A Heart of Blood and Ashes

by Milla Vane

  “Always, my mother was patient. For years she planned our escape. Mostly we lacked opportunity, for the door to our tower was bolted from outside. But just as the guards one time did not tie her properly when my father visited her bed, she knew one time that door would not be bolted—or we might have help.”

  “From whom?” he asked quietly.

  “The handmaids. After all, a queen does not empty her own chamber pot or carry water for her own bath. So we had maids that were never allowed to leave the citadel, and my father had threatened their families if ever they spoke of us—or spoke to us. They only came once per day, and always they were watched by the Rugusian guards while inside the tower chamber. But these were not merely days of watching, but years of days, and the guards were not always careful. A note could be slipped into a maid’s pocket, or left where she would find it. And in that way, one day a maid bumped a linen basket against the door latch and it was not locked properly.”

  “So you escaped.”

  Emotion like a vise on her heart, Yvenne nodded. Twice she had to swallow before speaking again. “My mother made me exercise so that I would be as strong as I could be, and every day we practiced running with me carrying her as best I could. I knew our exact route. Across the landing, down one hundred spiraling steps, along the north corridor and into the servants’ quarters, and from there the service stairs. And she told me what stairs were, described them to me. They would take us down, she said. So I ran at them as fast as I could . . . and it was as if the world dropped out from beneath my feet. We fell and—” Her breath hitched raggedly, again and again. “We fell. More than a hundred steps. Because I didn’t understand that I must run on them differently than I would a floor. “

  Long fingers slid into her hair, bringing her face to his chest, allowing her to hide. “You had never seen stairs before?”

  She shook her head. Dully she said, “Her neck was broken, her body twisted. She had wrapped herself around me and took the worst of the fall. I only bumped my ankle—and have no memory of reaching the bottom. Only of lying on the stone landing, and seeing her lying there beside me. Knowing she was dead. Knowing that she would still want me to escape. Knowing that I had to get up again. But my father and brothers had been alerted by the commotion. And they made certain I would not get up then, and would never run again.”

  “Bazir was among them?”

  “He stomped the hardest upon my knee. He loved our mother . . . in his way.”

  “I would kill him again for laying her death at your feet.” Strong fingers tilted her head back. Dark gaze searched her eyes. Gruffly he said, “You are not to blame, Yvenne.”

  She laughed because otherwise she would cry. “Do you have a warrior’s lesson to give that might teach me how to believe that?”

  A wry smile curved his mouth. “If I did, first I would have to learn it myself.”

  “Do not look to me for that lesson,” she told him. “All good kings carry more blame than they should.”

  “It is fortunate I have broad enough shoulders for it.” Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to the point of her shoulder. “And yours look frail, yet mountains they can bear.”

  Now she would truly weep. With shuddering breath, she pillowed her cheek on his biceps. As if sensing her need to hide again, Maddek said nothing for a long time. She was drifting off to sleep when his stirring awoke her.

  In a low rasp he said, “Take your rest, Yvenne. I will return when my cock rises again.”

  Because Yvenne had told him that she would not sleep beside him. Now she reached out, caught his hand before he left the bed.

  “Stay,” she said.

  And he did.

  CHAPTER 31

  MADDEK

  Hard Maddek must have slept. He knew not when Yvenne left their bed or their quarters. But he heard her return—the slide of the palewood door, then her labored steps down the four steep stairs to the recessed floor.

  Then the sound of her climbing the stairs. And descending again. And climbing. And descending.

  Practicing, her every breath shuddering and fearful.

  Chest tight, he lay in bed—making no sound, because he suspected Yvenne might stop if she knew he listened. She had opened the wound of her mother’s death for him to see. Yet still tender she must be. And with her armor gone, easily he might hurt her.

  By Temra’s fist, he would never batter at her walls again. And he would take more care. He could not bear to see her spark blown out.

  Her breaths sounded heavier from exertion than terror when she finished her practice. Directly toward the bed she came then, and Maddek closed his eyes, as if asleep instead of lying with his heart full from listening to Yvenne battle her demons. The stairs to the bed’s platform she climbed without much fear, it seemed. Her slight weight he felt upon the mattress—and her soft mouth, just above his knee, then higher and higher. Kissing her way up his thigh.

  Instantly he was hard as stone. She chuckled softly and gripped his thickened length.

  “You are awake,” she said throatily. “Now lie still.”

  He could not—not if lying on his back meant missing the sight of her mouth upon his cock. Onto his elbows he rose, gaze riveted upon her face, groaning as her tongue traced a scorching path over the crown. Hands fisted in the sheets, he bore the excruciating pleasure of her hunger as she tasted him. So many times he’d imagined this. Yet never had his imaginings been near to the truth.

  Eyes hot, she looked up at him. “Every day, I intend to practice my riding upon you. So that when this journey is over, I will not be so saddlesore again.”

  Hoarsely he told her, “That is a fine idea.”

  Her full lips curving, she moved back onto the dais, shedding her silk robe. Only her linens wrapped her limbs when she climbed into the bed again. With his gaze, he devoured her, then met her eyes again when she gave a husky admission.

  “I like the way you look at me, Maddek.”

  “I like knowing that I am the only one who has seen you thus.” A foolish thing to enjoy. Yet he did.

  Her smile widening, she swung her leg over his hips. “Should I ask you to cover, too?”

  “I would.” For her, he would.

  “I do not think I will.” Her soft hand clasped his jutting length. “I like knowing that everyone can see your strength, your handsomeness . . . and it is all mine.”

  His teeth gritted with sheer pleasure as she angled his cock to her cunt. He caught her hips, stopping her. “You are not ready.”

  “I am.” Eyes heavy-lidded, she dragged the head of his cock through the wet lust between her thighs. “Nothing else have I thought of since waking but the memory of you inside me.”

  So wet she was. Sinking down upon him, drawing him into that scalding embrace. Yet she could not take him all—the difficulty not in her arousal, but her knee as she tried to bend it against the mattress. Discomfort shortened her breath.

  “I cannot—” Utter disappointment shattered her expression. “I cannot ride you like this.”

  “That is not proper riding, anyway.” He held on to her and slid to the edge of the bed, feet braced on the dais. When far enough he went, her legs dangled free, just as if she sat upon a mount with no saddle or stirrups.

  There Yvenne’s weight carried her down the full length of his cock and she gasped. No pain he heard, only pleasure in that sound.

  “You’re so deep,” she breathed.

  “Do you want less?”

  She shook her head, lip between her teeth. And then she rode in truth, not with legs braced on the bed, but rising through her hips. A deep moan rose up from her chest and her head fell back, the tip of her braid swinging against his thighs. Then she leaned forward and braced herself upon his chest, her gaze locked with his as slowly she rode him.

  And no greater pleasure had Maddek ever known than now, buried insid
e the warm embrace of her cunt. No great height did she rise and fall, so deep he remained, her snug entrance sliding and working the base of his shaft as Yvenne used him for her pleasure. Slowly she increased her speed and he slipped his thumb through her moistened curls to rub her clit.

  “Maddek.” Again her head fell back, then forward. Her hips began a frantic circle. “Oh, Maddek.”

  “Fly, Yvenne.” Sitting up, he caught her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. She cried out and buried her fingers in his hair. With thumb still circling her clit, he gripped her ass with his left hand and urged her faster, harder, higher. “Fly.”

  With a scream through clenched teeth, she did, her inner muscles clamping hard upon his length, and swiftly he followed her on that flight. Then so sweetly she came down, cupping his face in her hands, her mouth on his for a long, slow kiss.

  He was still inside her, yet even closer he wanted to hold her. His hands slid up her bare back, callused palms gliding over skin that was rougher than his.

  His heart turned to stone and he stiffened. Her mouth froze upon his.

  “Yvenne,” he said, his voice shredded. As her back must have been.

  She hid her face in his shoulder. Gently, so gently, he drew her with him to the center of the bed, where he laid her on her stomach. On hands and knees he saw that her back was a mass of scars. The punishment for sending the letter to his parents. Always before, her back had been covered, so he’d thought it was just the one slash from a whip—and that one was too much. But Zhalen had ripped her open.

  His hand hovered above her skin, not touching but shaking. Never had he known such rage. Yet none did he let rise to his tongue.

  “Does it hurt?” Had he unknowingly caused her more pain, touching her or holding her?

  “No,” she whispered. “It itches, sometimes.”

  Still healing. From a whipping that might have killed her.

  In choked voice, he asked, “How did you survive this?”

  “I almost did not.” With a shuddering breath, she turned onto her back and looked up at him. “There are two answers. One I cannot say unless you give me leave to speak of it.”

  Because she would refer to his mother. “Tell me.”

  “She tended to me. This was how she met me. In bed, the wounds still open, sick with fever and unable to move far. She cared for me—and perhaps this is why she did not doubt me for long, or believe I lured them. Not after she saw what my father did for sending the message. Never would I have harmed her, Maddek.”

  “This I know.” Raggedly his reply came from his shredded throat. “What is the other answer?”

  She reached up with her two-fingered hand, traced his bearded jaw. “Your father told you that wars were won in throne rooms. You thought they were won on battlefields. But wars are not won in throne rooms or battlefields—or even the bed.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Here.” She flattened her hand over his pounding heart. “If the Destroyer came today, and enslaved us, and made us crawl across the mud to lick his feet—even if I did crawl, still that war he would not have won. In my heart, I would still be fighting. Looking for a way to defeat him. What would you do?”

  “The same,” he said gruffly.

  “So if you fight here, never will you lose. Not until you are dead. But even then, I would fight to my last breath. And I would call that a victory. And if it’s the only victory I will ever have . . . it will be enough.” She bit her lip. “Do you think that naive?”

  “No,” Maddek said softly. “I think you are right.”

  “That is how I survived. You asked before if I have been defeated. I have. You asked before what was there after defeat—and I said there was love for my people, rage against my father, and hope. When I understood that my messenger had been found out and killed, when my father laid my back open—there was almost nothing left. No rage. No hope. All that I had was love and the determination to keep trying . . . because that was all I could do. I was helpless, but it did not mean I had stopped trying. And when your mother came . . . hope returned. And not much time passed before I found my rage again.”

  When his mother and father had been killed. “That I understand well.”

  “I know you do.” Sadly she looked at him. “Do you think you will ever rescind your vow?”

  “Yes,” he said, and watched the shadows chase from her eyes. “Though not yet. And you never have to fear that I would pull out your tongue.”

  “Do you still believe I would lie?”

  He shook his head. “But I have the habit of a certain view . . . and of responding in haste and rage. If you ask before speaking of her, then I will be prepared and make certain not to see you with that same view—or respond with words best left unsaid or hurtful. And when that habit is broken, I will not need to check myself, or for you to prepare me for what you would say.”

  Slowly she nodded, but it was with a sigh that she said, “You have promised to make the attempt and you are. But how long do you think it will be before you see me clearly?”

  Maddek wished that he did now. But he would not waste time on wishes; instead he would change what was. He would change what he was. “I suspect when I have the heart of a king.”

  Sudden amusement curved her mouth. “Then I will continue your lessons.”

  “As I will yours.” Bending his head, he softly kissed her smiling lips. “Did you practice the bow today?”

  He would wager she had. As she had the stairs. And riding.

  She nodded. “Drawing the string. And Kelir helped me find a spot where I might practice without losing my arrows to the sea.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “And he said that my vision is not as others’ is.”

  He cupped her face. “It is a gift you have, such perfect sight.”

  “A gift that apparently requires as much practice as the bow does.”

  So it did. “Danoh has the keenest eyes to learn from. And she and Toric can best teach you the bow.”

  “I will ask them for lessons—though perhaps not from Toric. He is sick again.”

  He frowned. “The poison and fever?”

  “The sea and the waves. He has spent all day belowdecks with the horses. He claims their smell soothes his stomach.” She bit her lip before saying, “If I become sick, it will likely not be the sea.”

  But because she was with child. Though Vela had said that she was not yet.

  So many times would Maddek have her, soon that would be remedied.

  Her moonstone gaze slipped over his face. “Do you still wish to wait until I am with child before we marry?”

  Maddek had told her that. That he would not marry her until she was bred. Because she was no use to him barren.

  Now he cared not if she was. “We need not wait. But a Parsathean must stand on Temra’s altar to marry.”

  And that was also where he would stand if named Ran. Would that be when he had the heart of a king?

  Yvenne deserved no less than a king. So he would learn her lessons well—and give his own in return.

  “I have a hunter’s lesson for you this day.”

  Anticipation lit her face. “What lesson?”

  Dryly he said, “How to properly throw a knife.”

  And when she laughed so sweetly against him, he kissed her again.

  CHAPTER 32

  YVENNE

  By the time the ship reached the northern shore of the Boiling Sea, Yvenne could throw her knife and stab the point into her target four times of five. She could loose an arrow with accuracy, if not incredible range. And it was not only on Maddek that she practiced riding. When the horses were brought to the upper deck for exercise, she sat upon their backs. They never moved faster than a walk, but she still learned to loose her arrow from atop a mount.

  She could also climb four steps—not smoothly, for her knee would never allo
w that—but easily and without fear.

  And so many wonders she saw, so many sea creatures she’d eaten. From the ship, she’d seen more of her realm than ever before. The great white cliffs that marked the western boundary of Syssia were visible in the distance for the last tennight of their voyage.

  Those cliffs ran north and became the river gorge that also marked Parsathe’s western boundary. A port city lay near the shore. Not as elegant or as populous as Drahm, yet still bustling with people from the realms north and west of the Burning Plains.

  Though there was so much that Yvenne would have liked to stay and see, they could not linger in the city. From almost the moment they disembarked from the swan ship, they heard rumors of soldiers coming from the south—from the direction of the Syssian outpost.

  They only remained long enough to collect supplies and horses for the journey east—and to collect more Parsathean riders. Most Parsatheans from this area had already ridden toward Kilren to vote in the gathering for the new Ran, yet those who’d had a farther distance to travel now joined their party. Their numbers swelled to nearly four dozen riders as they left the city, following a well-worn road that would lead them through the rolling hills east of the river.

  “Do we ride directly to Kilren?” That from Jakon, a warrior who had returned to Parsathe after serving as a hired sword in the northern realms.

  Maddek shook his head. “We ride to meet Enox and the Parsathean army. In the morn, we will separate into two groups—one swift and one slow. I will be in the slow, because my bride may be with child.”

  “I will ride in the quick,” Toric said. In the full turn aboard the ship, his features had sharpened and thinned—and he’d spent most of the journey belowdecks with the horses, for the waves continually made him sick. “I am the Dragon’s wings, so make use of me.”

  Kelir frowned. “Are you recovered enough to ride with speed?”