by Anne Wheeler
“I doubt you know what kind of power I have or lack.”
The admonition wasn’t unkind. It was as if he’d read her mind and was gently correcting her misconception, and that was more disconcerting than the attentive way he was looking at her. Westermark wanted her to think better of him?
“I’m sorry. You can’t help who you are, and you’re right—perhaps I don’t know who that is.” She focused on the flurries. Did she want to know? “But I know you have influence enough to have brought me here.”
“This again. And so soon?” He raised his eyebrows. “Surely you know I owe you no explanation for my decisions.”
“I don’t believe you’re the kind of person to answer like that,” she said, and to her surprise, she believed it.
“Really?” Westermark’s chuckle was softened by the falling snow. “Then perhaps you know me better than you think you do.”
“Not enough. Tell me?” Her own bravery surprised her, but then, what else did she have left?
“About myself?” He stared at her for a moment, then raised his arms into the air and stuck out his tongue, letting the flakes fall on it. “I like snow,” he said. “And I’ve missed it. A lot.”
Ryllis shook her head at his evasion, but it was almost impossible to fend off his joy. “You look like a child, Your Highness.”
“Do not say that.” Westermark pointed a bare finger at her, then darted down the stairs to the meandering patio that wound between the shrubs. Without looking away from her, he brushed his hand over the most snow-covered of them, creating a small blizzard. “This is looking like a child.”
Again, she wanted to laugh. Again, she stopped herself. He would have to settle for a smile. Covered in the white remains of his prank, he dashed back up the stairs to her, and Ryllis stared at his outstretched hand. She raised her eyes to his and saw something there, something that captivated and frightened her at the same time.
He’s making you think it’s your decision to warm his bed. And you’re falling for it.
Tentatively, she reached out her fingers. Westermark’s were warm, and as he interlaced them between hers, her face heated as well. Before she could jerk away and cover her cheeks, a gust of icy air rustled through the early spring leaves, and she took a breath as snowflakes hit her face, cooling her in an instant.
Westermark didn’t say anything about the way she’d flushed. “Come on,” he said, pulling her toward the stairs. “This is the last time in a dozen lunar cycles you’ll get to experience this.”
“This? Snow?”
“No. Not snow. This,” he repeated as her feet hit the stone pavers.
Letting go of her hand, he scooped up a pile and tossed it at her. The snow was too dry to stick together, and instead of hitting her shoulder like he’d doubtless intended, it fell apart in a cloud in front of her, showering her in powder. Ryllis spit it from her mouth, brushed it from her shoulders.
“What—you—” You just threw snow at me.
He laughed. “Got you.”
“Got me?” She could feel her face contorting into some kind of odd and unattractive expression, but she couldn’t stop it. What kind of bizarre Vilarian game was this? “With—with snow?”
Westermark’s laughter was the loudest sound in the clearing in front of the house. “Yes, with snow. Try it. I won’t even run.”
Ryllis reached down, grimaced at the burn of the ice on her bare skin, and tried to pack it into a weapon the best she could. It was too cold on her hand, so she gave up and tossed the powder at Westermark—who, true to his promise, didn’t blink when it hit him.
“Fun, right?” he asked, wiping his face.
“I don’t know about—”
His next shot was more accurate than the first. Ryllis shrieked as the snow found its way down the neck of her coat, then crouched down and padded her own ball together. It didn’t stick any better than the first, but that perhaps wouldn’t matter as long as she could get close enough—
Her screech echoed through the trees as Westermark hit her again, on the back of the head this time, then danced a few steps back, still laughing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, gasping for breath. “It’s just—it’s been so long so I’ve done something like this. But I shouldn’t have done it twice without you hitting me in return. That wasn’t fair.”
“No. It wasn’t fair.”
She approached him, holding a huge pile of loose snow in her hand the best she could. He didn’t move, and the glint in his eyes told her he knew exactly what she meant to do and wasn’t going to fight her when she did. Ryllis smiled back—then dropped the entire handful down the front of his shirt. Westermark’s teeth caught his lip, then he began to shiver as the snow melted on his chest.
“See?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Fun.”
“You have an interesting idea of it, Your Highness.” She brushed the remains off her palms, then pulled her hands back into her sleeves.
He reached out and brushed the snow off her scarf, his expression less giddy. She knew that look. She was sure of his intentions now. Combined with his excuses to touch her, even under the pretense of helping to warm her, she knew, even if he’d denied it that first night on Vilaria.
And she would do what he wanted, likely this very night, if not out of love, out of fear and a grudging respect. It would never become love, that much she knew as well, but perhaps it would turn to something pleasurable. She wouldn’t need to dread it any longer if it did. Maybe she’d even benefit from it. Westermark had said it best once—there were worse places she could be at this very moment.
“I have a lot of interesting ideas,” he said, taking a step closer.
Ryllis could scarcely breathe, and it wasn’t from running away from the snow he’d thrown at her. She had asked him for more time that first night, hadn’t she? And he’d complied with her request, longer than she thought he ever would. That compassion had to count for something.
“Like what?” she asked, hoping she sounded sensual instead of naïve.
He tilted his head to the side. “Well—”
“Sir!” Lina stood on the deck above them, arms across her chest, shivering. “I heard screaming. Is everything all right?”
Westermark gave Ryllis an apologetic look, then turned his attention toward Lina. “Just a snowball fight. We were having fun.”
“Was that all? It sounded like someone was dying out here. Well, get inside and warm up before you both freeze to death.” Lina stomped back into the house.
Westermark raised his eyebrows at Ryllis. “I think we’ve been ordered. Ready to taste whatever she was baking in there?”
Ryllis nodded. He brushed his fingertips against hers as they climbed the stairs, but she didn’t let his touch affect her that time. She could only think of one thing.
Dying.
Lina had reminded her, inadvertently, of her real desire. She would escape. Either by his death . . . or hers.
Chapter Seven
Ryllis ran a finger down the edge of the knife. It wasn’t as sharp as she would have preferred, but it was long enough, and that was all that mattered. Lina hadn’t noticed when she’d slid it up her sleeve last night, and Westermark had retreated from dinner early, muttering something about checking in with work. Yes, it would do. She stared at it for a few more moments, then slid it down her pant leg, outside her thigh, into the makeshift holder she’d fashioned with the purple ribbon earlier that morning.
Perfect.
She reached back in her pants to remove it again, jerking her hand away at the knock on the door. Westermark wouldn’t barge in on her, but he’d become suspicious if she didn’t answer. No matter. She would hide the knife somewhere after he left.
“Yes?” Her heart was racing; it was the only thing she could say.
“May I come in?” he called.
No.
“Y—yes.”
Westermark swung open the door with a grin. “I came to see if you’d care to join on a wa
lk. A short one, because it’s about to storm—but the clouds are lovely right now, and I have the perfect place to watch them roll in.”
“I don’t think so.” There were a thousand other things she could find to occupy her time within the confines of the house. Alone.
“Ryllis—” He leaned against the doorframe and sighed. “I wish you would come see this with me.”
Her heart sank. How could she argue with someone who looked like he did, pleading for her company, even if he was a prince? Without a word, she grabbed a cloak and followed next to him through the dark house and courtyard. The clouds he’d mentioned were dark and low, and there wasn’t any thunder in the distance, but as she watched Westermark struggled with the rusted gate that led outside the high stone wall, she had a certain sense of dreary foreboding.
“Is this safe?” she asked. “It looks bad.”
“Mmm. No lightning right now, or I wouldn’t take you up here.” He yanked harder at the gate, almost falling backward when it finally came open, and she smothered a laugh as she watched.
“Laughing at a prince is considered uncouth, you know,” he said, turning toward her. “On any planet.”
Ryllis covered her mouth.
“I reprimand you, and yet you do it again.” His eyes sparkled. “I don’t believe you hate me nearly as much as you pretend to.”
“Perhaps not, Your Highness,” she murmured. It surprised her how much she meant it, and that only made her more determined. She had to hate him. Had to. And if she attacked him, even if she didn’t quite manage to kill him, they would kill her. Westermark would never forgive her, would never grin at her like this again, and then she would be free, if even in death.
The knife shifted a bit in its holster as she followed him through the gate, swallowing the rest of her misgivings. On the other side of the wall, the wild of the mountains gave them no freedom; only a narrow, rocky trail leading up a slope broke the dense underbrush.
Ryllis eyed the climb warily. Westermark hadn’t said anything about a rough climb, and the shoes she saved for the garden didn’t look nearly sturdy enough for what he intended. He’d said a walk, after all. Not that they’d be climbing a mountain. She took a step, testing the gravel beneath her.
“It’s not so steep the entire way. Only the first bit. Here.” Westermark slid backward toward her, scattering gravel as he did. He let her lead by a half step as she clung to his hand, let her control the pace uphill, and she had the wildest realization that it was the first time since arriving on Vilaria that she hadn’t been following along behind him. Was that what being royalty was like? Being so assured of your safety that even your enemy could walk a step behind and be trusted to not harm you?
The knife flew into her mind, and she stumbled.
“Careful.” He put a hand on her back to stop her fall as she slid down the rock-strewn path, almost into him.
“I’m sorry. It was slick right there.” He was so close she could smell him, sweaty despite the chill in the air, but with an underlying warmth of vanilla that warmed her. “I didn’t mean—”
“To almost push me down a hill?” Westermark appeared next to her, tightening his grip on her hand.
“I—” She was considering throwing herself to her knees and begging for forgiveness when she noticed the humor creasing his eyes. “Don’t joke with me like that!”
“But I get such a reaction from it.”
Ryllis shook her head to hide her grin and continued up the hill. Away from the house, the woods became sparser, the trail wider, and Westermark was able to walk beside her, though he didn’t let go of her hand. In case you fall again, he argued when she tried to reclaim it. You might knock me over next time.
“I don’t understand the Cerethian problem with full names,” he said abruptly, as the small rocks beneath them turned to smooth pink granite. The change in the ground and her own ragged breath suggested they’d made it to the top of whatever mountain stood next to the mansion. “Why does it matter? On Vilaria, not a single soul would think twice about using any form of my names if I wasn’t who I was.”
“All your time on Cereth, and you didn’t learn such a major custom?”
“I suppose I didn’t.”
She sighed, concentrating on the wet stone beneath her. It wasn’t raining, but a damp mist hung about them, covering everything in wetness. Next time she’d have to cover her head.
Next time?
“It’s too intimate for casual use,” she said. “Our parents call us by our full names as children, though some choose to use nicknames, then no one calls us the same until much later. Not until we meet that one person.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Naturally, he wouldn’t. “Only our betrothed can know all of us. It’s a part of our reserved society, I suppose.”
“It’s beautiful. Truly.”
Unexpectedly, she wanted to lash out at anything Cerethian. “It’s a silly custom,” she said.
“Silly enough that my unwillingness to participate in it upset you? Love and intimacy aren’t silly.”
Easy for him to say when he had his choice of women. There hadn’t been anyone on Cereth for her, not for over a solar cycle. She’d been grateful for that lack of a connection ever since she’d been arrested, but the idea that there would never be someone now was unthinkable.
“No. For some of us, it’s become nothing more than a dream.” No matter how dangerous it was to show emotion, she couldn’t hide the bitterness.
“You’re right. And I can’t begin to imagine how painful that is.” He fell silent as the trail curved and the rush of water filled her ears. “Though I had that dream once, too.”
Had?
“And?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.” And to her surprise, she was.
He gave her a quick smile and pointed to a small waterfall falling from the cliff above them. It wasn’t anything like the Carnraine Falls in her district on Cereth, just water running down the rocks, but the young spring ferns and lichen clinging to the rock nearby transported her somewhere familiar. A stone bench sat a few paces away, a strange thing on the side of a mountain, and Westermark sat, gesturing for her to be seated with him. After a few wary glances back down the trail, she did.
“After my wife died,” he said. “I escaped to this mountain. Hauled this bench up by myself and sat for hours, watching the water. Sometimes Lina came with me, and we’d just sit and watch the water. I think she was afraid I’d throw myself off a cliff and that she needed to protect me from myself as some kind of obligation toward the empire. So yes. I know loss. Maybe not like you, but I’m not altogether unfamiliar with the concept.” He shot her a quick glance. “I hope that doesn’t offend.”
It made her heart ache instead. Ryllis tried to smile at him but couldn’t quite manage to make it happen. “No. It doesn’t offend me. It humanizes you.”
“Humanizes?” Westermark smiled. “I’m glad for that, being human and all.”
“We forget that on Cereth, I think. Vilarians, as a whole, don’t seem human unless you take the chance to talk with one as a person, and no one wants to do that. If we look at one of you the wrong way, say the wrong thing, even accidentally . . .”
“I hope you’re not still that frightened of me. You don’t need to be afraid of saying anything to me.”
Ryllis shivered as the mist turned cold. “Let’s just say I’m wary.”
“That’s an improvement of a sort. I’ll take it.”
“It’s strange,” she said, boldened, “to think of a Fleet officer as a widower. No one Cereth would believe me if I told them.”
She glanced beside her, amused despite the solemn conversation. If she so much as mentioned to anyone at home that a Vilarian prince had been so depressed over his wife’s death that his housekeeper had had him on an unsolicited suicide watch? No. They would laugh at her if she told Westermark’s story.
“We all have our histories. Even
me. Even you.” His gaze grew intense. “Who were you before?”
Her brow furrowed before she could stop it. “You already know all that.”
“Perhaps I want to hear you say it here instead of an interrogation room,” Westermark replied, staring at the water.
She shouldn’t talk to him, if only because her life’s story would bore him to tears and having him cut her off would be humiliating. But she needed to feel like that person she’d been once again. Needed to be reminded that she’d existed as a person before the Vilarians had brought her here as a slave.
“My mother died when I was a baby,” she said. “My father remarried ten solar cycles later, and his new wife and her two daughters are the center of his existence now.”
She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness. Zaella—she refused to think the woman’s name most of the time, much less say it—doted on anyone in the room, as long as it wasn’t Ryllis. It was the one part of Cereth she didn’t miss. She sighed and moved to brush her hair behind her ear before she remembered.
“I love gardens, but I’m only a horticulturist by training. The Realm denied me a work permit because it was considered redundant for the governor’s daughter to hold a job. So, I worked in his office when I felt like it and worked in his gardens when I didn’t. Without pay, of course. I was lucky he loved me enough to oblige.”
Westermark shuffled his feet on the hard granite below. “Not much different from here, then.”
“No. Not much different from here.” She should have felt bitter, but her reply was gentle. His comparison made too much sense. “Even the waterfalls.”
“Not so,” he said. “I’ve seen the Carnraine Falls. They’re amazing.”
Westermark was lying. Why would he find anything on Cereth impressive, even the soaring cataracts that people came from a world away to see?
“I’m sure Vilaria has similar falls,” she said.
