Queen of the Pale

by Sarah Hawke

  “So young, so perfect…” Thedric breathed, tracing his fingertips between her breasts and down to her belly. “I cannot wait to see you swell with our son.”

  “I only hope that the Moonmaiden will grant us her blessing soon, sire,” Delaryn said, fighting back a wave of nausea.

  “If she made you for me, then I’ve no doubt she will.”

  Delaryn tried to force another smile, but it turned stillborn before it ever reached her lips. Mercifully, Thedric wasn’t paying her face any attention; his eyes remained fixated upon her nubile flesh as he gently pushed her skirt down her hips. She knew what he wanted—she knew what he expected. Every night since their wedding, he had waited patiently for the woman he had saved from certain death to show her undying gratitude, first from her knees and then on her back. He planned to spill his royal seed deep inside her; he knew that her swollen belly would ensure the survival of the Ashellion legacy and wash away the last traces of her family’s betrayal.

  I will be the last Whitefeather. In twenty years, people won’t even remember that my family ever existed.

  King Thedric brushed a hand through her platinum hair and then gently tapped her on the shoulder. Delaryn obediently sank to her knees, unfastened his belt, and freed his stiff, throbbing member from his trousers.

  At which point she reached out to the Aether and plunged into his mind.

  The first time she had cast a spell upon him, she had been terrified. Sorcery was a sin, the Watcher’s Warning decreed, and concealing magical ability from the Tel Bator was the gravest heresy. At best, renegade sorcerers were imprisoned within the Galespire under the care of the Keepers; at worst, they were Purged and transformed into Faceless automatons.

  For Delaryn, though, the punishment would be a brutal execution upon a flaming pyre. Her entire adult life had been plagued by spiteful insinuations about her heritage—everyone, from the poorest peasant to the wealthiest noble, was eager and willing to believe that the daughter of the Winter Witch had inherited her mother’s dark power.

  And they were right.

  “My lord honors me with his royal stem,” Delaryn purred submissively. “I only hope I can bring you the joy you deserve.”

  She leaned forward to kiss the tip of his cock—or at least, Thedric believed that was what she did. Delaryn planted an illusory figment of herself in his mind, and while the king moaned in delight and gently cradled the head of his phantom wife, his real one stood and retrieved her clothing. She watched his knees quiver in place as he imagined her licking and stroking his stem, and he gasped in delight when she finally took him into her mouth.

  “By the gods,” Thedric breathed, his cock twitching in midair. He looked like such a fool that Delaryn almost regretted manipulating him this way…or she had, the first few times. Now this had become such a routine that it almost felt normal.

  The king moaned again when he imagined his stem sliding deeper into his wife’s eager mouth, and Delaryn allowed him to enjoy the heat of her supple throat for almost a minute while she slipped back into her skirt and buckled her bodice. Thedric eventually patted the air where her head should have been, signaling that he wanted her on her back before he accidentally spilled his precious seed. Delaryn’s figment promptly obeyed; she pulled back and kissed the tip of his manhood, then stood and allowed him to sweep her up into his arms and carry her onto her father’s old bed.

  “You truly are the greatest prize in the north,” Thedric breathed as he pushed apart her knees and climbed atop her. “And you’re all mine.”

  “Now and forever, my lord,” the figment cooed. “Take me. Please.”

  Thedric smiled as he eased the tip of his stem inside the illusion’s waiting quim. Delaryn had no concept of what it felt like to be a man, but she didn’t need to—all she had to do was allow Thedric’s desires to guide her. He wanted a warm, wet, welcoming sheath, and that was exactly what her doppelganger became.

  “Oh, gods…” he breathed, squeezing her breasts as her ankles locked around his back. He leaned down to kiss her nose and then her forehead before he smiled and brushed at her blond hair. “Did you know that after tonight, I will have taken you in every duchy in the kingdom? You are my greatest conquest.”

  Delaryn’s figment stared up at him, breathless and starry-eyed. “My lord honors me…”

  Thedric grinned as he thrust harder and deeper. “You are going to be such a gorgeous mother soon. I bet you dreamed of this moment as a little girl, didn’t you? The chance to be the queen of the north…the chance to bear the true heirs to the throne.”

  “I did, my lord,” Delaryn lied. “My dream has come true…all thanks to you.”

  He smiled and kissed the air again. When she had first done this to him, she had been so horrified watching him make love to the air that she had turned away. But now…now she couldn’t help but watch and smile. Surely any man would look ridiculous sticking his tongue into nothing, but his movements would have been clumsy even if she had actually been beneath him. He swelled and swelled until he nearly burst, convinced that he was giving her exactly what she wanted. The illusion cradled him, harbored him, as she whispered her gratitude into his ear. She even cried out in climax and clawed into his back when he spilled inside her.

  Delaryn watched as he whispered at the illusion, convinced that he had just planted the seeds of the future inside her womb rather than all over the sheets. With the power of the Aether flowing through her veins, she could have made him do or believe almost anything she could imagine. She could manipulate his memory, alter his perception, even erode his most deep-seated beliefs. This was why the people feared channelers—this was why the Keepers existed.

  To protect the world from dangerous sorcerers like me.

  Still, her power was far from infinite. She could already feel the first pangs of the Flensing gnawing at her limbs. If she didn’t release her hold on the Aether soon, the pain would overwhelm or even cripple her. Sorcerers could literally kill themselves by overchanneling; some even chose that fate over imprisonment in the Galespire.

  If they ever catch me, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I would rather die at my own hands than become their slave, even briefly.

  Grimacing in discomfort, Delaryn reached out and touched Thedric’s mind one last time. She filled him with feelings of warmth and contentment, then allowed him to slip into a deep, comforting sleep. The instant he collapsed she released her hold on the Aether, braced herself against the bedpost, and waited for the painful tingle in her limbs to slowly wane. A purple latticework of angry veins had already appeared beneath her forearms; if she pushed any harder, they might burst.

  The Tel Bator claimed that the Aether was the blood of the gods spilled across the world when the ancient elves—the Avetharri—had slain or imprisoned the very deities that had created them. Mere mortals weren’t meant to channel divinity, and the Flensing was the natural dissonance between gods and men. Some priests, particularly those from the more extreme sects of the Watcher, believed that the Flensing was a righteous punishment from Dathiel himself. Whatever the truth, its wrath was real and terrible, and it was the only limit on sorcerous power.

  And look what I’m still capable of. I could turn the most powerful man in Darenthi into my puppet, and until the Keepers exposed me, no one would ever know the difference. Maybe the people are right to fear me—maybe they are right to fear all of us.

  Delaryn swallowed heavily as she strode over to the nightstand where the servants had left out a tea service. She still had a few hours before she was supposed to meet with Rohen, and she was going to need her magic to reach him without being spotted. She might as well rest a bit and recover. It wasn’t as though her husband would be awake any time soon.

  “Sleep well, my lord,” she whispered. “May you dream of jealous tharns and a loving wife.”

  4

  Midnight Dalliance

  By the time Rohen reached his bedroom in the guest wing of the keep, his stomach was so twisted into k
nots he could barely keep down his dinner. He still couldn’t believe what had happened in the sitting room. The more minutes ticked by, the more the entire day felt like a dream.

  Or, if things fell apart like they surely would, a nightmare.

  Rohen let out a long, slow breath as he slumped against the door. The bedroom here was easily twice the size of his quarters in Griffonwing Keep, yet he still felt like the walls were closing in around him. If he had any sense, he would take off his armor, lie down on the bed, and pretend that nothing had happened with Delaryn. It was the only way he could perform his duties—hell, it was the only way to keep the hangman’s noose from his neck. Besides, there was no way in the bloody void she would actually be down there waiting for him tonight…right?

  “Guardian forgive me,” he breathed, banging his leather gauntlet against the doorframe. He suddenly wished that he had been sent straight to the front lines. The Chol were far less intimidating than a beautiful woman with a tiara on her head.

  If I don’t go to see her, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But if I do go and see her, I probably won’t have much of a life. What if King Thedric wakes up to an empty bed? What if that old priestess is a light sleeper? What if the gods themselves decide to smite us for sinning in their chapel?

  Rohen forced his eyes back open and turned his head to stare into the hearth beside the bed. The castle servants had helpfully started up a fire before he had arrived; if this had been any other day, he would have gladly stripped down to his smallclothes and crawled beneath the sheets. Dawn would be here before he knew it, and it was entirely possible they could encounter wandering Chol on the road to Rimewreath. He needed to be rested and ready.

  Instead, he laid down atop the sheets and stared up at the ceiling, his heart thumping in his chest and his manhood stirring in his trousers. He could only imagine how much Sehris and Zin would be laughing at his discomfort right now. They had probably reached Dorelas already, and they may have even been asleep. Hopefully they were smart enough not to get into any trouble, even if he wasn’t…

  Shaking away the thought, Rohen turned and forced himself to stare at the painting on the mantle above the fireplace. It was clearly new, given the way it depicted Delaryn’s mother, the “Winter Witch,” unleashing her dark magic during the final battle of the last Culling nineteen years ago. The painting was meant to be horrifying; the white-robed woman was surrounded by green fire ostensibly harvested from the Pale itself—a feat that should have been impossible for any mortal, even a sorceress, considering that only demons could truly channel the vile energies of the spirit realm.

  Rohen had heard a dozen different versions of how the battle had played out, but the one consistent thread was that the Darenthi army had been on the verge of defeat. The Chol had appeared in greater numbers than expected, and they had slaughtered their way across the countryside. Even the Templar hadn’t been able to drive them back. Just before the Godcursed had overrun Gareth’s Stand, the Winter Witch had revealed her dark power. In an unparalleled act of sacrilege, she had summoned demons from the Pale to possess her own soldiers. The empowered army had turned the tide, however, and the Chol horde had ultimately been broken. For the first time in history, a Culling had been defeated by someone other than the Templar.

  The Keepers had promptly executed the Winter Witch for her crimes against the gods, but King Gareth—Thedric’s father—had shown mercy to her husband. Duke Haldor had returned here to Whitefeather Hold to care for his young children, Delaryn and Skaldir, though his rage and thirst for vengeance had driven him to plunge the entire country into civil war just two years later.

  Darenthi had yet to heal from any of these scars. King Thedric seemed to earnestly believe that marrying Delaryn would finally set things right, but with paintings like his one hanging from the walls of every castle in the kingdom…well, suffice to say that Rohen had his doubts. The people of Darenthi were all too willing to believe that the daughter of the Winter Witch was a channeler of terrible power. Never mind the fact that sorcerous ability didn’t always pass through the blood or that Delaryn would have shown signs years ago if she had inherited her mother’s curse.

  Still, it’s yet another reason I should lie here and go to bed. Maybe if I just close my eyes, I’ll sleep past the rendezvous and everything will work out…

  Rohen didn’t sleep a single wink, naturally, and when the small clock on the mantle finally approached midnight, he immediately popped out of the bed and stepped back into the hall. Everyone else staying here in the guest wing had long since retired to their rooms, and the Hold had so few guards that only a small handful would still be awake. With any luck, Rohen wouldn’t encounter another soul on the way to the chapel.

  Even if I do, a Templar can get away with practically anything. All I’ll need to do is tell them that the I’m sweeping the Hold one last time. As long as they don’t ask him about it in the morning, everything will be fine.

  Taking a final deep breath, Rohen strode down the hall past the pantry and kitchen—

  And nearly crashed right into the Lord Protector’s chest.

  “Sir!” Rohen gasped, stumbling backward. A thousand excuses looped through his head, each one more idiotic and unbelievable than the last.

  “You’re up late,” Lord Kraythe said, arching a gray eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d head straight to bed.”

  “I-I was going to, sir, but I…” Rohen’s voice completely cut out, and he could have sworn he felt a cold, skeletal hand closing around his throat.

  He doesn’t know what happened—he doesn’t know Delaryn is waiting for me. If I just keep my shit together, everything will be fine.

  The Lord Protector chuckled softly and smiled. “Still nervous about the Chol?”

  Rohen blinked twice, then nodded quickly—too quickly. “Y-yes, sir,” he said. “I thought a quick lap around the Hold might help to clear my head.”

  “It won’t,” Kraythe said. “Believe me, I’ve tried the same thing many, many times over the years.”

  Rohen stood there in place, knowing full well he must have looked like an anxious wreck. But miraculously, the Lord Protector didn’t seem to notice.

  “It will get a little easier after your first battle, but not much,” Kraythe went on. “Before the battle at Gareth’s Stand, I spent half the night reading the same page of a book over and over. Eventually, I got up and paced around the keep, but that didn’t help much, either. Still…I can hardly blame you for trying.”

  Rohen forced a nervous smile. “I don’t know why, but the fact everyone seems so confident is just making it worse. You’ve told us over and over that the Chol should never be underestimated.”

  “They shouldn’t. Thedric’s father and his great-grandfather made that mistake, and the Templar paid for it in blood. All of Darenthi paid for it in blood…”

  Kraythe sighed and shook his head. “The Pact Army won’t be enough. Mark my words: the southern tharns will send as few soldiers as possible. There are times when it feels as though everyone has forgotten what the Chol are capable of. All they remember about the last Culling is how it ended, not the countless soldiers who died along the way.”

  Rohen frowned at the older man’s sudden shift in mood. “Sir?”

  “Never mind,” the Lord Protector said, shaking his head. “The point is that we’re going to hit the horde with everything we have before they have a chance to truly organize and push south. We’ll crush them at Rimewreath and drive them back into the mountains where they belong.”

  “I know we will, sir,” Rohen said, and meant it. Lord Kraythe really did have an aura of command about him. Crippled arm or not, the man still seemed like an invincible bulwark.

  “You really should try and get some sleep, son,” Kraythe said. “But I suppose there’s no reason you can’t take another lap around the Hold first.”

  Rohen smiled again, and this time it was entirely genuine. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just don’t
take too long, all right?” Kraythe flashed him another warm smile and clapped him on the shoulder before he strode off toward his own quarters at the end of the hall. Rohen watched the man walk for a few seconds before he turned the corner and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  One crisis averted, a dozen more lurking in the shadows. The gods are clearly telling me to cut my losses and go to bed.

  As usual, Rohen ignored them. He wove his way south through the guest wing and back toward the great hall, his stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots every second. He was tempted to use his authority as a Templar and just confront the overnight guard patrols directly, but he ultimately decided to stick to his original plan and avoid them instead. The fewer people knew he wasn’t in his room, the better.

  He finally approached the great hall a few minutes later, and he took a moment to survey the surrounding area and ensure he was alone. He could barely see anything with most of the lanterns extinguished for the night, but he could hear a few of the servants still cleaning up after the feast inside the hall. Triangular slivers of firelight peeked out through the gaps in the splintered wooden doors, and he tiptoed around them as best he could. He was grateful that the Templar preferred light armor; the clanking of heavy plate would have been impossible to muffle.

  The chapel was tucked all the way in the southeastern corner of the keep, past the sitting room and library where Delaryn had taken him earlier. Sister’s Jorga quarters were on the way as well, unfortunately, and Rohen took an extra moment to make sure that her door was locked. The chapel itself was open at all hours, though at the moment the adjoining corridor was shrouded in darkness. Rohen was tempted to try and feel his way around to the door, but rather than risk bumping his head into something and making a racket, he drew his wraithblade halfway out of its scabbard and whispered its name.

  “Varlothin.”