by Amy Raby
“It rebelled along with a string of other villages in the eastern foothills of the Ash Mountains, about twenty years ago.”
“I was just a baby then,” said Lucien.
“I wasn’t yet born. Kjallan troops retook the villages. My father had been one of the rebels. He was maimed in the fighting and lost the use of his left arm. When Kjallans enslave a Riorcan village, they go through the populace and lay their death spells on everyone to trap them in slavery. And they execute anyone sickly or too crippled to provide useful labor.”
Lucien nodded.
“The soldiers came to our door. My father tried to climb out a back window, but they’d surrounded the house and he was caught. My mother made a deal with the squad commander to save my father’s life.”
Lucien frowned, his expression darkening.
“The squad commander came to the house regularly. Sometimes he brought gifts—food, glows, medicines. It was a maddening situation for my father, but he had to put up with it. My mother was doing it for his sake, after all. When she became pregnant, they hoped my father’s seed would predominate. Then I was born dark-haired, and they knew it hadn’t.”
“Why weren’t you taken into the forest and exposed?” asked Lucien.
Her eyebrows rose. “You know about that?”
“I lived in Riorca for two years. Of course I know about it.”
Vitala frowned. It was supposed to be a secret, that Riorcan parents exposed or otherwise disposed of dark-haired babies, as dark hair was a sure sign of impure blood. Kjallan law forbade it, but infants died often enough of natural causes that without mind mages to ascertain the truth, it was near impossible to prove that a family had killed one on purpose. “They would have exposed me, but the Kjallan squad commander would not permit it. He was reassigned to another battalion when I was two years old, and I suppose my parents could have killed me then, but by then my mother had become attached to me.”
“Did you ever meet your father? The squad commander?”
She shook her head. “I suppose I would have seen him as a baby, but I have no memories of him.”
“When did you join the Circle?”
“When I was eight years old,” said Vitala. “I wish I’d joined sooner. My father—the Riorcan—hated me. My siblings wouldn’t play with me, the villagers threw stones at me . . .” She shut her eyes. She didn’t like to think about those days.
“What’s your role in the Circle? Spy? Assassin?”
“You don’t need to know that,” said Vitala. “My task is to bring you to the Circle in one piece.”
Lucien smiled and motioned at his left leg. “Too late.”
“Without any additional body parts missing.”
Vitala’s gelding tossed his head and sidestepped, a sign that his energy was returning. Vitala took the cue and sent him into a canter. Lucien followed, and they rode past several way posts in silence. When they slowed the horses for another rest, Lucien said, “Thank you for telling me the truth. I’m glad you’re from the Circle. I want to make a deal with your people. Our interests are aligned.”
“What sort of deal?”
“I need three things to retake my throne and recover Celeste. First, an army. Second, an intelligence network. Third, supplies for my troops. Food, clothes, ammunition.”
Vitala’s forehead wrinkled. The Obsidian Circle could not provide all that. Yet she didn’t want to discourage him. Not until she’d delivered him to headquarters.
“The army I can manage on my own—” continued Lucien.
“How?” she blurted.
He glanced at her sidelong. “I have resources. But an intelligence network can’t be established overnight. That’s why I need the Circle. I also need supply lines set up from Riorca.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What’s in it for the Circle?”
“Freedom,” he said. “Isn’t that what your people want?”
Vitala twisted in her saddle. “You would free Riorca? Entirely free it? No more enslaved villages, no more tribute payments?”
“If Riorca puts me back on the throne? Yes.”
“What about Riorcan slaves in Kjall? Will they be freed too?”
Lucien frowned. “Freeing all Riorcan slaves at once would devastate Kjall’s economy, and it will already be suffering for losing the tribute payments. I’ll speak to your leaders about it, but I can offer no guarantees.”
Vitala nodded. That was disappointing, but his honesty about not being able to deliver absolutely everything suggested he was speaking in earnest. Maybe a schedule of staggered release could be worked out for the existing slaves. At any rate, the logistical issues couldn’t dampen her spirits much. Imagine, a free Riorca! There needn’t be a bloody rebellion, one probably doomed to fail; all her people had to do was help Lucien defeat Cassian. They could do that. Couldn’t they?
But what was their assurance that Lucien would keep his promises? This could be a ruse on Lucien’s part. He might accept Riorca’s aid, use it to win back his throne and his sister, and then leave Riorca enslaved. Once he was back in power, what was to stop him from doing what he pleased? He’d never shown any predilection before for wanting to see Riorca freed.
Any arrangement made with Lucien would have to be based on trust. She was beginning to trust Lucien, a little bit, but could she trust him to the astonishing degree required for this plan?
13
In the evening, after she’d untacked the horses, Vitala spotted the distant Ash Mountains through the haze. Those mountains alone separated Riorca from her aggressive and much larger neighbor, and they were not much of a barrier. Centuries ago, Kjall had been a tiny nation on the southwestern coast of the continent of Issyv, home then to many small kingdoms. Kjall had swallowed up its neighbors one by one until the entire land mass south of the mountains was the Kjallan Empire. And then it had swallowed Riorca.
But Kjall wasn’t invincible. Several years ago, Lucien’s father, Emperor Florian, had tried to extend the Kjallan Empire overseas by attacking the island nation of Mosar. Florian’s overreach had been a costly failure, leaving Lucien to pick up the pieces of a diminished empire. The debacle had emboldened Vitala’s compatriots at the Obsidian Circle. If one could bloody the lion, could not one stab it in the heart and end its tyranny altogether?
Just over those mountains lay Vitala’s homeland. And yet Riorca didn’t feel so much like home anymore. It was a country that had never wanted her. A chill breeze ruffled the prairie grass, raising goose bumps on her arm. She was going to need warmer clothes. The wind was descending out of the north, rolling down from the mountains and curling about her toes, though whether it meant to welcome her back or warn her away, she could not tell.
Her bay gelding and Lucien’s sorrel had finished their grain. She unclipped their nose bags and gave their hobbles a final check. With a good night slap on the shoulder for each animal, she turned to walk back to the campsite, only to run straight into Lucien.
“What do you want?” she said, flustered at being taken by surprise. He was staring at her with an odd expression. “Is something wrong?”
“You looked cold. I brought you a blanket.” He held it up, not offering it to her but inviting her to come closer so he could wrap it around her.
She had a feeling that invitation involved more than just a blanket. Hair rose on the back of her neck, yet she stepped forward into the blanket’s embrace—and into Lucien’s arms. He drew her into him, surrounding her with warmth.
One of his hands cupped the nape of her neck, while the other tilted her chin upward. She parted her lips slightly and, without hesitation, Lucien covered them with his own. In the Imperial Palace, Lucien had smelled of lavender from the baths. Now he smelled earthier, horsier. His tongue teased her lips open, and his kiss was sweet, faintly reminiscent of the cheap ale they’d shared at a roadside tavern that afternoon.
She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. His other hand, lightly callused, came up to stroke he
r face and neck as he deepened the kiss, then moved downward and lighted on her breast. His thumb found her nipple through the fabric of her syrtos and slid back and forth, sending little jolts of pleasure through her. Then it moved farther downward.
The young soldier.
She thrust him away. She couldn’t afford to do this. It would only lead to trouble, to another vision. To problems she couldn’t explain.
He blinked at her, surprised and hurt. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”
Lucien’s mouth twisted. “Was it false, what happened between us in the tent? Were you acting on orders—spying on the emperor by sleeping with him?”
“It’s not that. Look. Something happened—” The words caught in her throat. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Something happened when?” His brows rose in alarm. “Do you mean something happened in the tent, after they took me away? But I thought . . .” He hesitated. “You said you killed Remus.”
Vitala shook her head. “I can’t talk about it.” She hurried away before he could ask any more questions.
• • •
Sweet pleasure flooded her as her lover moved inside her. His face was blurred, hard to make out, but she knew it had to be Lucien. He leaned down and kissed her. She moved with him, drowning in the sensations—
And awoke, flaming between her legs. She opened her eyes to darkness broken only by the faint orange glow of the banked campfire. She poked her head out of her bedroll just enough to see the stars up above, an act that exposed her to a gust of frigid night air and set her whole body to shivering, not that it helped at all with the other problem. By the stars’ position, she could see it was several hours until dawn; she needed more sleep. In the state she was in, that wasn’t going to be easy.
She sighed and crammed herself deeper into her bedroll, resigned to an hour or two of uncomfortable sleeplessness.
She heard a low moan and poked out her head again.
Flavia slept soundly, curled up in a ball, but on the other side of the campfire, Lucien thrashed in his bedroll. He moaned again. Vitala had a disturbing thought: could he be having the same dream she’d been having? Did that ever happen, shared dreams?
“Can’t,” he murmured thickly, followed by another round of thrashing. “No water. I need it.”
No, not an erotic dream. That was a nightmare. She pitied him. She’d had her share of nightmares after Tasox too. What was that business about water? She considered waking him, but decided to leave him be. It would pass, and by morning he probably wouldn’t remember it.
He gave a strangled cry. With a violent wrench, he rose from his bedroll and looked around, wild-eyed and frantic.
“It’s all right,” Vitala called to him.
He turned, fixing on her like a terrified rabbit.
“You were having a dream,” she said softly.
Slowly, the fear drained away, to be replaced by embarrassment. “Did I wake you?” He ran a hand through sweaty, mussed hair.
Another spike of longing ran through Vitala. Pox. Just what she needed, Lucien looking handsome and beddable when she was too aroused to sleep. “No. I was already awake.” Then, to head off any questions about what had been keeping her up, she added, “I’ve been having nightmares about Tasox too.”
“Oh.” He shook his head and collapsed back onto his bedroll. “That wasn’t about Tasox.”
“The attack by the Legaciatti?”
He chuckled darkly. “No.”
“You said something about water.”
He shuddered. “Never mind what it was.” His bedroll rustled as he shifted position, and then went still.
She nestled back into her own bedroll. She wished she could invite him into her bedroll. It would be warmer that way, and they could comfort each other, stave off the nightmares. But it wasn’t possible, given her problem with the visions.
Or was it? That night in the tent, she’d had a problem only when he’d entered her. What they’d done before had been fine. More than fine; she’d enjoyed it, and she could pleasure him in a similar way. The problem was going to be explaining that to him, telling him what she wanted and did not want, and hoping he didn’t ask for an explanation. But then he’d already inferred there’d been some ugliness in the tent after he’d been dragged away. If she let him assume that was the reason for her preferences, she wouldn’t have to tell him about the young soldier and the visions.
She flung the bedroll open and dragged herself out into the night air.
“Vitala?” Lucien’s eyes were soft and dark in the moonlight.
She picked her way across the campsite, shivering in her chemise.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.
“Extremely.” She rubbed her arms. “Aren’t you going to offer me a warm place to sleep?”
Wordlessly, he opened his bedroll.
She slipped into the snug space. Lucien wrapped his arms about her, entangled her legs in his, and closed the bedroll except for one small corner, leaving them in total darkness. “Better?”
“Still cold.”
“Let’s see what I can do about that.” His lips feathered against hers in the darkness, and his hands slid under her chemise.
In the dark confines of the bedroll, Vitala could see nothing, and she knew him too little to predict where his hands would go. Her body prickled, sensitized to his touch. He disrobed her without urgency, removing the layers that separated them and pressing his hot skin against hers.
Aroused from her dream and impatient for more sensation, Vitala pressed her bared breasts against Lucien’s warmth, and he reached for them with his hands. He deepened the kiss as he rubbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She shivered.
“I hope you’re not cold now,” he said.
She felt like she was burning up inside. “Not at all.”
He shifted, struggling in the tight confines to bring his mouth to her breast. The bedroll wasn’t large enough for two people, and when he pressed her against the straining fabric and did something deliciously naughty with his tongue, she melted in his grasp, surprised to discover that instead of feeling trapped or constrained, she just felt excited. Her nether regions throbbed, and she gripped him possessively with her legs.
In response, he shifted again, this time positioning himself to enter her. Alarmed, Vitala stiffened.
He went still. “Are you all right?”
“Not exactly,” Vitala stammered. She’d come very close to forgetting herself. “Something did happen in the tent.”
Lucien lowered himself to her side and kissed her. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“Can we do . . . something else?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Vitala’s cheeks warmed. “Maybe what you did before in the tent.”
Lucien chuckled. “Liked that, did you? I don’t think there’s enough room in this bedroll. But I can make you happy another way.” His exploring hand worked its way downward. His finger found the nub that was the center of her pleasure and circled it with exquisite gentleness. Vitala pressed herself into him. “You’re wet for me,” he said, covering her mouth with his own.
As her body moved in an involuntary rhythm, Lucien’s hard length pressed against her hip. He had gone unsatisfied that night in the tent, and Vitala did not want that to happen again. As she took him in her hand, a growl pulsed from his throat. She knew how to bring a man efficiently to his peak, but Lucien was building her pleasure slowly, and she matched his pace, reveling in every moan she could elicit from him. They fell into a rhythm, a dance of give-and-take shaped by the fluttering of their pulses, the quickening of their breaths, and the movements of their bodies.
It was a dance, she realized with some surprise, that she enjoyed. Before Lucien, pleasuring a man had been nothing more than a dull, even mildly unpleasant task, a means to an end—sometimes an untimely end, in the case of her partner. But if sex with Luc
ien was a new and different experience, that didn’t mean anything. She wasn’t emotionally involved. He was attractive, and he was good in bed—there was nothing more to it than that—and she was no longer on a mission to assassinate him. Why shouldn’t she enjoy him while she could?
Pleasure seeped languidly through her, from the core of her body into the farthest reaches of her fingers and toes, building from a trickle to a delicious and almost unbearable torrent. Lucien gripped her and drove her through a release that pulled a cry from her throat, turning her limbs to liquid and her mind to glass. He finished alongside her almost simultaneously, drawn into his peak by the excitement of hers.
Afterward she slept, snug and warm in Lucien’s arms, and did not wake again until dawn.
• • •
Vitala was not aware of exactly where the border was between Kjall and Riorca, but when she rode into the thickly forested village of Nihenny and saw the pit houses, she knew she’d crossed it. The houses were squat, sunk into the ground to take advantage of the earth’s natural warmth. Some of them rose no higher than her head. A crude stairway led down to each home’s front door.
In Riorca, there were “living” villages and “dead” villages. In dead villages, every Riorcan citizen had been infected with a death spell that would kill them if not held in abeyance daily by a Kjallan Healer. Kjallans lived among the Riorcans, directing their daily work, and Riorcan culture was nearly obliterated. The enslaved Riorcans wore Kjallan dress, spoke the Kjallan language, and, like the Kjallans, were made to honor the Soldier above the other two gods, though Riorcan theology viewed the Three as perennially squabbling equals.
Nihenny was a living village, poor because of the crushing tributes but with its culture intact. There were no Kjallans about, and the villagers wore Riorcan peasant tunics. Pigs rooted in the streets but fled as their horses approached, disappearing into the forest that loomed on both sides and stretched overhead, the high branches grasping like claws. The stairways of the pit houses were crumbling and most of the roofs were missing shingles, but the roads were in good repair. That last part was to the Kjallans’ credit; they meticulously maintained roads in case they needed to move their troops somewhere in a hurry.
