by Milla Vane
All other conversation around the table fell silent, and Yvenne sighed. Well she’d known this might be coming. Vela had said the Dragon’s wings would fly a great distance. And given all that her father had known—but shouldn’t have—she’d guessed what had happened. Because Vela had also said Toric still had the revenant’s poison in him.
“Aezil is dead,” she told him. “No longer can he see through your eyes.”
Maddek looked from Toric to Yvenne, realization dawning. “That was how Zhalen knew to find the hollow?”
Jaw clenched against rage and grief and shame, Toric nodded. “I didn’t realize he was there,” he admitted in a thick voice, and touched the back of his head. “I thought the odd feel was lingering sickness and fever. But I showed him the way to our queen.”
“It is no fault of yours,” Maddek firmly said. “You need not go anywhere.”
“But it wasn’t only Aezil.” Fists clenched, Toric looked at them all with renewed determination. “Vela said it was her brother’s poison. Enam. And that god is still here. I still feel him. So perhaps the Destroyer can see through me, too. And he will see all that our queen does to build the alliance against him.”
“We cannot know that he could,” Yvenne said quietly, heart hurting for him. So fascinated he’d been by the knowledge that Vela was always looking through her eyes, and the gifts it brought. Yet now a god looked through Toric’s eyes and the knowledge only brought him pain.
“We cannot know that he couldn’t.” Throat working, Toric said, “I will visit the Tolehi monks first. Perhaps they know how to remove Enam’s poison from within me. Or blind him, so he cannot see through me. And if not, I will search for answers elsewhere. But I will not remain here and risk everything you try to build. After you have defeated the Destroyer . . . then I can return.”
Yvenne looked to the others, saw the need to persuade him to stay on the warriors’ faces—yet no words to do it with. And so there was only pain and frustration and loss.
Except from young Seri, who scraped meat from bone with her teeth as she told him, “You have to return. You are the greatest warrior in our tribe, so obviously you are the only warrior I would ever deign to marry.”
Toric choked on a laugh. “Perhaps I will return for that, then.”
The girl grinned at him, and lightness returned to the other warriors’ faces. But still, it was pleasure and pain, as a wedding feast became a goodbye feast, as well.
* * *
• • •
When it was full dark, Maddek carried her up the steps that led to the top of Syssia’s great wall. Cradled against his chest, she told him softly, “I can climb these better now.”
“So you can. But not once this night will I let you out of my arms.”
Nor would she let go of him. High they climbed, because Yvenne had not known where else to go. To claim her husband within the citadel seemed to show preference for Syssia. To claim him in the Parsathean camps outside the wall seemed to show preference for them. But in this way, they could be both.
The great wall was wide enough for horses to ride its length six abreast, and so their furs they easily spread between the battlements. Yet not immediately did they lie upon them, for this was a view such as neither Yvenne nor Maddek had ever had. All of the city they could see, as celebrations carried into the night. Many warriors still remained within the walls, though not all, because even a city such as hers had not enough grasslands to feed tens of thousands of horses. So across the rolling green fields outside the wall, many horses grazed amid the camps—joined by many Syssians, especially those who had shared blades with Parsathean warriors that day.
So full her heart was as she looked—then lifted her gaze farther east. “Enox rides to Rugus next?”
“She does,” Maddek said softly behind her, kissing the length of her neck.
“I am next in line to the throne,” she told him. “But I do not want to take that crown. So I know not what to do.”
Her husband’s strong arms came around her, pulling her back against his chest. “I have a suggestion.”
“I will take any.”
“Your brother imprisoned Commander Iova. Free her, and allow her to act as regent until the people of Rugus choose their own queen or king.”
“As Parsathe does?”
He nodded against her hair.
Perhaps a difficult change to make. Or perhaps easier than she knew. “That is a fine suggestion. Should I do the same for Syssia?”
He laughed. “What would be the purpose? They would have no other but Nyset’s heir.”
“Perhaps not, but they would choose.” She sighed. “Though I could not make that change, even if I wanted to. I am not truly a queen yet. And will not be until I reach a queen’s age or until . . . until . . .”
Her breath hitched, and so tightly he held her then.
Blindly she stared out over the wall. “I was so careful, Maddek. Drinking only what he drank. And . . . still.” So terribly her chest ached. “But I was already bleeding, so he may have only hastened the inevitable after the battle at the hollow and that long ride. Or I was never pregnant to begin. Yet I still . . . Why did I not guess what he had done? I should have been more careful, protected her from him.”
His voice was thick against her ear. “You did all that you could.”
“It was not enough.”
“And many times since I found you gone, I have said the same. I did not protect you, and because you fell into Zhalen’s hands, you suffered this. If you will blame yourself, my wife, you must blame me first.”
“I will not,” she said. Maddek had done all that he could to protect her. Nothing better could he have done.
“Blame Toric, then.”
She knew his purpose and yet still the thought could not be borne. “I will not.”
“Banek?”
Her throat knotted painfully. She shook her head.
“Then blame Aezil,” he said softly.
She nodded.
“And your father.”
She drew a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes.”
“Then that blame is where it belongs.”
“And where is yours?” she asked dryly. For she knew he still carried it on his shoulders.
His rumbling laugh said it was true. “I would add Vela. Though that is more difficult.”
“Because she saved you, too?” She had heard of what the potion had done.
“Even that is difficult. I am grateful, but also angry she did nothing for your soldiers. But that is a futile anger, because what do I know of gods? I know not what they can and cannot do. So I save my blame and anger for Aezil and Zhalen, who poisoned them and used them.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“But she also spoke truth. I did not protect you. I never truly had you. Then I lost you. And I would have died without saying that I loved you. Utterly defeated I was then, Yvenne—and so I discovered what sort of man I am.”
Eyes burning, she whispered, “What sort is that?”
“A man who will never give up fighting for those I love. Even unto death, I had every intention of coming back to protect you. But it is not only you. I love my people, too. And today, I learned to love yours. Never will I give up on them. So I am a man with the heart of a king.”
So he was. Tears slipping down her cheeks, she whispered, “You think you never truly had me?”
“I know I did not, for if I had, you would have never doubted whether I would come for you. Not for a moment would you think I might hurt you.” Maddek turned her to face him, cupping her tearstained cheeks in his big hands. “I know not what challenges and dangers we will face as we complete Vela’s task, but I know this: from all that I have learned, never will I look at you again without a clear view. And you will always know that I’ll come for you. Do you have any doubts?”
/> “Not one.”
“So it matters not what will come at us as we build this alliance against the Destroyer. No matter what lies we are told, no matter what occurs—after all we have been through, there is nothing now that could tear us asunder.”
Nothing at all. With happy tears, she told him, “So much I love you.”
His dark eyes flared hot, and he lifted her against him. “Then ride with me, my warrior-queen. Into battle we will fly.”
So gladly she kissed him. And this battle they fought in the same manner as they would every battle to come.
As one.
EPILOGUE
Maddek found Yvenne atop the Syssian wall. Not since their wedding night two years past had they been up here, yet it was not those sweet memories she was reliving, he knew.
With arms wrapped around herself, she watched a group riding north, away from the city. So many people they loved were among that party—her brother Tyzen, who would try to persuade the rulers of northern realms to join their alliance. Kelir and Ardyl had also gone with him as her brother’s primary guard. And Seri, who would have followed them even if she had been forbidden to—so the young warrior had been given permission instead.
Maddek circled his arms around her waist, pulled her back to his chest. “You have prepared them well.”
As she had so many others sent out to the many realms. So hard she’d worked in the past years, first rebuilding the alliance nearer to home, seeking those who were willing to go with the message that they would all need to stand together, to ask the realms what was needed, and to promise that when the time came, all would converge and ride against the Destroyer. To those groups, she had told them everything she knew about the people they would encounter on their journeys, the queens and kings they must persuade—all that her mother had told her.
“So hard this is,” she whispered. “They will be so far away, out of our sight—and we will have no way of helping them, when trouble they face.”
And certainly they would. Maddek’s quick laugh rumbled out. “This is what it must be like to have children.”
She laughed, too, then bent her head back for a kiss, sighing softly as he moved his lips to the side of her neck. “Perhaps I should have gone, too.”
“You are where you should be, my warrior-queen,” he said, pinching her earlobe with his teeth, and with his sword hand he drew up the silk skirt of her robe. “You are the burning heart of this new alliance. They may fly far, but always they will know where to return for strength and for help. And so hot the heart of you is.”
His fingers stroked through her wetness, and she trembled against him. “Maddek,” she breathed.
“A fierce Dragon you seek to make for the western realms,” he said, lifting her and sliding deep, so deep within her scorching embrace. “An alliance to protect all within, an alliance of claws and wings and fangs and sting.”
She cried out as he pumped into her, deeper and deeper. “And armor.”
“And armor,” he echoed, his grunts harsh in her ear, his cock hard as steel within her. “For when the Destroyer arrives, these Dragons will gather and serve as a guard for all that we love—and you will be the burning heart.”
As she was his.
Her back arched and she writhed upon him, then he held her so tight as they flew together. With ragged breaths they came down, and she turned within his arms, buried her face in his chest.
“So much pain the Destroyer left in our parents,” she whispered. “And so much has passed to the children. I would never want our daughters and sons to know the horror that the children who lived through his terror did.”
Because so many young ones were taken and enslaved, to serve in his army. “I would not, either,” Maddek said thickly. “But we will defeat him.”
She nodded against his chest, then pulled back slightly to withdraw a vial that she’d tucked into the linen wrapping near her wrist. The half-moon milk, that she’d taken in small doses as warriors did to force their menstrual blood to flow. For the past two years, they had traveled hard and often throughout the realms that made up the alliance, so she had not risked becoming pregnant again.
And because, he thought, of what she had just said. They would wait until the Destroyer was defeated.
Except now she tossed the vial over the side of the wall.
His warrior-queen looked up at him, her moonstone eyes shining. “The Dragon we gather will stop him.”
So Maddek believed, too. “This is true.”
“No. But we will make it true.” She drew him down for the sweetest kiss. “So this is hope.”
Turn the page for a special look at the next Gathering of Dragons book by Milla Vane
A TOUCH OF STONE AND SNOW
Coming Summer 2020
LIZZAN
Many an innkeeper had woken Lizzan by tossing a bucket of water in her face. This morning marked the first time she was doused awake by a tree.
Or perhaps it was midday. When she sat up, sputtering, the source of the light filtering through the jungle canopy seemed too high for morning—and seemed too bright for eyes unshaded by sobriety. Though judging by the pounding in her head, she was nearly sober.
A sad state that Lizzan would soon remedy.
She uncorked the flask that was always as near to her hand as her sword—and was doused again when another broadleaf overfilled with rain and tipped out its burden.
The deluge poured over the top of her head. Sputtering again, her black hair hanging wetly around her face, Lizzan contemplated the effort of leaving the base of the tree where she’d made her bed. But all around her, the canopy dumped water as if making wet war on the world below, and many leaves were much larger than those above her. She would be no drier if she abandoned this spot.
And she would be no drunker unless she did. Only a few drops remained in her flask—and those tasted only of rainwater.
Groaning, she shoved the cork into the neck. A fine day this was. Such a very fine day.
Whatever day it might be. The last she remembered, her flask had been full. Usually at least two or three evenings passed before she had to fill it again.
Idly, she unsheathed her sword. No blood stained the shining blade. So she had likely not killed anyone in the time unremembered, or the blood would still remain. Lizzan was not the tidiest of warriors when drunk.
And now she was here. In the jungle. She had the vaguest recollection of a man with a gray curling beard saying that a group of bandits were plaguing travelers along the road between the villages of Dornan and Vares. Perhaps she had set out to hunt them.
If so, then a fool she was. Gladly would Lizzan collect bandits’ heads. But she had no money and no horse—and now, no drink. Better to have waited until someone offered to pay for those heads.
A look through the rest of her belongings told Lizzan that at least her only foolishness had been chasing after brigands. Still in her possession was her purse—empty though it was—and her sword, which would fill the purse with coins again. She had not sold any more of her armor. Even with the sigil of the Kothan army scratched away, each piece was fine enough to fetch a fair price—her chain mail tunic alone could buy a horse and a year’s worth of drink. But she was not yet so desperate. Or so thirsty.
A sniff told her that she also had a rather unpleasant odor. But the rain would take care of that.
Mostly.
Her leathers and boots were soaked through when the storm finally passed. Made from a northern falt’s water-shedding fur, her bedroll had been spared the soaking, but it was so muddied that nothing of the white pelt could be seen under the brown. The cursed heat in this realm would dry them all soon enough, but still she stripped down to her linens and boots before starting out in search of the road, so that her squelching would not draw predators, whether human or animal—and to spare herself the chafing.
Some days it seemed that everything she touched immediately began to chafe her skin. Everything rubbed the wrong way.
It was not skill that led her to the road, but the noise of the travelers already upon it. Out of sight amid a heavy growth of ferns, Lizzan studied the procession. A few dozen families—men and women, young and old. A few carts drawn by oxen carried supplies and the weaker among them. But most walked and carried their belongings upon their backs.
Except for the mounted figure at their head. Lizzan could only see her back, but the red cloak she wore identified her well enough. A Nyrae warrior—or so she would have everyone believe by wearing that cloak. Once, those roaming warriors guaranteed the safe passage of anyone who traveled the road with them, for only a fool would attack one of the goddess Vela’s chosen. But few Nyrae warriors had survived Anumith the Destroyer’s deadly march a generation past. Now, it was more likely to be a woman from one of these families—and that she had donned a red cloak in hope that bandits would not risk attacking a party led by a true Nyrae warrior.
But the deceptive practice had become so common that there was little protection in it anymore. Instead those who could afford the cost hired guards—which was how Lizzan earned most of her coin. Of late, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing east, as rumors spread of the Destroyer’s return from the west. From the east, she had escorted merchants and nobles fleeing west to escape the tyranny of the warlords in Lith. And from the north came those fleeing unnamed terrors that stalked through the ice and snow.
This was the first party she’d seen fleeing north—usually the only escort in that direction was for merchants’ goods, which were a prime target for bandits. More than all else, the destitution of these travelers might be better protection than any red cloak. For they had little to tempt thieves.
But brigands were often tempted by very little.