Once Dikartha slumbered, the servant led Ember to King Zeadren’s chamber. He waited for her by a large brick hearth. Several logs as long as Ember’s body burned brightly among a bed of yellow and red coals.
“I pray I have not kept you waiting, King Zeadren,” Ember said once the servant girl had left.
“Nay, I have only been here long enough to shed my boots and pour two pots of shavobot,” he replied. “Come over here”—he motioned to the big chair matching the one in which he sat—“and warm thyself by my fire. You will find that although the days here are sunny, the nights are quite cool.”
She crossed the room to him and lowered herself into the other chair. The king handed her one of the tiny pots.
“Drink,” he commanded gently. “Shavobot was created by our ancestors after Torr cast his seed upon the ground and we Southlanders were born. It is a celebratory drink of life and a sedative that calms the body yet keeps the mind bright.”
She followed the king’s example and gulped it down in one swallow. Sweet and full of fruity goodness, the liquid slid down her throat like a breath of fresh, cool air.
“Very good,” she said.
He smiled and rose to his feet. He took her drinking vessel with his and set them on a small table by his chair. “Princess, I find myself without a queen,” he began hesitantly. “Although I am not old, I do grow older. I have need of sons and daughters, and I would like to have my lands allied with those who believe in integrity and the good of all races.” He closed the distance between them and took Ember by the shoulders. “You are a vision of golden beauty, and your heart is valiant, your mind sharp. You possess a lovely wit and have given me many things this night to think on. I can only imagine what a marriage with you would be like, but I am wagering it would be quite enjoyable.”
Shocked, Ember could only gape at him. The last thing she had expected was a marriage proposal. Although she found King Zeadren very attractive and virile, she could never be with a man until she had her power under control. Besides, she thought of only one who she desired.
“Would you find me a worthy husband?” he asked, his expression a combination of hope and seriousness.
“I-I would,” she began, her heart thrashing so hard it hurt, “but you are Mortal, and I am Fae. Your mortality would see me grieving you after only a short time.”
“But are you not half Mortal?” His onyx-like gaze bored into her, the glimmer of hope in them fading.
Nodding, she said as delicately and gently as she could, “Aye, but Fae blood still runs in my veins. I will not live nearly as long as the pure Fae do, but in Mortal years, it is still centuries.”
He turned from her and sighed. “I had hoped…”
“I know.” More softly, she added, “I am truly sorry, dear king. You are an incredible man, and the offer is very tempting, but we must be realistic.”
Facing her again, he asked, “May I?”
The meaning in his words and in his eyes was clear. Ember nodded. “Aye. You may.”
He pulled her into his arms. His mouth seized hers, his goatee soft against her chin. She’d never been kissed by a Mortal before, but the passion of his kiss startled her, and she suddenly understood why many Fae races took Mortals as lovers and sometimes mates. However, where desire once stirred in her loins, now only sympathy and regret filled her. Curious, she found the part in his robe and slid her hands across the hard planes of King Zeadren’s chest and stomach. His breath hitched, and he drew her closer, molding her curves to his body. She sensed the lust roiling within him and felt the passion that simmered just below the surface. He moaned deep within his throat, as if he was about to abandon all reason, but Zeadren released her lips. Instead he trailed kisses along her jaw to her ear to her neck and down to the swell of her breasts peeking over the V-neck of her gown.
Ember wished she could allow him to make love to her, but oh how foolhardy that would be. However, Sir Greensleeve’s face arose in her mind’s eye. She stiffened. No, it wasn’t possible. He could not have such a hold upon her heart without his wooing magic, could he?
“Please,” the king whispered against her throat.
“I cannot,” she said firmly as she contemplated the new realization.
He raised his head and looked into her eyes. His need for her smoldered in their inky depths. “Why not?”
“Since my power awakened, I have not been able to take anyone into my bed. My desire and emotions would be the death of you.”
“Ah, what a sweet way to go,” he murmured and kissed her forehead.
“I think not, dear king. My power is unlike any you have ever seen.” With effort, her body quivering with need for a different man, she stepped away from the king. “I must go and rest. The morrow may bring much turmoil.”
He nodded, and a sad smile graced his mouth. “Sleep well, dear princess.”
With sorrow, she crossed the room and slipped out the door. She leaned against the brick wall and groaned in frustration. Now that she had her power, was she destined to be celibate for the rest of her long life? And how was it possible only one person could heat her blood whereas only days ago she’d enjoyed many lovers.
“Lochri, you bastard,” she whispered to the dim corridor. “I do not appreciate your humor.”
“Talking to yourself, Princess?”
She startled and whirled toward the voice. Kaedric stood with his arms crossed over his wine-splattered tunic, an amused glint and inebriation in his eyes.
“Aye, I am talking to myself.” She turned and stalked down the corridor. “I wish all of this insanity was over so I could just go home.”
His footsteps followed her. “Mayhap the Ebon Weapon will be revealed soon, and we can all return to our abodes.”
She said nothing and reached for the handle of her bedchamber door. His hand caught hers. Ember looked up at him. Longing swirled in his eyes like an approaching thunderstorm. The idea of coupling with him revolted her. Kaedric had been young and naïve when he’d been betrothed to her mother. Although he had twenty years on her, Kaedric was a handsome, broad-shouldered Mortal, but over the last few hours, something had begun to change in him, something that softened his words and, if she sensed correctly, his heart.
“Princess,” he said, “allow me but one kiss.”
Before she could react, he bent his head toward hers and captured her lips. At first, his kiss was delicate, gentle, a tryst of restrained hunger and respectful hesitation. Kaedric growled deeply within his throat and slid his arms around her body, pressing her against the door, startling her. Angered, she slid her hands up his chest to push him away. His kiss grew more demanding and fierce.
“By Raya,” he whispered against her mouth, “you are as intoxicating as the moonbeam wine the Fae drink.” He claimed her mouth again.
Ember’s ire bloomed deep within her and wound downward into her thighs and upward into her belly. As Kaedric’s hand tangled in her hair, his mouth insistent, tongue infiltrating her mouth, the fiery sensation flowed through Ember’s breasts and into her arms.
Her eyes flew open, and she pushed him away. “No!”
His eyes widened, and he stumbled back a couple of steps. “But you let me kiss you.”
“Run.” She panted at the heat consumed her innards. “Go now!”
The expression on Kaedric’s face revealed his sudden understanding. He turned to flee, but an arrow sliced through the air and embedded in the thick carpet at his feet. He jumped, his head whipping in the direction the arrow had come from. “Princess, into your bedchamber now!”
She looked to her right. Four assassins stood at the end of the hall. Three brandished swords. The one in the forefront of the small group reached over his shoulder and pulled another arrow from the quiver, placing it in his bow. The assassins walked toward them in a slow, methodical manner.
The heat building inside of Ember culminated until it burst from her eyes. She clamped down on it and forced the flames from her fingertips instead.
The assassins dropped facedown to the thick rugs. Red and yellow flames blasted above their bodies to lick the walls and ceiling.
She had to get her aunt to safety. “Sound the alarm!” She fumbled with the door handle. “Warn the others!” The door gave, and she nearly fell into her bedchamber, startling Dikartha awake.
“Ember?” said her aunt. “What’s wrong? What’s—?”
“Get up and pack your clothes,” she snapped. “Assassins are in the king’s abode.”
Ember barricaded the door with a chair beneath the handle and hurried to her bed where she yanked her sword out from under the mattress. Dikartha flew up out of the bed and grabbed her bag.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of swords clanging against each other penetrated the door. A shout drifted through the open balcony, followed by more cries of surprise and the frenzied ringing of a bell.
“By Raya’s power!” Dikaratha gasped. “How shall we escape this?”
“Just stay close to me, suvrete,” Ember replied. “Should someone jump us, keep your back to mine and be my extra set of eyes.”
Three figures in black leaped over the balcony railing. The first one charged into the room, catching and ripping down the gauzy material billowing around the door. He drew a long, scalloped blade from its sheath and approached her slowly, his body that of a cat stalking its prey. Ember held her sword in front of her, both hands clasping the hilt in a relaxed grip. The assassin lunged forward, but Ember sank into a squat and thrust up. Her sword impaled him just above his leather belt and emerged through the back of his neck. Although a black headpiece covered the man’s face, his eyes were visible and registered shock. A long, low sound of agony burst from his lips, and he grabbed the blade skewering him. Blood showered the floor, the sound of it hitting the bricks like a burst of heavy rain.
Ember stood, drawing the blade up so it finished slicing through his torso. Bone splintered and cracked. Gleaming pink and cherry innards spilled out onto the floor, the noise of it reminding Ember of someone slapping wet laundry against a rock. Using her foot, she shoved the man off of her sword; his body flopped to the bricks and lay still.
The door burst inward with a shower of wood and squealing hinges.
“Princess!” Sir Hestbone’s voice sliced through the room. He charged past her, and one assassin met him brandishing his gleaming sword in the air. The dwarf’s short sword rang out, matching blow after blow of the killer’s weapon.
Ember leaped over the corner of her bed and swung her blade at the third assassin, who ducked and veered to the right. He tugged a dagger from his belt and threw it, the action so fluid and fast that Ember barely had time to register what he’d done. The noise of it sinking into soft flesh drew her attention, and she turned to see Dikaratha standing rigid, shocked and staring at the leather-wrapped hilt protruding from her chest, a crimson stain spreading down the front of her gown. She looked at Ember, her wide emerald-green eyes full of empathy and sorrow.
“Dear one...” Dikartha fell to her knees, uttered a watery gasp, and stretched a hand out to her niece. She tumbled to one side, her flaxen hair spilling across the floor.
“No!” Ember whirled and rushed across the room, but Sir Hestbone stopped her.
“Princess! Concentrate! Kill that dog before he makes short work of you too.”
She spun on her heel, fury blazing through her. “You filthy swine!” she screamed. Sulfur belched from her mouth and nostrils. It filled her sinuses, and small, black wisps of smoke drifted in its wake. Heat blazed a path from her belly to her breasts and out along her arms, each tiny piece of hair and skin feeling as though she would fry into oblivion, yet it didn’t hurt her. Instead, exhilaration wound through her body. She pointed her sword at the third killer and focused on him. Fire erupted along the blade and vomited from its tip in a stream of blue and white, engulfing the assassin in flames. Swatting at the fire with his arms flailing and legs kicking, he screamed in horror and agony; desperate as he raced across the bedchamber to throw himself off the balcony; his screams merely an echo in the night.
“Ach! Assassin pig,” bellowed the dwarf. “Enough of this!” He dropped to his belly and rolled into the second assassin’s legs, knocking him forward. As the killer fell, Sir Hestborn angled his sword so that it impaled the man, who flopped across the dwarf’s belly and lay quietly.
Flames licked the tapestry alongside Ember’s bed and crawled down the wall, igniting the headboard and pillows. The princess hurried around the bodies. She dropped to her knees at her aunt’s side and gathered her into her arms. Blood coated Dikartha’s colorful gown and melded with the tears staining Ember’s garment. Sobs wracked the princess. She stroked Dikartha’s hair, whispering, “No, no, no.”
The dwarf’s grunts sounded behind her. “Ach, get off me, you worthless scum.” Footsteps reached her. “Come, dear princess.” He pulled Dikartha from her arms and laid her on the floor as if she had fallen asleep. “We must fight or flee. Your aunt is gone to you now.”
“We must take her with us and give her a proper burial,” Ember sobbed. “She deserves the burial of royalty.”
“She shall have it.” The dwarf gently pulled the princess to her feet. “Zeadren’s abode will be engulfed in flames soon. Let your magical fire take her to Torr, good princess. He will keep her safe and allow her a seat in which she can watch your journey.”
She stood still, tears and mucous dribbling down her face.
“Come,” Sir Hestbone whispered. “I can already hear the woman cursing me for allowing you to stay this long.”
A weak smile twisted Ember’s lips. “Indeed.”
With sorrow wrenching her heart, she gathered her aunt’s belongings, packed them into her cloth satchel, placed it on the floor next to her body, and wrapped one of her arms around it. Quickly rummaging into her own bag, Ember withdrew her hair comb and placed it in her aunt’s other hand as a farewell gift. She picked up the vibrantly colored war bonnet, stuffed it into her travel bag, and grabbed her sword and cloak. She turned to the shattered door as the fire’s heat seared her backside. The putrid aroma of copper rose to the rafters from the baking and congealing blood spilled in the room. The odor of roasting guts added to the nauseating smell.
A terrifying thought hit her. She froze and looked down at the dwarf as her heart banged out a frantic rhythm. “Where are Sarenkesh and my brother?”
“I know not,” replied Sir Hestbone. “I heard the racket when I was in my room and came straight here.”
“We have to find them. Make sure they are both well!” She lunged for the door. If she lost either one of them, she didn’t know what she’d do. Beron was her family, and she feared for his life, but Sarenkesh was… What was he to her? The feeling stabbing her in the center of the chest was foreign but no less frightening. “Come! Let us go now!”
“I am by your side, dear princess,” said Sir Hestbone.
In the corridor, the fourth assassin lay dead on the floor, but Kaedric was gone. Screams echoed through the narrow archers’ windows. Deep from within the abode’s meal chamber, the sound of swordplay rang out.
Sir Hestbone led the way. Ember hurried down the hall after him, their footsteps quiet. By an alcove, she bade the dwarf to wait as she removed her gown. She made fast work of jerking on breeches, a tunic, and her boots, sliding on her belt, and slipping her knife and sword into their sheaths.
She stepped out and slung her travel bag over her back. “Has Hellembr attacked or is it someone else?”
Sir Hestbone shook his head, his yellow braids swinging to and fro. “I do not know, but I pray our friends are alive.”
The next door led to an alternate stair route. Ember and the dwarf traversed it to avoid the main battle zone raging in the great chamber. At the bottom, the door opened to a side courtyard and another small battle scene. King Zeadren made short work of a man in all black. Large leather-clad creatures with round heads that appeared to be plunked down on their shoulders fought along
side the assassins.
“Ach!” Sir Hestbone muttered. “Mountain ogres. It’s difficult enough to pierce their thick hides, but they smell too.”
“So hold your breath,” Ember quipped weakly.
A few feet away from the king, Sir Greensleeve shoved his sword into the groin of an ogre and leaped aside as the creature plummeted to the ground in a roar of pain. Dust bloomed around its body and drifted into the torch lights hanging from the building.
Spinning on his heels, Sarenkesh spotted Ember and jogged over to her. He pushed her past the dwarf and against the brick wall where they stood in the shadow of a fern-like bush.
“Thank the gods!” He pulled her to him. “I was terrified you had been killed in your room. We were taken by surprise.” He glanced over at the dwarf who stood nearby, guarding them. “The king believes someone within the fortress alerted the assassins to your presence, Princess. And as you can see, they have joined forces with the mountain ogres, who love payment in jewels and human skin.”
“Mayhap we can skin a few ogres instead,” Sir Hestbone snapped over his shoulder.
“My aunt is dead,” Ember said, the pain in her heart growing more intense. “One of the assassins killed her.”
“I am so sorry.” Sarenkesh hugged her, but when he saw the tear that leaked from her eye, he leaned over and kissed it. “Rest assured she is watching us now.”
She stepped back and met Sarenkesh’s gaze, his action soothing her soul. As she stared into his eyes, the love she felt for him nearly knocked her off her feet. She knew she couldn’t fight it any longer. It wasn’t his magic of wooing that had captured her. She’d fallen in love with the handsome Gloaming Elf. The realization mixed with her grief, lightening the pain, and in her mind, she heard her suvrete laughing and teasing her that it had taken Ember long enough to identify her feelings for Sarenkesh.
Ember smiled wryly. “Let us fight so I may kill as many as possible in my aunt’s name.”
Sarenkesh grasped her hand and pulled her to stand next to Sir Hestbone. They all drew their swords, and the dwarf removed a dagger from his boot so that he brandished a weapon in each meaty hand.
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