by Gaelen Foley
Yet for all the noise outside, within her, the deep, profound stillness of the Light had returned, washing her with the inner peace that had always sustained her. True, her healing power had been lost, possibly for good, but it was a small price to pay to have at least got herself back.
Besides, what more could she ask after her sacrifice in the Kiss of Life had paid off in the most vital and unexpected way?
She had not lost Thaydor. If her murder attempt on him could not put a dent in their bond, then nothing could, she supposed, as she watched him with a private smile.
He looked more kingly by the second. He truly had been born for this, whether he knew it or not. Clearly, everybody else did.
Then the Golden Master lifted the queen’s crown off the velvet pillow and said the prayers over her. Her crown was fashioned on slimmer, more graceful lines, with diamonds inset all around, but light as it was, the weight of it on her head gave her pause and made her stand a little straighter.
“Queen Wrynne of Veraidel,” the prophet announced her to the people, as though she were a bride.
Thaydor took her hand and helped her rise, then they turned to face the congregation side by side. They gazed at each other as the official proclamation was made.
“Their Majesties, King Thaydor and Queen Wrynne of Veraidel!”
From that first moment of their shared rule, the cheers resounded from one end of the kingdom to the other. Thaydor leaned down and kissed her cheek, then smiled at the people.
In the front row of the church, Wrynne’s mother was weeping. Their beaming fathers shared an illicit toast from flasks hidden in their pockets. Their sisters were holding on to each other and jumping up and down in excitement, while behind them, the three young squires flirted with the two pretty girls, leaving off only to join the company of knights in sending up hip-hip-hoorays.
One voice—a particularly deep and melodious one—could be heard above the others cheering. Jonty blew Wrynne a kiss, then pressed his hand to his heart with a courtly bow to them both.
Brother Piero was clapping so loudly he could’ve been heard in the Bronze Mountains. Even Novus was there, frowning in distraction. The solitary sorcerer glanced around, looking a trifle uncomfortable in the throng—not the least because he was a follower of Okteus sitting in an Ilian church. Perhaps he was looking out for lightning bolts.
Well, she thought, he might feel that he didn’t belong here, but he was wrong. The man had saved her life. She wasn’t sure if the brooding sorcerer quite realized he had just become the most important mage in the kingdom.
The only one who wasn’t there was Reynulf.
Wrynne still cringed when she thought of him, though the red knight had laughed off her apology for her wanton propositions.
“You think a woman’s never thrown herself at me before?” he had teased. “Please. It happens every day, and who can blame them?”
Though he’d had the grace to spare her pride, his past crimes were a more serious matter. Given his role in letting the Urms through the North Gate and killing those poor sentries, Thaydor knew that as soon as he took the oath of kingship, he’d be required to bring charges against Reynulf. True, the red knight had only been following orders from King Baynard’s own lips, but he still bore culpability.
On the other hand, Reynulf’s actions in helping to expose the machinations of the Silver Sage and his skillful fighting on Thaydor’s side against the Urms in the Battle of Pleiburg, as it was being called, were mitigating factors. Not to mention he had personally saved Thaydor’s life when Sana had moved to stab him in the back.
For his part, Thaydor had not wanted to send him away—Reynulf was a valuable ally to have on hand—but justice had to be answered. He could not start off his rule by making special exceptions to the law for his friends.
So banishment for a period of eight years had been suggested by the Crown’s lawyers as a fair compromise in weighing Reynulf’s good deeds against his wicked ones.
Reynulf seemed to understand and accept the court’s judgment. He was too proud a warrior, and honorable in his way, to deny what he had done. Instead, he took the blame for his actions with his head held high.
Wrynne was rather surprised but very relieved he wasn’t angry. They had already had a taste of what it was like having Reynulf for an enemy, and she did not want him out there somewhere on the loose in the world holding a grudge against her husband.
Where he would go or what he would do from this point, not even Reynulf knew, but one thing was certain. He had abandoned his worship of the war god. He had told them he no longer believed that Xoltheus even existed, and if he did, Reynulf said he’d like to put a dagger in the god’s lying heart.
“Kill a god? Leave it to Reynulf,” Thaydor had murmured after they had bade him goodbye.
Wrynne just hoped the world out there would be safe from Reynulf without Thaydor on hand to keep him on the straight and narrow.
At least he hadn’t gone alone. Some of the other red warriors had followed him into exile; taking orders from Reynulf was apparently too strong a habit to break. Wrynne had heard that a dozen or so of the Fonja girls had wanted to tag along with them as camp followers, but they weren’t invited.
Wrynne and Thaydor had watched Reynulf ride off at the head of his caravan, heading for the coast and a ship to take him who knew where. He had waved farewell with a promise to let them know where he landed, but had scoffed when Wrynne had asked him to promise that he’d stay out of trouble.
Just then, a few officials beckoned to her. Her recollections of the past few days whooshed away as she and Thaydor were hurried on to the next phase of coronation day.
When they stepped out of the cathedral, the broad avenue was teeming with humanity and resounded with the deafening roar of the crowds. They got into a gilt-trimmed open carriage pulled by white horses and went in a grand processional to Lionsclaw Keep, waving to the people as they went. Their fellow citizens littered the road before them with flower petals.
“This is a lot to live up to,” Wrynne whispered.
“Tell me about it,” Thaydor muttered, then sent her a sideways smile. He was used to such attention and all the pressure that came with it.
When he took her white-gloved hand and raised it to his lips, the people went nearly mad with cheering. After the last king’s betrayal of his wife, seeing how much the two of them loved each other seemed to hearten the populace somehow.
Later, they again waved to the crowds from the balcony overlooking Concourse Square, where King Baynard had been rescued by his executioner. Before they retreated to the great salon behind the doors, it was time for the release of a hundred white doves.
All the cages were opened at once. The people watched the white birds go fluttering aloft and agreed it was a beautiful sight and a good omen.
At length, the sea of humanity took to their own feasting, and all those in the palace crammed with guests did the same.
Across Veraidel, from Mistwood to the coast, songs and celebration filled the pubs and village squares. Bonfires burned. Games and contests abounded. Even the smallest hamlets had costumed performers reenacting Thaydor’s past exploits as paladin.
Crowds laughed as other actors dressed up as Avalanche and carried the great knight around piggyback, chasing after their fellow mummers dressed up as Urmugoths or even dragons, beating on them with silver-painted models of Hallowsmite.
Of course, the real Thaydor was used to all the fuss. Wrynne watched him introducing his father to various dignitaries, and she couldn’t help smiling to herself.
No, the hero treatment would hardly turn his head now after he’d been subjected to it for years. She had to admit King Baynard’s final act had shown wisdom, naming the famous paladin as his heir. It was a relatively easy transition for the people, too, since they already knew and trusted him. Command sat easily on those broad shoulders.
The night waned as more elegant entertainments than those in the provinces were brou
ght before them—dances, acrobatics, the dramatic reading of poems. Wrynne stayed at the feast for as long as she could keep her eyes open, but near midnight, she was exhausted after the long day’s whirlwind of activity.
Her head was spinning as the reality of her new role in life finally started sinking in. She took leave of the gathered company after Jonty’s beautiful song in their honor.
Of course, rascal that he was, he could not help but sprinkle a few droll jibes in among the praise. Recalling the bard’s stated mission of keeping an eye on the powerful for the people’s sake and taunting them when necessary, Wrynne gave him a big hug when he was through. She and Thaydor both welcomed their friend’s intent to keep them honest.
“Thank you…for everything,” she said earnestly, looking up into his twinkling green eyes. “You are very dear to me, you know.”
“Likewise, lass—I mean, Your Majesty.” He winked. “And you are most welcome.”
Fondly pulling away from him for now, she went to thank the contingent of ambassadors from Aisedor for coming.
They still looked a little dour at the tragedy that had befallen their sovereign’s daughter, but since the man who had engineered it was dead—namely Lord Eudo—they seemed mollified by Thaydor’s earlier talk of trade advantages that he could offer as a token of his thanks for not declaring war on Veraidel in retaliation.
No doubt, the king of Aisedor would be watching closely to see what manner of man had risen to the throne in their neighboring country.
The bards of Lyragon to the east had also sent a merry contingent. They had talked nonstop to Jonty, and indeed, to everyone, and by now, they all were especially drunk.
Jonty had whispered to her and Thaydor earlier that he had officially been invited to Lyragon to act as a judge in the annual bardic competition. This rare honor seemed to amuse him greatly, though he tried to keep a serious expression, assuring them it was a cutthroat contest. Only the most respected of minstrels were chosen to join the panel of judges responsible for determining who would be named the best bard in all the land.
Still saying her good nights, Wrynne thanked the slurring Lyragonians for coming, and was treated in return to a flamboyant litany of the loftiest compliments any queen had ever received. Her eyes were stars shining through a sea mist, her lips were summer roses, et cetera, et cetera, along with the courtliest of bows.
One of the bards actually fell over as a result of too deep a flourish, and promptly passed out on the floor.
Thaydor arched a brow.
Jonty looked at his colleague and shrugged. “Been there.”
She chuckled, then went and hugged each member of her family. She smiled at her mother’s fussing, well aware the woman couldn’t help herself. She laughed at her father’s jolly bear hug. As she curtsied to her gruff, scar-faced father-in-law, she tried not to let the old warrior notice that she still found him utterly intimidating. Yet every time the War Hammer opened his mouth, he said the sweetest things.
Like father, like son. She supposed she’d get used to him soon. Then she said farewell to her siblings and the bubbly Lady Ingrid, as well.
“I’ll be there soon,” Thaydor promised as he walked her to the doorway.
The entire banquet hall rose when she stood to leave, then a whole entourage of servants, footmen, ladies-in-waiting, and guards—led by none other than bearded Sir Berold and scar-faced Sir Sagard—escorted her through the palace to her gilded apartment in the residential wing.
Two maids assisted her in unfastening and lifting away her heavy brocade gown. They started taking all the pins out of her elaborate hairstyle, once her crown—her crown!—was removed. This was set safely back on its pillow to be returned to the royal vault until it was needed next.
She stared at it as they whisked it away. Never in her life had she ever thought she’d own a crown, diamond-crusted or otherwise. She had never wanted greatness or riches. She had only wanted peace.
Love.
And she had definitely got that.
He walked in the door shortly after she had dismissed her attendants. They had left her with her hair hanging loose over her shoulders and her tired body wrapped in a simple silk dressing gown over her white shift.
In the mirror’s reflection, she watched her darling husband step into the room. Thaydor let out a weary exhalation as soon as the door had closed behind him. She rose from her stool at the dressing table and went to him.
“There she is,” he said fondly as she slipped her arms around his waist. “Alone at last.”
She sighed with happiness as he leaned down and kissed her.
“How are you feeling?” she murmured.
“Fairly worn out,” he admitted.
“I’m not surprised.” She undid the sword belt around his waist for him. “But that’s not what I meant.”
As she went and set the dress sword aside, he looked at her curiously and started unbuttoning his coat.
“I meant do you feel any different, now that you are officially the king?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
She returned and helped him slip the coat off his shoulders. “I see. Steadfast.”
“That’s me. King Clank, according to my sister.”
“Well, if you ask me, a kingdom could do worse than have a lawful, good, serious, responsible, just, virtuous Clank for a leader.”
He laughed. “When you put it like that, the damned bard might be right. I really am just a boring stick, aren’t I?”
“Oh, not at all!” she scolded with a chuckle, sliding her arms around his waist. “Especially not to me.”
“Are you sure?” he murmured with a taunting gleam in his eyes. “You wouldn’t rather have your good friend Reynulf here with you right now?”
“Not on your life!” she exclaimed, turning bright red.
“Good.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against his chest with a roguish tug, then he lifted her off her feet and carried her over to the bed. “Because here’s a secret for you, sweeting: I’m not always that virtuous.”
“Oh, I know,” she whispered, a thrill running through her whole body as he laid her down. “Neither am I.”
“Believe me, I remember. But let’s just keep this between you and me,” he said as he nuzzled her earlobe. “We wouldn’t want to scandalize the world, now, would we?”
“Leave them their illusions,” she breathlessly agreed, then she closed her eyes in dreamy delight as he began kissing his way hungrily down her throat.
He took her breast in his hand, flicking her nipple with his thumb. She cradled his head against her neck and arched her back in yearning under his possessive touch.
“Oh, darling, I want you so much,” she whispered, trembling for him.
“I’m all yours.” He raked his fingers through her hair and claimed her mouth again almost roughly.
He drove her wild, consuming her lips with his hot, wet kisses, his tongue filling her mouth. Wrynne caressed him everywhere, shivering with anticipation for her ravishment. Her body burned for her mate with unquenchable fire. Her fevered hands glided over his silken, sculpted abdomen, up his muscled chest and then down to his rampant manhood, stroking, teasing him until he couldn’t bear it anymore.
With a low, seductive laugh, he pinned her hands to the mattress above her head. She could feel his heart pounding against her body as she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer with a needy moan. “Take me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came his wry, husky answer.
Then he did—with great gusto and quite heroic valor, of course.
What the servants in the corridor must have thought at the way the headboard banged against the wall, she barely dared imagine. But neither of them cared. The starlight streaming in through the window silvered his sleek, powerful silhouette as he rode deep between her thighs, giving her everything—it was the only way Thaydor knew how to love.
And that night, when he conquered her completely once again, she c
onceived a son.
Just as the oracle had promised.
Coming Soon!
AGE OF HEROES, BOOK 2
Muse of Fire
Bard, charmer, and adventurer Jonty Maguire travels to Lyragon, where he soon suspects his bardic brethren have fallen under the sway of a necromancer. To break their dark thrall will require a song more potent than any he has ever sung before, and to bring it forth, he will need the help of the most powerful muse he can find.
The legendary fire muse, Capricia, beautiful and deadly, swims like a mermaid in the lava of a volcano on the edge of the Dragon Sea. But a dream has been growing in her heart of flame…to become human, live a mortal life, and experience for herself the passion she has inspired in others for a thousand years.
When the handsome Runescar Highlander arrives seeking her help, the muse offers Jonty a deal fit to strike terror in the heart of any wayward, womanizing bard. I will give you your song if you’ll show me your world—and teach me the meaning of love…
Click here to sign up for Gaelen Foley’s mailing list to be notified as soon as it’s available!
To be notified when Muse of Fire and other books by Gaelen Foley are released, please subscribe to her Author Mailing List. Subscribers also receive access to sneak peeks, bonus extras, and other exclusive content—plus a chance to win prizes in monthly giveaways.
Romance fans! While you’re waiting for Jonty’s book, I welcome you to check out my twenty previous bestselling historical romances. But if Fantasy is more your cup of tea, I’ve got more of that for you, too!
Separate from my romance books, I also co-write “clean” all-ages fantasy adventure novels with my husband, a former teacher, under the pen name E.G. Foley. Our Gryphon Chronicles series is suitable for Ages 10 and Up. Set in a magical version of Queen Victoria’s England, it’s as much fun for grownups as it is for kids. Check it out below!
