by Beth Alvarez
“Who wins?” Firal blinked.
Sera shrugged. “Sometimes we’re able to guess. Other times, we never know. It was the way Rune and Garam preferred to settle things, too.”
Firal had a hard time envisioning Garam as young enough to participate in such things. “It sounds barbaric.”
“I agree.” Sera paused in the hallway, cradled her stomach and pursed her lips.
Firal recognized the discomfort of a child rearranging themselves and paused alongside her.
After a moment, Sera sighed and resumed walking. “For a long time I thought it meant some men just communicated better with their fists. As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized it’s more about the chance to vent their frustrations. For some, it’s easier to speak after they’ve had a chance to release some of that anger. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, but Rune has a terrible temper.”
Unable to help herself, Firal laughed.
It wasn’t humorous. That temper had caused more grief than most would ever know. If not for his temper, none of this would have happened. They’d still be together, nestled happily in a cavern-house inside Core, or maybe in a cottage in the village they’d carved out on the surface. They’d been married there, the ceremony performed by an officer, since the ruin-folk had no priests.
That village had burned before the temple mages put Firal on the throne. From what she’d pieced together in the aftermath, it was the belief she’d burned with it that led Rune to challenge her father, the man who raised him.
That temper was the reason Kifel died.
If she didn’t laugh, she didn’t know how she would cope.
“That is one way of putting it,” Firal murmured.
Sera smiled knowingly, a distant look in her eyes. It was a response that made Firal wonder again what connection there was—or had been—between them. Sera was married. From the sound of things, she had been for a long time. But she and Rune shared an obvious comfort with one another, a deep familiarity that left Firal... unsettled. She didn’t know what else to call it, but the cold queasiness in the pit of her stomach when she’d heard him say the mage’s name returned now.
“Either way, you have more working in your favor than you may think,” Sera said. “No matter who wins the fight, one of them is willing to stand beside you. Even if Vicamros does not come out on your side, you have that.”
“I suppose I do.” Firal sucked in a breath and willed herself to smile. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I think I’m going to return to my quarters. That meeting took a lot out of me, and I have to admit I’ve not been sleeping well.” In truth, she didn’t want to spend another moment at that woman’s side, lest that queasy feeling get the best of her. She hadn’t had a bite to eat before their tiny council met, but that wouldn’t stop her stomach from trying to empty itself.
“I would imagine not.” Sympathy shone in Sera’s bright eyes. “Rest well, Lady Firal. Stal and I will return to Umdal this afternoon, but if there is anything we can do to help, Garam will be happy to help you reach us.”
“Thank you,” Firal said. “That’s very kind.”
Sera laid a hand on her arm. “From one mother to another. Any would do the same.” Then she picked up the skirts of her white robe and waddled ahead to join her husband and brother in the knot of conversation farther up the hall.
Firal knew it was meant as comfort, but she couldn’t help the way those words pierced her heart.
After all, her own mother had done this.
“Is that a dress?” Firal eyed the mass of black silk slung over Rune’s arm.
She hadn’t expected to see him until council met again. She’d half expected he’d wind up locked away for a while.
Instead he’d arrived at her rooms only a few hours after they parted ways, and if he’d suffered at the king’s hand, he didn’t show it. She suspected he’d been seen by a healer, since the bruises were near invisible, but traces of multiple splits in his lips lingered, as did a gash at the corner of his eyebrow.
She doubted the mages left any such marks on Vicamros.
Rune glanced down as if he’d forgotten he carried it. “Oh. Yes. I thought you might appreciate something a little less...” He eyed what she wore and offered the garment he carried. “Well, a little less.”
She snorted. The sea of petticoats swirled around her ankles as she turned to take the dress. “It took five of them to get all these layers on me, I doubt I can get them off. But thank you.”
It was certainly an improvement over the gown the maids had stuffed her in that morning. The black dress bore a simple bodice with laces in the back and a skirt only half so full as what she wore. The long, straight sleeves ended in pointed cuffs, sporting none of the ridiculous poofs and frills that appeared popular in the Triad. She was not fond of the color, but anything was better than the murky brown-green.
“Yes, this is much better. Thank you.” She mustered a smile, folded the dress over her arm and shifted awkwardly.
Rune took a half step back. “Should I send up your maids?”
She flushed and ducked her head. “Oh, no. I’ve had quite enough of their gossip for one day.” And she couldn’t call for her friends, not in good conscience. They were mages and were busy, and an uncomfortable dress seemed a trifle compared to their troubles.
“I’m sure Captain Straes could help,” he said. Had she not known he’d just been trading angry punches with his king, she might have thought it teasing. As it was, she didn’t imagine he could feel that light-hearted after his outburst in the council chamber.
Firal offered a polite smile. “I wouldn’t dream of asking Ordin to help me dress. I’ll just have to try on my own. In a minute, that is. I’m sure you had something you wanted to talk about.” She moved back, giving him room to join her in her private quarters.
The captain looked up at the sound of his name, though he frowned and lowered his gaze back to his book when Rune stepped inside. Ordin hadn’t said anything after the display in the council chamber, but she could sense his disapproval just the same. She wasn’t certain what he disapproved of, though she suspected it was more about Rune’s misbehavior than anything to do with her. Even so, Firal felt a twinge of guilt as she let Rune in and closed the door behind him.
“I thought you’d want to hear what Vicamros said after you left.” Rune lingered beside the door as she started across the room. He did not stir a step until she beckoned for him to follow.
“I’m surprised he said anything. It didn’t seem like he intended to give you a stern talking-to.” Firal doubted it would have worked if he had. She eyed Rune’s injuries again. If Vicamros had something to say, did that mean Rune won? Or had the king? Rune was certainly in a better mood, though that could have been just from the fighting. She thought of what Sera said and frowned.
He snorted. “Kings always have something to say, in my experience.”
“So they do,” she agreed. “What did Vicamros tell you?”
Rune followed her through the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “That there are terms to my position in council that must be fulfilled. He wants me to make an appearance in the public eye, now that I’m here. There will be a formal discussion of everything else during the evening meal, so you’ll hear most of it from him. Stal and Sera have already gone back to the trade kingdoms to rally the Umdal mages. Alira’s back in Roberian with Rhyllyn, but I think Redoram will still be here tonight.”
“Redoram?” She raised one dark brow.
He touched his temple with one claw. “Sorry. Councilor Parthanus.”
“A friend of yours?”
“More of a mentor, I’d say. He taught me the trade tongue while we were in prison. As well as giving me a handful of lessons in politics.”
She hadn’t noticed until then that they weren’t speaking the trade tongue. His speech was so fluid and easy in both languages that when he’d greeted her in Old Aldaanan, the native language of Elenhiise, she’d responded in it without thoug
ht. “You keep interesting company.”
“I always have.”
Firal paced through her private bedchamber to peer out the glass doors and across the balcony. It was midafternoon; she’d have several hours to brace herself before she had to sit through another meeting. At least it sounded like this one wouldn’t be so formal, if it was being held over dinner. “Will I be expected to contribute to the conversation tonight?”
Rune followed to the doors, his expression unreadable as he looked across the city. “Yes. Right now, Vicamros hasn’t decided if we should wait for her to come to us, or if we should go to her. It’s a choice between the element of surprise or having a solid defense. Neither is ideal. If you have other suggestions, I’m sure he’d be happy to hear them.”
She appreciated that he didn’t use Envesi’s name. It was easier for her to think of the woman as some nameless opponent to be dealt with that way, rather than her mother and former Archmage. “So he’s willing to let you go?”
“Willing might be a generous term.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But he was right about one thing. If I’m going, every step needs to be carefully planned out. I could be on Elenhiise in half an hour and it wouldn’t do a blighted thing to help if I don’t know what I’m doing.”
So Vicamros had won the fight. Firal doubted Rune would have come to such senses on his own. “Why did you do that?” she asked softly. “Offer to give up your title and holdings to be able to go?”
Rune’s apparent levity disappeared. “I thought that was what you wanted from me.”
She couldn’t make herself face him. “I wanted your help, not your surrender.”
“Funny way of asking for it, considering you had me in chains.”
“I had nothing to do with that.” She trained her eyes on the bright splashes of green that marked tree-lined roadways between slate-roofed buildings. “I have no idea what was in the letter Vahn sent to Vicamros. If I’d known asking for your help was a possibility, I’d have penned a letter to you.”
“Would you have told me the truth?” he asked. “Or would I have been left to assume it was Vahn’s child I was meant to rescue?”
She hugged the black gown to her stomach. “Should it make a difference?”
Rune didn’t reply.
Firal cleared her throat and raised the dress. “I should change. I’d rather wear something less ridiculous to dinner, so I suppose I should slip this on. If you’ll excuse me, that is.”
He gave a slight bow, wordlessly slipped out of her bedchamber and pulled the door almost closed.
She expected to hear pleasantries exchanged between him and the captain in the sitting room, but there was only silence. Trying not to let it bother her, she worked free the laces of her bodice and tossed the black gown onto the bed.
Perhaps Ordin was displeased with her, and not Rune. She hadn’t stopped to consider how he might view the situation. It was the second time Rune had come to her in her quarters, expecting to speak to her in private.
But Ordin knew Rune. Surely he knew him well enough to be sure speaking was all that would happen. Considering all she’d asked of Rune, it wasn’t unreasonable for him to wish to speak with her away from prying eyes and ears.
Layer by layer, she wiggled out of the ugly brown dress and its multitude of petticoats. She worked her way down to the corset over her shift and allowed herself a small sigh of relief, knowing she’d be able to breathe properly again soon. Twisting her arms around her back, she found the tucked and tied laces and tugged. The ties came undone, but no matter how she pulled, the corset wouldn’t loosen.
Now she’d gotten herself into a mess. Firal nibbled her lower lip, staring at the discarded clothing on the floor. She could sit in there all evening or break down and call for a maid. With her nearly undressed and Rune waiting in the parlor, she couldn’t imagine what sort of gossip that would stir around the Spiral Palace. She certainly couldn’t put all those layers back on by herself, which meant the only other option for assistance was one of the two men in the other room.
She stood considering the options for an unreasonable amount of time, until the circles working in her head were finally interrupted by a knock.
“My lady, is everything all right?” Ordin called through the door.
“Yes,” she called back with a grimace. Two men. Neither was a good option, but at least one of them was unlikely to be shocked by the sight of her in her undergarments. “Would you send Rune to speak with me?”
A long silence, then the creak of the door’s hinges.
Firal clasped her hands at her chest. The tips of her ears turned red when Rune stepped in and immediately turned away.
She lifted her chin and did her best to sound imperious. “Close the door, please. Come assist me. I can’t seem to get these laces loose.”
He stared at the floor and pushed the door until the latch clicked. “I’m surprised you’d want me to help with such a thing, considering how much you hate me.”
She turned her back to him to expose the laces. “That’s precisely why I want you to help me. No one could possibly expect I’d want anything else from you.”
From the silence that answered, she assumed her words bit.
His claws clicked on the stone floor as he walked, but she would have felt his proximity without the sound to mark his location. Sealed or not, he still bore power. The signature was muddy and indistinct, giving the impression of a man with no trainable Gift rather than the wild force he’d once been. Even so, the sensation made her hair stand on end.
She expected a sharp tug, like the palace maids and her own maidservants in Ilmenhith used to loosen the strings fast. Instead there came a gradual easing of the pressure on her ribs, the laces unthreaded a bit at a time. After so many years, she’d forgotten how gentle he could be.
When the corset shifted freely around her middle, she waved him away and wiggled it off overhead. She glanced over her shoulder. Somehow, she’d expected he would watch. Instead, he stood with his back turned and studied the far wall with far more attention than it deserved.
Firal slid the black gown from the bed and drew it on, settled the cuffs at her wrists and breathed deep. “Tie me in, would you?”
Again, he joined her without a word. His claws had always given him trouble with small buttons, but he was nimble with laces. The fine tips of those talons let him poke stubborn lace ends through eyelets more easily than she could ever manage on her own.
The bodice of the dress pulled snug over her shift, but still gave her room to breathe. “It fits well,” she murmured, surprised.
“I had your attendants compare things to the dress you wore from the manor. I’m not so good at guessing.” He tied the laces and tucked in the ends.
“Really? Is that why there’s such an assorted wardrobe in your home?” Sarcasm dripped from her tone. “So many discarded dresses from lovers you tried to fit by guess?”
Rune didn’t rise to the bait. “A lot of guests come and go from my home. Some to see me, more for Rhyllyn. Garam’s family visits frequently, as do the mages. After enough surprise visits, it starts to seem like a good idea to have plenty of clothing on hand. There’s more than enough space to store it.”
A sensible answer. Not that she’d expected he’d confess if anything had been left by lovers. She adjusted the neckline, which sat high enough to hide all but a sliver of her bosom. Not as modest as the ugly dress she’d been given that morning, but the comfort was a clear improvement.
A claw rasped against the back of her neck and she froze.
He didn’t touch her again. Instead, he slowly pulled pins from the net of pearls over her hair. When it came free, he tossed the jeweled thing onto the pile of discarded petticoats on the floor.
One by one, pins followed it, letting down her hair. Raven curls cascaded around her shoulders and she heard him inhale.
Gripping her skirts in both hands, she whipped around to scold him. Instead, she found herself lost in his eye
s.
After all the cold things Rune had said upon his arrival in Ilmenhith, she never expected to see such emotion in him again. Deep longing reflected in his violet eyes, shadowed with hurt and suppressed desire.
Ever so careful not to touch her skin, he coiled one of her dark curls around his finger. Then his eyes fell from her face to his scaled hand and his expression hardened, the cold shield of ice erected again in his eyes.
He stepped away with a stiff bow. “Excuse me.”
She let him go without a word, still clutching her skirts. After so many years, she finally began to understand the inexorable pull that kept him returning to her in their youth. But this time, instead of snaring him, it had its ties around her heart.
7
New Strategy
As a soldier, Vahn had often been the butt of jokes. He was too docile, too tender-hearted, too much like his mother. If his companions from the guard had been present now, they would have changed their minds.
Vahn was not a violent man, but tonight, he suspected he could be. Fury burned white-hot inside him. His fingers twitched with a painful desire to strike something or hurl something across the room, just to watch it shatter.
The only thing that kept him from lashing out was Lulu’s presence in the office. He wasn’t about to let the girl out of his sight, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to return to the chambers he’d shared with Firal. Instead he trained his attention on work to be done—or tried.
“You need to sit down.” Ennil was stern, as always, but this time the command only made Vahn want to laugh.
He teetered on the verge of mad rage and his father wanted him to sit down? No. He needed to move, pace off the nervous energy, settle his racing mind enough to form a coherent plan. Right now, it was all he could do to keep from screaming.
His return to Ilmenhith was supposed to be triumphant. Shymin’s message had been enough to make him cheer. An alliance with Ilmenhith, she’d said. Envesi and Ennil waited in the palace, eager to welcome Vahn and his daughter back to the capital. It should have been his victory. He’d thought it would be.
