by Sarah Hawke
She bit down on her lip when she spent, unsure if Sehris’s bubble would keep in sound as well as heat. The dark elf wasn’t finished, either: while Delaryn came down from her first climax, Sehris pushed her friend’s knees wide and dove in for a second course. Her forefinger slid into Delaryn’s quim while her thumb massaged her clit, and it wasn’t long before another surge of energy crackled through her body.
“Oh….gods!” Delaryn yelped. The second tremor struck her so hard she clamped her thighs back together, practically crushing Sehris between them. The dark elf didn’t seem to mind—she bobbed out of the water and let out her own gasps of delight at having her efforts so promptly rewarded.
This time when Delaryn came down, it took all her willpower not to go completely limp. She reached down and cupped her friend’s face in her hands, and she eventually mustered enough energy to lean back up until she and Sehris were sitting upright in the center of the tub, their legs wrapped around each other’s bodies as they brought their lips together for another long, tender kiss.
“Being queen did make you sweeter,” Sehris teased. “Interesting…”
Delaryn giggled as she tickled the other woman’s ribs again. “How long do you think we could stay in here before they kick us out?”
“Not long enough,” Sehris said. “Besides, I think Ro would get jealous. He’s still crazy about you.”
“I know,” Delaryn said, smiling. “We, um…”
Sehris cocked a black eyebrow at her. “You what?”
“We, um, we showed each other how we felt.”
“Wait, what?” the dark elf breathed. “When?”
Delaryn glanced down when the memories of the Whitefeather chapel washed over her—both the pleasant ones and the horrors that had followed. The real world finally pierced their private bubble, and she felt the cold hand of despair claw at her again.
“What’s wrong?” Sehris asked, touching Delaryn’s chin and lifting her head back up. “Don’t tell me he was bad, because I wouldn’t believe—”
“It’s not that,” Delaryn said, swallowing. “I just…he doesn’t know about us.”
“He’s a man, ussta che. He won’t mind.”
“Probably not, but…there are a lot of other things he doesn’t know, either.”
Sehris’s sparkling eyes studied her for a long moment. “You mean about the voice of your mother.”
Delaryn nodded gravely. “How can I tell him about something like that? Where do I even begin?”
“We’re talking about Rohen here, not some crazed Tel Bator fanatic,” Sehris said, her fingers falling to Delaryn’s neck. “Just because he’s a Templar doesn’t mean he’ll stab you if you mention demons.”
“I know, but…” Delaryn closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. If everything had gone the way she’d envisioned at her family’s Hold, she never would have told Rohen about her sorcery, either. She would have quietly made love to him in the chapel, and she would have tried to figure out a way to live a double life and keep their relationship going.
Thinking back on it, her whole “plan” had been completely ludicrous from the start. There was no way she could have concealed her powers from Thedric forever, nor could she have possibly maintained anything with Rohen. She had been living in and thinking about the moment, nothing else.
Now everything was different in ways she never could have imagined. Her entire life—all of their lives—had been completely upended in the span of a few days. A new civil war was brewing, a Culling was upon them, and she had no idea what would happen tomorrow, let alone in a few weeks or months…
“He has enough to think about it,” Delaryn whispered after a moment. “He’s intent on reaching the Spire, and I don’t think either of us can talk any sense into him.”
“Probably not,” Sehris agreed. “But he knows that you and I can’t go there. We’ll have to stay behind.”
“Where? This is the closest town and we’re still thirty miles away. The plains around the Spire are a total wasteland.”
“That’s not completely true. There is a place in the Deadwood…a few small cabins where Keepers and their sorcerers sometimes go for some privacy.”
Delaryn looked back up at her and frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Zin and I weren’t the only Keeper and sorceress to be…involved,” Sehris said, a shadow crossing her face the instant she said his name. “If the Sanctori knew what really goes on in that tower, the Lady Seeker would have a heart attack.”
“You have to be joking,” Delaryn muttered. “I thought most sorcerers hated their Keepers! They put you on a bloody leash!”
“Sometimes leashes are fun,” Sehris said with a shrug. “Look, I’m not saying it’s common, exactly, but there are a lot of young people in a confined space. Things happen. And since the Lord Vigilant doesn’t approve, well, some Keepers made a private retreat not too far away.”
“Maiden’s mercy,” Delaryn breathed. She sometimes forgot just how sheltered she had been for most of her life, first as the Usurper King’s daughter and then as the High King’s prize.
“Anyway, you and I could hide in the woods while Rohen goes to the Galespire,” Sehris said. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea, but at least he’ll be able to move freely about the tower.”
“Assuming the Lord Protector and Lord Vigilant don’t do something to him,” Delaryn said. “Gods, I still can’t believe any of this is happening…”
Sehris nodded solemnly and ran her long fingers through her friend’s damp platinum hair. “We still have tonight, and my barrier hasn’t shattered just yet.”
Delaryn smiled tiredly and leaned forward for another kiss. She could still taste herself on Sehris’s lips, and a part of her wanted to pull the dark elf back on top of her and pick up right where they’d left off. They had a lot of catching up to do after so many years apart.
But then she thought about Rohen and the pain he must be feeling. She wanted to go to him; she wanted to be with him. Not just to try and figure out what in the name of the gods they were going to do next, but to hold and comfort him…and to have him hold and comfort her.
Sehris surprised her by breaking the kiss. “You should go to him.”
Delaryn blinked. “What?”
“You should go to him. Watcher knows he’s always been a brooder—you need to save him from himself before it’s too late.”
“But…” Delaryn paused and placed a hand on the other woman’s gray cheek. “We just—”
“It’s all right,” Sehris soothed. “I’m an elf, remember? I can afford to be patient.”
Delaryn snorted softly. She didn’t want to leave either of her friends alone tonight, but Sehris was probably right that Rohen needed her more right now. He had always been remarkably stoic when things went wrong, even back when he had been a seventeen-year-old boy holding a sword in defense of her family’s castle, but losing Zin had clearly had clearly shaken him to his core.
And he doesn’t even know the truth about my powers yet. Gods, what am I going to do?
“Go,” Sehris said, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I promise, I’ll be here.”
***
The food at the Deadly Duchess was significantly worse than Rohen remembered, but the mead was significantly better. Given the circumstances, he considered the tradeoff more than fair. The honeyed liquor was a sweet salve for his nerves, and he polished off a whole mug before he fully stripped out of his armor and underclothes.
I should probably take a tankard or two with me. Guardian knows I’ll need the added courage when I’m standing at the gates to the Galespire.
Rohen hissed between his teeth and stared into the full-body mirror on the side of the bathing room. The steam from the tub was already fogging up the glass, but he could still see his green elven eyes glimmering in the reflection. Despite how good it felt to eat and relax, he almost wished they had pushed on for the Spire through the night. Trudging through the snow and
ice kept his mind focused on the moment; standing here doing nothing gave his doubts time to fester and bloom.
I could just take the girls and sail east. Galvia is far kinder to sorcerers than Darenthi, or so I’ve heard, and a man with a genuine wraithblade can surely find work somewhere as a mercenary or even a damn bodyguard—at least until the Sanctori hunt me down. The Tel Bator have allies all across Torsia, and I can’t imagine any nation jumping at the chance to take in a dark elf refugee.
“We could always head south to Crell,” he said to his reflection as he refilled his mug from the small keg he’d taken from the bar downstairs. “The Sovereigns would love to get their hands on a couple of sorcerers and a Templar. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Rohen scoffed and took another gulp before he slammed the mug down on the table beside him. He couldn’t afford to let his rage cool. Zin was dead, Rimewreath was lost, and the Lord Protector was probably out there whispering lies into the ears of anyone willing to listen. If Rohen left Darenthi now, his best friend’s death would have been even more pointless.
The truth had to come out. Justice had to be met.
Rohen bathed quickly and angrily to ensure the warm water didn’t help him relax. He didn’t shave, either, even though he found the nascent beard itchy and annoying. The stubble made him look at least five years older, too, but mostly it just made him look different. Over the course of the last few years, he had already transformed from a worthless, pale-blooded orphan into a venerated Templar of the Guardian, but now…
Now he didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to be. Maybe different was good enough.
Rohen finished the rest of his mead before he threw on a robe and shuffled back into his room. The suite was large and comfortable enough to be fit for a tharn, if not a full duke. The fireplace on the left-hand side crackled invitingly as it illuminated a cozy sitting area, while the right-hand side was dominated by a four-poster bed and an armoire. He wasn’t surprised that he had finished before the girls, and just staring at the sheets and pillows almost made him sleepy enough to fall over and pass out.
He had only just started thinking about putting his trousers back on when the door creaked open and Delaryn slipped inside. She was wrapped in the same brown linen robe he was, though her long platinum blond hair was still damp. She looked less weary but more anxious than earlier, and Rohen immediately wondered if something else had gone wrong…
“You scrub fast,” she said, latching the door behind her.
“Years of practice,” Rohen replied with a smirk. “It’s still early, though. If the water’s gone cold, I’m sure they can, um…”
He trailed off when Delaryn pushed the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to her feet. She sauntered toward him, her wet skin glistening as her icy blue eyes latched upon his. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of him, at which point she pushed his own robe to the floor, cupped his face in her fingers, and stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss him.
Gods, how could I have already forgotten how right this feels? How could I have forgotten how lucky I am to be with her again?
Rohen’s hands instinctively curled around her back and pulled her in close. He could feel the hunger on her lips but also the desperation—her body seemed to be quivering with lust and fear all at once. When their mouths finally separated, Delaryn still pushed her forehead against his. She stared straight at him, her eyes shining with tears they stubbornly refused to shed.
“I’m not going to lose you again,” she breathed.
“You won’t,” he promised. “Whatever happens next, we’ll face it together.”
Delaryn swallowed heavily. “Sehris and I can’t go to the Spire. You know that.”
Rohen’s stomach tightened. “I have to at least find out if the Lord Protector is still there,” he told her. “I have to see if I can stop the Purges before—”
“I understand why you need to go,” she said, placing her fingertip on his lips. “I just need you to promise me that you’ll come back.”
“I will, no matter what it takes,” he pledged. “I swear to the Guardian I’ll protect you—both of you. But I have to find Kraythe. I owe Zin that much.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, and he could tell she was losing the struggle to hold back her tears.
“Maybe you and Sehris should stay here for a few days,” Rohen said. “As long you lay low, you should be safe enough. Once I get some answers, I’ll—”
“Sehris knows a place in the Deadwood,” Delaryn said, visibly steeling herself and looking into his eyes again. “She says it’s secluded and safe enough that she and I can hide out there for a while. At least we’ll be closer just in case…”
Rohen brushed a hand over her soft cheek. “I will be back,” he repeated. “Gods willing, I’ll be able to stop this insanity before it gets any worse.”
He wasn’t sure if she actually believed him or not, but she kissed him again anyway—and this time, she refused to let him go. She hopped up into his arms, her legs locking around his waist, his hardened need sliding along her slick heat, and he clutched her smooth thighs as he spun her around and laid her down upon the bed. Her quim was like a furnace against his manhood, and she reached down and guided him inside her smoldering folds.
She gasped into his mouth but didn’t break their kiss; their tongues swirled together as they shared every moan, every whimper, and every breath. His hands explored every part of her perfect body from her silky thighs to her flat stomach to her heaving breasts. He took her slowly and deliberately, passionately and lovingly, just like he had dreamed about for a thousand desperate days and a thousand lonely nights while they had been apart.
“Rohen!”
His name rolled from her lips as she spent, but he didn’t relent—he pounded into her harder and harder, deeper and deeper, while her legs clutched him in an unbreakable grip. He stopped making love to her and started fucking her, and she cried out again as her fingernails clawed into his back.
When he finally crested, Rohen drove in his hips and pumped everything he had deep inside her. His rage, his frustration, his sorrow…they all melted away in glorious release. For a single perfect moment, they were locked together as one. Man and woman. Warrior and sorceress. Templar and Queen.
Whatever the future held for them, they would face it together.
Interlude
Griffonwing Keep wasn’t the oldest fortress in Darenthi, nor the largest or most strategically important. In the west, Palegarde had always been on the front lines of the battle against the Chol, given how often the monsters emerged from the Godcursed Reach even without a true Culling, and in the north, Rimewreath had stood as a bulwark against the Roskarim hordes for countless generations. Griffonwing, by contrast, was little more than a stop-over for travelers heading east along the road to the city of Tir Aramin or the neighboring kingdom of Galvia.
When Edmund Kraythe had been appointed as the new Lord Protector in the aftermath of the last Culling, he had faced considerable pressure from the dukes in King Gareth’s court to abandon Griffonwing altogether. The ranks of the Templar had been so depleted that they didn’t need two fortresses, at least according to the nobility, and countless tharns with deep pockets desperately wanted to turn the keep into a mercantile stronghold. Given the choice, they would have gladly taken control of the aviaries and turned the majestic griffons of the Eaglehorn Mountains into flying merchant wagons.
The sheer indignity of the suggestion had nearly driven Kraythe mad, but it had revealed a fundamental truth about his beloved country: the people genuinely believed that the Templar had failed in their duty for the first time in history. The Order had been virtually annihilated at Gareth’s Stand, and many of the nobles—and even some high-ranking members of the Tel Bator—believed that it would never truly recover. When Duke Haldor Whitefeather and the armies of Torisval laid siege to Silver Falls a few short years later, the Templar and their Lord Protector had been all but forgotten.
/> Until now.
Kraythe landed his griffon atop the keep’s northern aviary, and the great beast screamed and puffed out its plumage like a trumpet announcing the Lord Protector’s return. Unlike the Galespire, which only had a small handful of roosts for important travelers, Griffonwing was designed to raise and hold hundreds of flying mounts at any given time. Several dozen handlers were around to watch Kraythe slide out of his saddle, and two of them dashed over to take the reins in his stead.
“Lord Protector, thank the Guardian you’re safe,” a short, armored man said as he jogged over to him. The heraldry of the Templar—a griffon clutching a flaming sword on top of a circular shield—was emblazoned upon the front of Sir Donnic Northam’s brigandine, and the golden handle of a wraithblade hung at his belt. “When I read your letter, I feared the worst.”
“Your fears are well-founded,” Kraythe replied, making sure to project his voice enough that the handlers and servants could hear him. “A new Culling is upon us.”
Northam grimaced. “I already dispatched a raven to Palegarde, but Commander Harskin doesn’t have enough men to hold the river. If the monsters follow the Hailstorm south, we won’t—”
“Galavir will hold them at the Wreath for now, don’t worry,” Kraythe said. “But the sooner we get reinforcements to him, the better. Watcher knows the tharns won’t send any more men until their own holdings are threatened. It’s up to us to stop the horde, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Yes, my lord,” Northam said with a knowing smile. “We will crush them in the Guardian’s name.”
Kraythe clapped the younger man on the shoulder, then turned to address the beast handlers. “I want every griffon in the roost ready to fly by week’s end. Do whatever it takes.”
The handlers nodded and scurried off in near unison. They were all afraid, obviously, but they were also determined—Kraythe could see it in their faces and feel it in their hearts. Most of them were so young that they didn’t even remember the last Culling, and quite a few hadn’t even been born yet. But every single one of them had been weaned on tales of Templar battling the Chol at Harabel and Gareth’s Stand, and they were all ready and eager to defend their homeland in service to the Guardian.
