The Fiery Crown

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Go back to sleep. Let Me go.”

  He let out a long breath and released my wrists along with it, lying down and gathering me against him. I didn’t resist, but I also didn’t relax, rigid in my mortification. Maybe he would go back to sleep and I’d be able to find the dreamthink, to rally myself. Maybe he hadn’t fully woken and would forget that—

  “That was a hell of a nightmare,” he said, shattering that futile hope. “What were you trying to stop?”

  “Nothing.” With my hands freed, I wiped my face with the covering sheet, finding it already damp, from my tears or sweat, I didn’t know. Maybe both. My nose was running from the tears. I’d been bawling like an infant, like a weak-willed child. I wished I could crawl under the bed and curl up into a ball. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I have to get up anyway. They’ll be bringing in the Glory soon.”

  “No Glories, not here.” I gave in and sniffed, making it quiet so maybe he wouldn’t notice. Better that than having snot run out of my nose.

  “No Glories? That’s good news.” He ran a hand down my back, then reached a long arm to the side of the bed and found one of the cloths my ladies had thoughtfully left for us. For sex cleanup, not wiping away the embarrassing dregs of an emotional outburst, but there it was. He handed it to me and I pressed it to my face, dearly wishing I could blow my nose. “What was the nightmare?” He pulled the blankets around us and cuddled me closer.

  “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He shifted, putting a finger under my chin to tip my face up from where I had it buried. I really didn’t want him looking at me, but fighting it would only make him more determined. He’d proved that amply.

  “Lia. Look at me.” He waited for me to open my eyes and look at him, his face close in the early-morning light. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t control. It was a bad dream. I get them, too.”

  “Not like these, you don’t,” I blurted out, still too distraught to be discreet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I just—” For some stupid reason, my eyes filled with tears again, and they spilled down my face, another sob breaking out of me. Ejarat take me, what a mess I was.

  “Here now, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “I’m not,” I insisted, my voice watery.

  “Oh, right. My mistake. The Queen of Flowers isn’t a real woman at all who has bad dreams and whose nose runs when she cries.”

  “Dammit.” I pulled away from him and sat up, wiping the treacherous tears away and blowing my nose. Con lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the white sheet stark against his darker skin. He calmly handed me another cloth. I threw the soggy one to the floor and took the dry one. Taking my time, I wrestled myself under control. Not easy without some time in the dreamthink. I’d never had to overcome the effects of the dreams with someone watching me, which was a very good reason I should never have agreed to share a bed with Con. Sex, yes, but this exposure of my frightened, weak self … I couldn’t bear it.

  “Ready to talk about it?” he asked gently.

  “No.” And I never would be.

  “Do you have nightmares often?”

  Only every night.

  “Lia. Talk to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who do you usually talk about them with—your ladies?”

  “I don’t. I don’t want to talk about them.” I had to control the involuntary shudder at the thought of verbalizing those horrible feelings.

  “You’ll be less upset if you do. The dream images lose their power if you describe them.”

  Was that true? I didn’t have any idea. I’d truly never spoken to anyone of the prophetic dreams that plagued my nights, and the present and past voices of the crying, dying lands. Even when I consulted with Castor, I’d framed my questions generally—and well after the dream images had loosened their claws.

  “Lia, you really can talk to me.” He smoothed a finger down the line of my spine, his skin rough, his touch comforting and warm. “I promise it will help. It does for me.”

  “Who do you tell your nightmares to?” I asked instead, not looking at him. I couldn’t imagine the tough warrior explaining a bad dream.

  He shrugged against the sheets. “Sondra. Kara sometimes. My father…” He cleared his throat. “Before he died.”

  Surprised by that admission, I looked at him. He returned my gaze solemnly. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about your family. We agreed we don’t owe each other our stories.” Though he had mentioned his parents and their marriage before. Loving. Monogamous.

  “We were strangers then.” He flattened his palm on my back, caressing me with firm strokes. “Since then, we’ve agreed to share secrets, yes?”

  True. At least some secrets, though I managed to be wise enough not to add that qualifier. “What do you dream?”

  “Are we trading dream for dream?”

  I hadn’t meant it that way, instead hoping to divert him, but he watched me cannily.

  “I’m willing,” he continued. “Lie down and I’ll tell you.” He unfolded his arm invitingly and raised a crooked brow when I hesitated. “It’s too early for you to get up. Think how frantic your ladies would be that they weren’t dressed and ready to greet you.”

  A week of marriage and he knew exactly how to get to me. With a resigned sigh, I lay down and snugged against his warmth, because the predawn air was cool and it would be rude not to accept his offer. A good pair of excuses, those. In the aftermath of that nightmare, though, I allowed myself that small bit of denial. I didn’t want to need Con’s comfort, but I did.

  “My nightmares are what you’d expect,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m trapped in a mine and can’t breathe. That one’s a favorite,” he added with wry disgust. “Or I’m in battle and naked, trying to fight with something stupid like a child’s sweet tree-finger.”

  “A what?”

  “You didn’t have those? We did in Oriel. The court wizards made them for special festivals.”

  “Never heard of them.” I wondered if he might be playing a joke of his own on me.

  “I’ll see if Ambrose can make one for you. Suffice to say, they make terrible weapons. That’s the thing about that dream.”

  Armed only with something from his childhood, sweet, transient, and easily broken. It made my heart hurt for him. “If Ambrose is able to make them, you should have one, too.”

  He chuckled, his dimple briefly showing. “It’s a deal.”

  “I can understand why those would be terrible dreams to have,” I said softly.

  “Heh. And that’s not even the worst one.”

  I tipped my head back. “Tell me.”

  He watched me, solemn now, gaze haunted. “The worst dream is … my father is dying in some horrible way and I can’t get to him.” He blew out a long breath. “I hate that one. And you know what the worst part of it is?”

  “What?” I asked softly, my cheek against his skin, his scent anchoring. This was real. Not the stinking smoke and fires.

  “When I wake up, I’m confused, and I think he’s still alive. That I need to get to him, help him.” His voice had gone choked. “Then I remember the truth, that he’s … dead. And I get the grief all over again, but fresh, like it just happened.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  “Thanks.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I’ve never told anyone else about that one.”

  “Why me?”

  He shrugged, his muscles rippling under my cheek. “You’re my wife. And you’re a good listener.” He fell silent a moment, then blew out a long breath. “What I hate most about the nightmares is the helplessness, that I can’t control anything in them.”

  “Yes. I keep trying to get better at controlling mine.”

  “I don’t know—you have enough control over everything else. You probably need the outlet.” When I didn’t say anything, he
added more softly, “You were weeping in your sleep. Even before you woke. Like your heart would break.”

  It had felt like that. My wrist still burned, though the orchid ring shimmered on my finger of that hand, reminding me of its presence. I shifted and his arm tightened around me. I’d have to tell him something. Should I tell him the truth?

  “Your turn, Lia,” he reminded me. “What was the dream?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. It was images. No story to it.”

  “Then describe the images.”

  I’d tell him about this dream, as a test. Then we’d see about the others, how I felt about disclosing that greater truth. “I was here, in Cradysica, standing under the dome of the temple on the hill.”

  I described it as it had occurred, my words halting at first, hating to give voice to the horror of it all. To my surprise, however, it did get easier as I talked, the terrible pressure in my chest at last giving way. When I finished, Con brought his hand down to stroke over my bare scalp—I hadn’t worn a head scarf or wig to bed, indulging Con’s request—then he simply cupped my head, holding me secure. That felt good, too—like he wanted to shield me from the terrible visions. If only he could. Instead, he would be the one to make them reality.

  “No surprise, really,” he said when I finished. “I know it’s hard on you, to imagine the emperor attacking this place.”

  I needed to tell him the truth. To at least try. I shook my head and leaned up on my elbow. “It’s not imagination. Those are visions. That’s the future.”

  He didn’t argue immediately, just considered me from beneath lowered lids. “You don’t know that,” he finally said.

  “I do know that.”

  “How?”

  “Because this wasn’t My first nightmare, Con. I have them all the time, every night.”

  “That doesn’t mean they predict the future.” He sounded entirely obstinate.

  “This from a man who follows a prophecy.”

  “I don’t like it. Ambrose cornered me into it.” He scowled at the ceiling. “Besides, that’s different. It’s magic. How can a dream be of the future, when the future hasn’t happened yet? It doesn’t exist.”

  “That’s what I used to think,” I agreed glumly.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “One came true,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

  “What was it about?” He asked the question carefully, as if some part of him already knew.

  “You!” I caught myself, moving to get up, but his arm around me tightened, keeping me against him.

  “What about me?”

  I pressed my lips together, unwilling to say, wishing to Ejarat I’d kept my mouth shut.

  “Lia…” He sighed heavily, dropping his head back on the pillow, hard, like he’d rather bang it against a wall. “Just tell me. Enough with these secrets.”

  “I dreamed about a wolf in chains,” I told him. “Howling, begging Me to help him. I’d try to take the chains off him and he’d bite Me, savaging my hands.” I flexed my fingers in memory of the blood and pain. I hadn’t told him the part about the wolf biting off my hand and swallowing the orchid ring. It had to be Con—but … “There’s more. Explosions. My palace falling into the sea. Blood and death. A stink in the air, like something rotting.”

  He tensed under me. “What kind of rotting stink?”

  “Like eggs left too long.”

  He made a pained sound deep in his throat.

  “What is it?”

  “Vurgsten,” he told me. “That’s what it smells like. Did you notice it, the other day, when I set Anure’s missive on fire?”

  “No.” I thought back to that moment, how it had meant something to me that Con had understood to burn the letter. “But there was a breeze blowing away from Me.”

  “Did you smell it in the dream you had just now?”

  “Yes.”

  He lay still for a long moment. “I guess we already knew this would be the place. I thought I’d be happier when I confirmed it.”

  “I want to send My people away.” And the animals. The birds. I could coax them into leaving.

  Con was shaking his head. “Not yet. No, wait, listen to me.” He rolled onto his side, draping a heavy thigh over mine. “We know he has spies. We can’t give away the game too soon. Once the trap is set and he’s committed, he won’t be able to change course. I’ll tell you when, and then you can send them away.”

  “Do you swear?” I searched his face, clearer now, almost stark in the brightening morning light.

  “I promise that I will tell you when the toad is so committed he can’t retreat. Then you can act however you like to protect your people.”

  I didn’t miss what he hadn’t promised. It could be that the point of no return for Anure would be beyond the point of catastrophe for Cradysica and all its denizens. Con watched me with a knowing expression. “Now you swear, Lia, that you won’t take any actions without telling me.”

  I hesitated, considering how to modify the promise as he’d done, but he squeezed me, getting my attention. “You could easily undermine everything. We won’t get a second chance.”

  “You’re asking Me to do nothing. To stand by and let My people be endangered.” Hadn’t he railed at me for that very thing? You take the side of caution, play along, pretend to be something you’re not.

  “Yes,” he replied with due gravity. “To risk a few, to save the many. It’s a hard choice, so I’m making it for you. You asked for my ruthlessness. Here it is.”

  With his naked body against mine, hair tousled from sleep, he didn’t seem all that ruthless. I sighed out my dread. “I don’t like it, but all right. I won’t act without discussing with you first. But, Con—I won’t be here much longer.”

  He tensed. “You’re leaving?”

  “The dream. I’m going to be taken away from Calanthe.”

  His arm tightened around me, as if he could hold me there. “No. I will protect you. Anure will never get close enough. I promise you that.”

  “You can’t promise that. You don’t know what—”

  “I can promise it,” he bit out savagely. “The dreams are symbolic. I refuse to believe that a future that hasn’t yet occurred can’t be changed. Besides—” He paused, taking a breath. “—I won’t let him have you. I’d die first.”

  My obstinate wolf. He believed he could change the world. That’s probably why he’d succeeded as far as he had. “Thank you, Con. I believe you.” At least, I believed he meant it, but I didn’t add that last.

  He smiled, as if I’d given him a gift, then sobered. “Any other visions of the future I should know about?”

  “Not of the future, no.”

  Picking up on my prevarication, he put a finger under my chin again, tipping up my face. He kissed me, soft and achingly tender, and I melted into him, then he murmured against my lips, “What are the other nightmares about, then?”

  I huffed out an exasperated laugh. “Now you’re bribing Me with kisses to pry out information?”

  He grinned, that dimple winking into existence, like the first star of evening. Faint, but there. “Whatever works.”

  Rubbing my hardening nipples against his chest, I slipped a hand between us, to where his cock pressed hot and urgent against my thigh. “This works,” I purred, stroking his shaft, watching his eyes blur with pleasure.

  “Works for me, too,” he replied in a sensual growl. His head dipped, hot mouth trailing kisses down my throat. No ferocity this time. He lavished my skin with gentle caresses, licking and soothing. Hands roved over me, petting, arousing and comforting. Murmuring sweet words, he described my beauty in the morning light, the scent and taste of my skin. He cupped my breasts and showered them with kisses, lightly drawing on my nipples, the sensation rolling through me. Not like lightning and thunder, but a soft rain, nourishing, tender.

  I found myself rising to meet his touch, taking in what he offered like a flower turns her face to the sun. He was makin
g love to me. And so help me, I unraveled. Languid with the exquisite sensations, I drew him into my body, our moans twining together like vines, blooming with brighter bursts of pleasure as he moved in me.

  I was the ocean, the earth, Ejarat, and he came into me with golden light, powerful, vibrant, exuberantly illuminating my depths.

  The orgasm shattered me in a whole new way, pieces of brittle fear spinning into the abyss, my walls crumbling into nothingness. But instead of being cold and naked, brutally exposed to a critical light, I was bathed in warmth. In gentle compassion. Cherished.

  If I wept a little, I could put that down to the intensity of the pleasure he brought me.

  In the melting core of my heart, however, I knew that I’d fallen for this man—so far that I could no longer apply the Rule of Suspicion to him. I knew what he wanted, yes. The problem was, I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to give him everything, and I didn’t know what I’d have left if I did.

  * * *

  Sometime later, I opened my eyes as he shifted. The room had filled with light, the sun truly rising. “It grows late,” I observed with chagrin. “I should get up.”

  But he stopped me. “Uh-uh. Tell me about the other nightmares.”

  I laughed. A mistake, as it sounded a little forced. Already I was losing that sense of being protected, the chill wind of the dread future dispersing the golden light like withered petals on a spent blossom. “Do you forget nothing?”

  “Not important things,” he replied somberly, holding me against him. “You distracted me with sex—and yeah, I’ll admit you can, probably whenever you want—and you needed that breather. Now you can tell me the rest.”

  “Managing Me with sex?” He’d done that at the folly, too. What really annoyed me was that it worked.

  He grinned, that dimple winking in his delight. “Whatever works, sweetheart. Tell me, Lia. You promised.”

  “I don’t know that it matters,” I said. “And it’s difficult to explain.”

  “All right.” He waited.

  I closed my eyes, thinking how to phrase it. “When I’m asleep, it … opens up My mind in a way that’s different from when I’m awake. And in My dreams, I hear the crying lands. All the lost kingdoms, calling to Me of their suffering, showing Me what they’ve endured.” Begging for help, just as Con had in my dreams, holding out his hand to me, long hair tangling in a storm wind.