know him for a fool,” Ardyl replied. “Either way, it is good for a laugh.”
Was that why Maddek had said it, then? Had he been trying to humor her? On the heels of his apology, perhaps he had been trying to make amends. For certain, on this day she had not sensed any cruelty in him—and he could not know how making of a joke of it could hurt her so badly. She had joked of it herself at the ruins. Perhaps he’d wished to return to the ease they’d found then, before the blood wraiths had come.
But when he’d given her a warrior’s lesson this morn, she had thought he might be telling the truth. She’d wanted to believe he was.
Yet making a warrior-queen of her was something no one could believe. Instead, her hope only marked her as a fool.
Well. It would not be the first time. Or likely the last.
Ardyl remained at her side as Banek led the horses to the stream. Standing upon the opposite bank was Maddek, sun gleaming over his dark skin. With a short blade, he scythed through handfuls of tall grass before tossing the fresh stalks to Toric, who cut away the tough, fibrous stem from the tender leaves near the top, which the horses could more easily eat. So quickly they worked that in the time it had taken Yvenne to saddle her roan, they had already harvested enough feed for each horse.
Maddek tucked away his blade. In a single mighty leap that filled Yvenne with both awe and envy, he cleared the stream. Lightly, as if his feet bore feathers instead of his massive weight, he landed upon the near bank in a crouch, the outer length of his red linens flaring wide before settling around his powerful legs.
Left behind to bundle the grasses, Toric waved one of the woody stems in his direction like a mock sword. As Maddek rose, the other warrior called out his name. Then Toric abruptly stopped, tilting the stem straight upward, his eyebrows shooting h
igh. Maddek’s hearty laugh rolled across the clearing—a response to something Toric said and Yvenne had not heard, but which prompted both warriors to glance in her direction.
Maddek’s gaze caught hers—and she could not read his expression at all, but for the longest breath, that look held her captive. No longer was he laughing when he glanced away.
Yet Yvenne could not stop looking upon him, and she slowly realized that another statement she had taken as truth had likely been a joke.
To Ardyl, she asked, “Is his beard truly a foul sight?”
For surely no one could believe it so. Clean-shaven or no, Maddek must be thought very handsome. No matter who looked upon him.
The woman’s peal of laughter was answer enough. But Yvenne wanted more.
“Yet it is also true that warriors should be as silver-fingered Rani, who wears no beard?”
“It is truth. But we must sometimes hope to be more than goddesses are.” Drawing her sword, Ardyl added, “You have to piss?”
Yvenne nodded.
“Come then. And mind your feet. The edges of these stalks can slice skin as easily as sharpened steel can,” Ardyl said, and led Yvenne into the rustling grass. Almost immediately, they were swallowed from sight of the clearing. The warrior stopped and stomped flat a small circle for Yvenne to squat in.
Turning her back to allow Yvenne privacy, she continued, “Ran Ashev wore her hair unbound when she stood before the tribes.”
Maddek’s mother. Her dark hair had been braided again when Yvenne had met her. But she dared not ask more—she had promised Maddek not to speak of his mother at all.
“And his father?”
“Cut his braids short. He wore no beard,” Ardyl said, and her voice softened, in grief or memory. “Though he did when his own mother died. He was not only a warrior then, not only Ran, but a son.” Absently, she brushed her fingertips over the piercings on her brow. “Just as I am a daughter.”
The last daughter of a clan that had been slaughtered by the Destroyer. Yvenne had heard that tale their second night upon the road. The piercings were made from the silver rings gathered from the corpses of her family—and Ardyl, then a newborn babe, had been found swaddled within the village’s stone granary, where someone who’d loved her had hidden her away.