by Gwynn White
“Good.” Jorah sighed his distaste. “Now, I have a man to kill.” He stepped through the portcullis into the enormous, open-air space, encircled with the savages crowding stone benches to watch this spectacle.
Not a moment too soon, either, as one of his competition crumpled to the sand.
Looking neither left nor right, Jorah strode to Princess Aurora’s box. He reached it just as the winner took his seat.
Aurora opened her mouth to say something, saw Jorah, and stopped.
He bowed. “Your Highness, Lord Jorah Thalyn at your service. I believe you have a sword fight lined up for me.” He straightened, looking up into the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
Like leaves dancing in the wind, they swallowed and reflected light as she studied him. A small, pale hand absentmindedly brushed a curling tendril of hair the color of autumn ivy from her heart-shaped face.
He had to shake his head to clear the image of this slender, winsome nymph swaying through the trees that covered the hills behind the capital. She had been robbed of the opportunity to pour her soul into those trees in the same way they would have shared their essence with her. In his anger, he gripped his sword tighter.
If for no other reason, he wanted to win this tournament so he could set this frail creature free to embrace the immense force suppressing her.
“You are late, Lord Thalyn,” Princess Aurora said.
“For which I beg your pardon.”
She watched him expectantly, but he wasn’t going to add that he’d delayed because, despite his contract with Sabrisia, he had fought with himself over his disloyalty to Lila every inch of the way.
“Perhaps you can point me to my opponent,” he said.
A silly comment when everyone in the vast arena could see the man and his sword waiting for Jorah. He was about to join him—
“And from where do you hail, Lord Thalyn, that you did not need your caravel to enter the harbor?” she asked.
Jorah smiled grimly. How could he possibly say that he’d flown to the capital because he hated the sea? Also, the last thing he could do was mention Warrendyte. “An isle beyond the Pearl Sea, Your Highness.”
The princess cocked her head. “Well, that’s certainly vague. And mysteriously strange. Do you fight as well as you deflect questions, Lord Thalyn?”
Jorah’s eyebrows shot up. Niing seemed to have a point; the nymph certainly was blunt. He forced a smile. “Perhaps when I’ve won my sword fight, you can take the time to get to know me. I am sure you will find me . . . pleasing . . . despite my mystery.” The words burned his throat—he hadn’t supplicated Lila like this, but here he was sprouting mushy tosh to a stranger.
He turned away from the princess and stomped over to dispatch the man who stood between him and a seat on the royal stand. The same stand where Raith preened.
A quick bow to his opponent. The man dipped to reciprocate. As soon as he straightened and lifted his sword, Jorah struck out at his neck with speed and strength no Untalented could ever hope to match. His razor-sharp blade sliced through the muscle, bone, and sinew like a knife spreading hot butter.
As his opponent’s severed head bounced across the sand, Jorah touched his heart in salute to acknowledge the man’s sacrifice. Amid the roars from the crowd, he wiped his sword on the dead man’s tunic and turned to the royal box.
Princess Aurora gulped. The other men shifted in their seats. Even the incubus looked pale.
What had he done wrong?
“Given the speed with which Lord Thalyn disposed of poor Prince Salatore, I have no choice but to award him the winner’s wreath,” Princess Aurora said.
No choice?
Another of her poor word choices, or had she wanted to give it to someone else?
The mournful look that passed between her and the parasite told him everything. It was the incubus. Had to be. Clearly, just like Jorah still felt vestiges of his keen eyesight, sharp hearing, and agility, which had assisted his swift victory, the parasite also retained some of his talent to beguile.
It would make everything more challenging.
The princess picked up a green-and-gold horseshoe-shaped wreath off a red cushion on a stand next to her. She stood with it in hand.
Laurel and nasturtium. Both victors’ plants.
He gritted his teeth against the nasturtium as she edged toward an open space on the podium, shimmering in her dress.
A red cushion waited at her feet.
“Perhaps you would join me, Lord Thalyn.”
He had to kneel before her to receive the wreath?
His eyes pinched to slits. Not only was it insulting—dragons knelt for no one—it was also a clear message to him and the men on the stand: Princess Aurora may be looking for a husband to help her claim her throne, but that husband would never be more than a consort. That did not suit Jorah’s plans at all—the ones he had staked his life on with Sabrisia.
A quick glance at the scathing faces on the stand, and it was obvious all her suitors had also gotten that message loud and clear.
Unlike him, to whom his honor was fire and breath, none of them would respect the nymph’s wishes once married—until the Guardians came down, and then they would have no choice but to bow to the enormous power crippling her in her human form.
But if Jorah’s pride stopped him acquiescing to her humiliating request to kneel, would Princess Aurora’s magic be enough to quell Raith?
If he failed to kneel, he would be eliminated, of that he was sure. He would return to Warrendyte to face the consequences. No big deal as he had been willing for many months to join Lila in death if Maleficent would just take him.
But now even that was complicated.
In a contest against the remaining three Untalented lords and princes, the Magical incubus would win. With the Guardians down, Raith would beguile the nymph before she would even have the measure of her magic.
Too risky. If protecting the Magical both here and in Warrendyte required him to kneel, then Maleficent knew, the dragon in him would have to suck it up.
That didn’t mean he had to smile as he did it.
Face like stone, he dropped to his knees before her. The fresh, earthy aroma of laurel, twined with peppery, golden nasturtium, hit him as she lowered the wreath onto his head.
Sadness engulfed him. Kneeling at this woman’s feet was wrong, so wrong on every level.
But what alternative did he have? Let Raith win and destroy them all? Lila would never have wanted that.
“Lord Thalyn,” the princess called. “As victor of today’s trial, you are currently first in line for my hand. If you continue to be victorious through the next challenges, we will be wed.” A sly smile. “As we might be uniting our kingdoms, I hope to learn more of your homeland—that isle beyond the Pearl Sea—before that happens.”
He forced a smile as he looked up at her—and then spoke the absolute truth. “I long for the opportunity to tell you everything there is to know about my homeland, Your Highness.” He dropped his voice so only she would hear. “However, it will require that you open your mind to the—how did you describe it? The strange and mysterious.”
The princess’s gingery-red eyebrows spiked, and he braced himself for more of her directness.
“Arise, Lord Thalyn. Please, take your seat.”
Relief flooded him. He stood with alacrity and loped to a chair—next to Raith, the only seat available.
The parasite cringed away from him.
Disdain for the coward settled on Jorah. But instead of dreaming of revenge, face stoic, he focused on the nymph.
“Wine served with honey-and-pistachio pastries will be distributed in the main piazzas in town tonight, and every night of the trials,” she called out to the crowd. “I invite you all to enjoy it with my compliments.”
Laughter and cheering rattled the stands.
The nymph turned to address Jorah and the other men in the royal box. “A feast has been prepared at the palazzo for you, too, to celeb
rate your victories. If you will follow me, I will lead you there.”
The parasite leaped to his feet, elbowed the pony out of the way, and claimed the spot at the princess’s right.
Zandor glared at Raith as he and his bow and arrow drew even closer to the princess’s heels. Zandor’s protectiveness increased Jorah’s regard for him. The hard-faced bodyguard shot Jorah a challenging look and gestured with his head to the spot on the princess’s other flank.
Jorah couldn’t force his legs to close the gap between them. Also, he wanted a moment alone so he could ditch the terrible wreath scratching his brow.
And to assess his remaining competition.
The other three contenders—strangers to Jorah—tagged along behind Zandor and the princess. One of them, a callow youth with an open trusting face, carried a helmet trailing a red fox tail. He had survived his first battle, but he was so much younger than everyone else.
His kingdom must be bankrupt if he’s here seeking such an alliance.
Not in his wildest imaginings could he glean what had brought the other two to Ryferia.
The taller of them sported a golden acorn sigil on his armor and carried himself with an arrogant swagger born of privilege and splendor. The last contender, a man in his early twenties, radiated a quiet confidence.
The opponent to watch.
The princess stopped and smiled at Jorah. A genuine one, it transformed her freckled face into something strangely appealing. “Lord Thalyn, my dear friend Niing speaks very highly of you. Thus far, all I have seen is a man lethally skilled with a sword. Perhaps you will walk with me and Raith, so I can begin to delve into what it is that my tutor sees that is of such great value in you.”
The woman was priceless. But her forthrightness gave him insight into Niing’s and the pony’s concerns. Their secret truth, bestowed into the nymph’s hand, would not remain a secret for long.
Also, her insistence on calling him Lord Thalyn was beginning to irritate—especially when she addressed the incubus by his first name.
He fell into step with her. “My name is Jorah. Please call me by it.”
“Jorah.” As they walked to a golden carriage waiting in a vestibule in the arena, the princess rolled his name across her tongue. From her slightly scrunched expression, he guessed it didn’t appeal to her.
That was troubling.
Or was it?
It played perfectly into his and Hedrus’s plan to send an emissary here in Jorah’s place once the Guardians came down. He would soon be free. She would probably have no problem with that decision. He twitched a smile in relief.
They reached the carriage. The incubus took the princess’s arm and helped her into it before it even crossed Jorah’s mind to do the honors. The nymph rewarded the parasite with a radiant smile.
“It’s a pleasure to be of service, Aurora,” the parasite crooned.
So he was calling the princess by her first name? And she didn’t seem to object. She must have given him permission. Permission she had not offered to Jorah and, from the startled faces, none of the other suitors climbing into the carriage either. Such favoritism wasn’t going to endear her to any of these men.
Unless she has already decided on him.
Jorah frowned as he took his seat opposite her, Raith, and one other suitor. Her bodyguard leaned against the wall, watching them all.
Niing would have to ensure that his ward kept things fair. Just as Jorah would have to ensure that the incubus died. Hopefully, she would not be too heartbroken when that happened. It would make a marriage to her—even a short one—difficult.
He pushed the worry aside. Once the woman understood who and what Raith was, she would be grateful for the escape.
“I assume, princess, that the sanction to address you by name is bestowed on us all,” the lord with the acorn sigil said.
Pompous ass. But Jorah awaited Princess Aurora’s reply.
A crimson blush and a stutter answered. “Of course, Lord Mahlon! That goes without saying. You are all my suitors.”
Mahlon bowed to her from his seat. “Ah, but only one of us will claim your hand and the riches it will bring.” A sideways glance at Jorah. “I assure you, Aurora, the splendors of Carafey”—a gauntleted hand patted a broad chest—“my dukedom, are no mystery. An alliance between us will swell both of our coffers.”
That explained what this idiot was doing here.
Jorah was familiar with Carafey, if not its heir apparent. The dubious dukedom offered usury to fund risky business ventures. A scheme like these trials would appeal to Mahlon.
The carriage jolted forward.
Squeezed between Mahlon and the callow-faced boy, Jorah settled back in his seat to await the nymph’s reply.
She swallowed. “How . . . delightful a prospect, Lord Mahlon.”
“It is. But of course, you will have to center your court in Carafey. I cannot be doing with all this travel.”
Aurora’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps it is a little premature to start decorating my bedchamber, Lord Mahlon—although I am partial to shades of green and brown.”
A snigger of laughter from everyone except Mahlon. Even the pony’s stern expression faltered.
Aurora looked squarely at Jorah, quite obviously done with Mahlon. “So, Jorah, how do you know Niing?”
Was this impossible line of questioning never going to end?
When Jorah shifted, a smug expression consumed Raith. The parasite must have sensed that the dwarf was Magical. Raith knew how old Jorah was, so it wasn’t a huge mental leap—even for a parasite—to figure that Jorah and Niing had known each other from before the Guardians.
“I hope, Lord Thalyn,” Raith smarmed before Jorah could reply, “that your acquaintance with Aurora’s tutor will not give you any advantages over the rest of us.”
Jorah gritted out, “That is a question you must address to the princess.” He’d be damned if he honored Raith by using his title. “And I assure you, I don’t need any additional advantages. I have all the motivation I need to win this tournament.” His eyes narrowed. “I suggest you prepare to meet Trojean.” He allowed a sharp smile. “Tell her I send my compliments.”
The blood rushed from Raith’s face, and his eyes glittered. “Challenge accepted,” he said into the icy stillness that had settled after Jorah’s declaration. “Tell Lila I send my compliments.”
Now regretting mentioning Trojean—had Aurora affected him with her indiscretion?—it took all Jorah’s self-control to stop from driving his fist into the parasite’s face.
Aurora’s eyebrows rose. “Gentlemen. It seems you know each other. Your meeting and your shared acquaintances—both women, if I read the names correctly—sound like they would entertain us all on our short trip to the palazzo. Pray, do tell.”
Jorah’s mouth snapped closed, leaving it to the parasite to reply; he was, after all, tied by exactly the same restraints on mentioning magic that Jorah was.
“You are mistaken, princess,” Raith said stiffly. “Lord Thalyn and I met for the first time tonight. However, my sister and his lover once had a run-in. It did not end well—for either of them.”
His lover! Jorah groaned.
Aurora’s insightful green eyes alighted on him. “Your heart is engaged elsewhere?”
“My heart is mine to give to whomever I choose.”
Aurora studied him for a long moment. Did she know he would never be hers? Even the pony glowered at him.
But Jorah would not lie to this woman. She deserved better than that.
Aurora nodded. “I will act accordingly.”
The carriage drew to a stop, and a groom threw open the door. The pony helped Aurora down before any of her suitors could offer.
Artemis and Niing waited at the steps leading into the palazzo. Beyond the doors, Keahr, the fae, hovered.
Jorah and the other contenders headed into the banqueting hall.
“My lords, I have much to think upon tonight,” Aurora said instead of a
ccompanying them. “Please follow my uncle, Lord Artemis. He will lead you to your reward.”
Artemis’s mouth dropped, but he quickly snapped it closed. “Of course, Aurora. It is as well that your suitors know that you are weak and sickly. It will hone their thoughts as they go forward with the trials. There is still time for them to pull out if they find the prize . . . undesirable.”
Aurora flushed and stumbled. Only Zandor’s firm hand stopped her falling.
Jorah’s fists clenched, both at her obvious embarrassment and at her uncle’s brutality. He stepped toward Artemis to challenge him—and was astonished to see the parasite at his side.
“Artemis,” the incubus hissed. “This is the second time tonight that you offend. I don’t suggest you make it a third. Not if you wish to have a place in this kingdom once Aurora takes her throne.”
Artemis blanched. “And I am to assume that you intend to be at her side?”
“Not only do I intend to be at her side, but I also plan to rid this kingdom of all who would oppress the Infirm. There is no place in the world for that kind of hate.”
Aurora stared up at Raith with doe eyes. “You have tapped into my greatest desire. I truly hope you will win.” She bobbed him a curtsy. “My lords, I bid you all good night.” She and her entourage—including Niing—swept from the hall.
Jorah shook his head in despair.
He had grossly underestimated the incubus. He would have to up his game if he was to destroy Raith as he had committed to Sabrisia—and to all the Magical—to do.
Chapter Nineteen
“I can’t do this,” Aurora said, her bedchamber door swinging closed behind her. “Not the way my bloodthirsty countrymen want it to be.”
She flopped onto her bed as Niing, Keahr, and Zandor took their usual spots in her room. Only Peckle was conspicuous by his absence. He was probably in the banqueting hall, cadging treats. Aurora had to fight the urge to check beneath the sheets for severed heads.
Niing stoked his pipe. “It’s a bit late for regret, my princess. Five men died tonight for you. That seals your bargain with the rest of them. You cannot let Artemis put you off.”
