The Queens of Merab 3 Temair’s Aire

by Violet Summers

  What he’d heard had him rethinking his earlier plans in regards to the Crown Princesses. Obviously their attempts to kill the princess had been a colossal disaster. Now Sitric wondered if they’d also been a mistake. The woman he’d been spying on could possibly be reasoned with.

  He thought it might be so, but he couldn’t afford to trust her blindly. There were too many people depending on him. Sitric began the silent trip back to his own small chamber.

  Only time would tell if the Crown Princess was trustworthy, or if she was too good to be true.

  * * *

  “Princess Temair, you look as lovely as always.” Lady Alta smiled sweetly and it took all of Temair’s will not to jump across the table and attack the woman with her bare hands.

  “Thank you, Lady Alta. Where is Zevan? I have something to discuss with you and I wish him to be here, as it concerns him as well.” She didn’t like the sudden tightening around Alta’s eyes.

  Alta took a sip of her wine, then set it down demurely. “I’m afraid that my son has taken ill yet again. As I’ve told you, he has a weak constitution and is often afflicted with one thing or another. But Nabal is here, and you may discuss anything in his presence.”

  Temair did not even acknowledge the nephew whom she despised, and instead looked to her Consorts, then back to the Lady. “Are you certain he’s ill? He was in good health when I saw him this afternoon.”

  Alta’s lip twitched and Miach leaned over to whisper in Temair’s ear. “She’s lying. I suggest that we look in on Zevan ourselves. I think perhaps it’s not a good idea to leave him alone until you have claimed him.”

  Temair smiled at her First Consort and touched his cheek briefly, thankful for his strength. “I agree, my love.”

  Miach’s face froze as the L-word escaped her mouth. It rather surprised her, too, to hear it, but she didn’t have time to worry how shocked either of them might be. Still, the realization that she was in love with her First Consort sent a thrill of warmth through her belly.

  Standing, she turned to Lady Alta. “Since Zevan is too ill to join us, I shall find him and see if he is well enough to share a small bite with me.” Without waiting for the Lady’s response, Temair turned and walked out of the formal dining room, both Consorts, her foster sisters and their personal guards falling in neat formation behind her.

  She headed straight to Zevan’s room, ignoring the strident voice of the Lady calling out behind her. Arriving at the door to Zevan’s chamber, she knocked briskly, but there was no response. After a moment she tried to open it, but it was locked.

  “Miach, please,” she asked and stepped back. Miach placed his palm against the door. A whiff of smoke, a lick of flame and a soft whump of heat later, the door split in two. Miach gave his hand a brisk shake, extinguishing small whips of flame, as the two pieces of door hit the ground with resounding thuds.

  Temair stepped through the opening and found Zevan’s manservant crouched defensively over the Aire Lord, obviously ready to defend the man. Zevan himself lay crumpled on his bed, face bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition. The servant, she thought his name was Tric, was clutching a damp cloth that he’d been using to clean the blood from Zevan’s face.

  “By the Elements, what happened?” she cried, rushing forward to Zevan’s bed. She knelt beside him.

  “I don’t know, Princess. I left to do some chores and when I returned I found him like this.” Temair gazed at the servant and saw the truth in his eyes. There was something else in his gaze, too, just below the surface. A seething anger he was clearly pushing back. Temair understood his feelings. Looking down at Zevan’s bloody face, she even shared them.

  “Could you please get us a fresh bowl of hot water and some bandages? Also, if possible, the Aerie’s head healer.” The servant nodded and backed quickly out of the room.

  Sorcha moved through the crowded room and knelt next to Temair on the floor. “Let me have a look, Temmie.”

  Temair watched silently as Sorcha ran deft, gentle fingers over Zevan’s body. Touch light as aire, she palpated his stomach and checked both legs.

  Temair could only stare into his black and blue face. His beautiful eyes were nothing more than slits nestled inside two large purple bruises. His lips were split and there was an abrasion on one cheek. He was breathing, but each breath came out on a distressed moan, and he wasn’t really conscious.

  She gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. “We have the healer coming for you. Do you know who did this to you?”

  He moaned and tried to speak, but the effort was clearly more than he could manage.

  “Shhh, don’t try and talk until we can get you patched up.” Temair placed a kiss to his palm, the only unbruised part of him that she could find. “I promise everything will be okay. From now on I will keep you safe.”

  An ear-piercing shriek sounded from the doorway. “My son. Who has attacked my son?” Lady Alta pushed her way past everyone to loom over Zevan’s bed behind Temair.

  Temair gave the Lady a long, measuring look. “We don’t know but we will find out. From this moment forward Zevan is under my protection.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Alta sniffed. “I am more than capable of protecting my own son.”

  Temair opened her mouth to point out how very clearly that was not true, but held her tongue as the healer entered the room. Everyone cleared out except Temair, who refused to leave Zevan’s side. Miach and Dathan refused to go far, as well, and stood guard outside the Aire Lord’s chamber as the healer tended to her wounded lover.

  * * *

  “Lady Alta.” Temair’s voice was firm and implacable. The voice, she realized, of the Queen she was becoming. “I formally petition you. I have chosen Zevan, only son of the Aerie, as my Third Consort, and ask the Lady if she is agreeable to my choice.”

  “You must be joking!” Her brows rose, but somehow Temair wasn’t surprised by the Lady’s reaction. “He’s completely unsuitable.” Lady Alta paced agitatedly around her receiving room. “Unfit.” She spun to face the royal party, and her pale eyes were icy. “I am not agreeable,” she said quite emphatically. “You are welcome to take my nephew, Nabal. He would be an acceptable choice.”

  Nuriel gave a low gasp, and Sorcha gave the Lady a long, speculative gaze. Even Nabal, at his aunt’s right hand, looked shaken by the woman’s gall.

  “My Lady, you mistake me,” Temair responded gently, when what she really wanted was to grab the foolish woman around the throat and shake until she passed out from lack of oxygen. “I ask your agreement, your blessing if you will, as protocol.” She locked gazes with the Lady Aire, and knew the gray flecks that had appeared in her eyes when she’d bonded with Zevan were blazing by the way Lady Alta’s own eyes went wide and horrified. “I do not ask your permission,” she continued firmly. “I do not need your permission.” The Lady’s expression turned grim as the meaning of Temair’s words sank in. “Are we clear, my Lady?”

  “I will be clear on this, Your Highness.” Lady Alta’s voice was as cutting as her eyes. “You will not take Zevan. You may have Nabal, or you may search for your Consort among the commoners.” The lady stepped forward, her intent so obviously threatening that Temair couldn’t really believe her eyes.

  “We shall see about that, Alta.” It wasn’t the first time Temair had given deliberate insult by neglecting to use the woman’s title. It was, however, the first time the Lady responded.

  “Nabal.” Alta flipped a hand in her nephew’s direction and, with a sick look on his face, Nabal raised his hands. Temair watched in utter disbelief as small whirlwinds became visible on his palms.

  “Your Highness,” the contempt in Alta’s voice rode the air like a foul odor. “I am entirely weary of working around you. Nephew,” she threw an imperious glance toward Nabal, “show their royal pains-in-the-ass how we deal with obstacles in the Aerie.”

  Still looking sick and terrified -- at least one of them had the sense to realize the consequences of treason
-- Nabal lifted one hand palm out, and pushed. The heavy double doors slammed shut instantly, blown by a violent burst of aire. Temair heard Darmon shout and begin pounding on the solid wood, but she knew they’d once again underestimated their enemy. She and her foster sisters would have to deal with Alta on their own.

  She spared a glance at Nuriel and Sorcha. Sorcha, of course, was glowering, all but growling at the rogue Lady of Aire. Eyes snapped venomous emerald and promised retribution terrible and unending. The sight tugged a small smile to the corner of Temair’s lips. Sorcha had always been strong, but this journey had honed her into a warrior. Temair didn’t know whether to be proud of her foster sister, or worried about her.

  Nuriel’s reaction was far more troubling. Blue eyes wide and confused, Nuriel was giving Alta a look of utter disbelief. Poor Ellie. This journey, this rebellion, had shaken her beliefs so profoundly.

  “Alta,” Temair kept her voice level. “You are making a crucial mistake here.” She spared a glance for Nabal, who was holding the doors closed with no visible effort. “And you.” He flinched under her gimlet stare. “You realize what your actions are leading to.”

  “His actions are leading to freedom,” Alta snapped, breaking the spell Temair had been weaving over Nabal. His hand, which had been drooping, whipped back up and Temair heard curses as her guards obviously felt the renewed strength holding the door.

  “Our actions are leading to an autonomous Aerie. One ruled by women strong enough to take their rightful place as rulers.”

  “You’re insane,” Temair breathed. Alta’s face went red with rage; then the color drained, leaving her white as ice save for slashes of angry scarlet high on her cheekbones. “Haven’t you read your history? Of course not,” she answered herself, remembering Zevan’s comments about the book she’d given him. “Alta, our relationship with our men is one of checks and balances. We may rule,” she continued, flipping a hand around the nearly empty room, “but without the respect and cooperation of our men, Emetra -- sweet mother, all of Merab -- will fall back into chaos.”

  “You are young, Princess. In time you would learn better. It’s a pity you won’t have the time to learn.”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous.” Sorcha’s disgusted voice cut the trembling silence like a knife. “Enough.” Red hair confined to a tight coronet of braids, cloth-of-gold gown fitting closely, split at the sides to give freedom of movement, the Princess of the Mysterious Continent strode forward, wrapping one hand in the heavy wool fabric of Alta’s dress. “You will release the doors now, and prepare to be confined, you crazy old bitch.”

  For the first time fear showed in the Lady of Aire’s icy eyes. She clawed at Sorcha’s grasp with thin, hard fingers, finally managing to pry them loose, and sent a frantic look toward her nephew. “Nabal!”

  Teeth gritted, Nabal lifted his free hand, making a fist, then opening it in a jerky motion aimed at the princesses. A wind unlike anything Temair had ever experienced battered her, moving her inexorably toward the rough stone wall no matter how she fought. In mere seconds she found herself pinned to the wall, Nuriel on one side of her, and Sorcha on the other. She felt the anger building, but before she could let it fly, Nabal was once again making a fist, and she felt a deep, terrifying suction, as if all the aire in her lungs were being dragged out, leaving those tender organs to fold in upon themselves.

  For the second time in her life, Temair became sure she was about to die.

  Chapter Eight

  They all felt Temair’s terror at the same time though, surprisingly, Zevan was the first to react.

  The young man was, most likely, not in any physical danger at the moment, but Miach had insisted on staying with him while Temair went to claim him, and Dathan wouldn’t leave Miach alone. Not with the bleak look in those chaos-black eyes proclaiming the man’s helpless guilt over Zevan’s injuries.

  So Dathan made himself at home on the floor by Zevan’s bed, a pillow wedged behind his back as he studied Miach from half-closed eyes. The Fyre Lord chose to stand, back against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’d been watching Zevan for hours, but now fatigue dragged his eyes closed. Dathan had to smile a bit, though, because he knew that at the slightest sound, the slightest twitch of movement, Miach would be all fluid menace, ready to destroy anyone or anything that threatened him or his.

  That’s why it was such a surprise that Zevan was out the door, lurching down the hallway before either Miach or Dathan could even catch their breaths.

  Temair’s terror, laced with healthy doses of anger and despair, ripped through him like a boulder through still water. He lunged to his feet, vaguely heard Miach’s whispered, “Spark,” then all three of them were racing down the corridor, of one desperate mind: to get to their princess.

  By the time he and Miach skidded to a stop outside Lady Alta’s receiving room, Zevan was already there, leaning against the door, breath sawing painfully in his chest.

  “It’s blocked,” Darmon growled, slamming a fist against the dense wood. “Every time I try to burn through, that fucking asshole Nabal sucks the oxygen out of my fyre.”

  Dathan sent a quick glance at the Rayne guard, who shook his head grimly. “I can pour on the water, but he’s strong enough to hold the door.”

  “Shit.” Miach was seething, heat rising visibly from his pale skin. Dathan thought he was terrifying and beautiful, and if he hadn’t been so frightened for Temair, he’d have tackled the First Consort to the floor and forced him to acknowledge the thing throbbing between them.

  “Temair!” Miach’s shout was anguished, and even Darmon trembled. “Open the door, Nabal, you fucking corpse.”

  “Yeah,” Dathan muttered, elbowing Miach in the ribs. “That’s really gonna convince him to open the damned door.”

  “Fuck this.” Zevan’s voice startled them all. “Back up.” Zevan’s gray eyes were nearly black, striations of pure white streaking through like lightning. The younger man’s face was set and hard, giving him a sudden and unexpected look of maturity. Dathan raised an eyebrow. And danger.

  When Miach and Dathan didn’t move fast enough, Zevan flicked his fingers and an irresistible rush of aire pushed both men away from the door. Miach growled like a rabid beast, and Dathan felt his own rage rise again, a monsoon stirred up by the fact that his mate was in danger, and he was not only being kept from her, he was being fucking pushed away from her.

  “Ze --” His control, which he’d been clinging to by a thread by distracting himself by observing things like an outsider, slipped drastically. But before he could complete the thought, Zevan had moved back, facing the door squarely, swaying a little with the effort of standing while so grievously injured.

  “Mother,” the Aire Lord screamed, and his voice sliced the air like razorblades. There was no answer, but Zevan didn’t look like he’d expected one. Instead he closed his eyes and let his head drop forward. Just when Dathan was certain the boy’s strength had failed him, he realized the aire in the corridor had gone utterly still. Moving up to protect Zevan’s vulnerable flank, and realizing Miach had done the same thing, Dathan prepared for the battle he knew was about to begin.

  * * *

  Zevan had never experienced anything like it. Temair’s fear and pain had ripped through him, tearing him from a restless, pain-filled doze. He’d been out the door and halfway down the hall before he’d completely awakened.

  Then the rage. He’d known anger; known fear and pain and resentment. But never, never had he felt anything like the rage howling through him with the knowledge that Temair was in danger. The knowledge that the only woman to ever show him tenderness, the woman who’d shown him there was a life for men that wasn’t ruled by pain and fear, the woman who’d opened his heart and offered him glimpses of her own, was in danger at his mother’s hands, snapped the thick restraint that had bound him for so long.

  It was the rage that kept him standing, putting strength in his trembling legs. It was the rage that wound through hi
s power and shattered the strict control he’d held his entire life. The rage freed him from the final chains left on his soul.

  Bursting the door open was almost effortless. He was aware on some level of Nabal’s hand faltering, of the three princesses crumpling to the ground. In his peripheral vision he saw Dathan skid to his knees at Temair’s side, saw the guards crouching by Nuriel and Sorcha, saw Miach flow toward Nabal, graceful and lethal. But that was all incidental, because Zevan’s true focus was on his mother.

  Lady Alta’s mouth hung open in shock, her fists balled up at her sides ineffectually. She cast a brief glance at Nabal, clearly expecting her nephew to leap to her defense. That wasn’t happening, though. Not when Nabal was wrapped in a lash of fyre, screaming in agony as it burned without consuming him.

  Seeing her hope of physical force writhing in agony, Zevan’s mother reached for an even more effective weapon.

  “So, the Consorts break down the door, then leave you to fend for yourself.” She shook her head pityingly. “They’re awfully quick to sacrifice you. They must finally have seen what I’ve always known, how useless you truly are.”

  A week ago, even a day ago, her words might have hurt. Temair had seen the wounds his mother had left, and had drained the poison that had kept him weak for so long.

  “If I’m so useless, Mother, why are you backing away from me?” Because she was. With every word, she took a step farther back, aiming for the door to a servant’s hallway and escape. Zevan paced her, taking two steps closer for every step she took in retreat. “You look frightened, Mother. But that can’t be the case.” He was close enough to touch, but he didn’t reach out, couldn’t bear the thought of her icy flesh beneath his hand.

  “You won’t get away with this, Zevan,” she hissed, defiant even in obvious defeat.

  “No, Alta.” Temair’s voice was slightly raspy, a little breathless. Zevan imagined her Consorts flanked her; her royal foster sisters lending their power and support, but he didn’t look back, couldn’t take his eyes off his mother’s venom-filled face. “You are the one who won’t get away with this. Your reign of terror is over.”