by Ronie Kendig
He lunged to catch it.
But it flipped direction and slid right beneath her chair.
Of course. Of course it had to do that.
That paper wasn’t too important. He could pick it up later. Irritated, he snatched the next one on the pile. Focus! Reading the first line, he realized it was a report from the Outlands scout. The sentence was a fragment, but spoke of uncertainty about the direction the cacique would want to take. About what? Where was—
Aselan let out a long sigh. Closed his eyes. Then looked to the paper on the floor. Beneath Kaelyria. He needed it.
“Keep sighing so heavily and you will take all the air from the room,” she said softly, amusement in her tone. Then she glanced at him over her shoulder, elbows on the table where she worked. “My father was notorious for sighing when he was annoyed.”
He pushed his chair back and stood. “No annoyance.” Unless one considered his annoyance with himself. “If ye’ll grant me yer mercy,” he said as he went to a knee.
Kaelyria’s eyes widened and she straightened, watching.
“A paper,” he mumbled, ducking his head and leaning beneath her chair. “It slipped beneath yer chair.”
“Oh! I’m—let me move.” She swung the chair back.
“No!”
Her chair rolled over his hand.
He groaned.
“Oh mercies!” Her eyes bugged and she reached for him. “Aselan, I beg your mercy. What—how horrible.”
“It is well,” he said, flexing his fingers and finding no damage. She was too close to him. Too distracting. Why did she have to be here?
“I’m in your way,” she said softly, forlornly.
“Nay.” ’Twas but a small lie. “The office is small.”
“Of course it is, especially with this chair.” She nodded, wheeling backward. “I’ll ask Matron Ingwait to reassign me to somewhere more . . . with more room.”
He caught the support of her chair. “No.”
“I do not want to be a bother to you, Aselan.”
“’Tis well,” he said again, retrieving the paper. “Please—continue yer duties. They are duly appointed and ye are . . . efficient.” He needed to leave. “I must find Byrin and speak with him about this report.”
Aselan strode quickly down the passage, away from his thoughts, his guilt—both over leaving her just now and his inability to harness what he felt. As he rounded the corner, a loud clatter stopped him.
It’d come from behind, the passage. The office! Had she fallen? He spun back, jogging toward the office. “Kaely—” He stopped short.
She stood before him, hands braced against the table she’d been working on. The wheelchair against the far wall. Her own legs supporting her, though she leaned heavily on the table. She tucked her chin and a silent cry jerked her body.
“Kae . . .” He moved closer, stunned that she was standing on her own—weakly, but she was doing it. “Ye can walk?”
She shook her head, a strangled sob shoving tears down her face.
He touched her back. Noticed her limbs trembling. Aselan supported her by wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She collapsed against his chest, crying. Instinct drew her closer. Held her tight as she sobbed.
“Please,” she said. “Please don’t send me back.”
He guided her to the wheeled chair. “Kae, sit.”
“No,” she growled. “I will not sit in that chair one minute more. I want to walk again. I want to be strong.” Her glossy blue eyes begged him. “Let me stay. Let me prove to you that I can do this.”
He leaned back, staring hard into her snow-blue eyes. “Ye are strong, Kaelyria. Stronger than any woman I’ve met.”
Disbelief spiraled through her gaze as she held his. And he could feel her rapid heartbeat against his side as he supported her. Felt her curves pressing into him out of necessity, though he told himself not to notice. Red rimmed her eyes, product of the shed tears and weeks of strain. A strange ache wove through his chest. He brushed the loose strands of hair from her cheek, trailing along her soft skin, too. She shuddered beneath his touch. Her lips were full and red. Her breaths growing uneven as attraction spiraled between them.
Her warm, warm fingers traced his face, his beard, making it hard for him to breathe. To think. He pulled her closer. Leaned down, aiming for her mouth.
Laughter shot through the passage, smacking Aselan’s thoughts back into line. He swallowed, cursing his weakness as he grabbed the top rail of his chair. Jerked it closer. “Here.”
She dropped heavily onto the wooden chair, hands propping her as she studied the floor. Aselan squatted in front of her. “Ye are strong, Kaelyria. That ye can stand—Hoeff said it was impossible.”
“I believed him,” she said, “but he also said we should not stop trying. Whatever he has done, it is working.”
Aselan smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”
She searched his eyes. “Are you?”
His gut clenched. “More than I care to admit.” No one had ever been so bold with him before, but Kaelyria was a princess, used to demanding answers and summoning submission from those around her.
“I have nothing left, Aselan. No home. No dowry. Even my brother is gone from me.”
“But for a time.”
“Still, I am alone,” she said. “I have no purpose. I am . . . lost.”
“Ye are not alone, nor are ye lost.” He nodded around them. “The Ladies have welcomed ye, and the Legiera will protect ye.”
She looked down, as if he’d said something wrong. “My—my father sent Haegan to the towers when he fell to the poison. He severed their close tie.”
“And ye thought I would do the same?”
“I made you angry with the chair and being in the way. Then you stormed out.” Tears slipped free, her chin dimpling. “I can stand. You saw—please let me stay.”
He cupped her face, looking up into those icy blue eyes. “Kae . . .” A kiss. That’s all it would take to quiet her fears. And ignite his.
“Cacique!”
Deflated, Aselan rose to his feet, noticing Kaelyria turn her back to the door to hide her face.
Byrin came into view. He slowed, looking between Aselan and the princess. Then thumbed over his shoulder. “They’ve brought a thief to the hall,” he muttered, still gazing, measuring.
“I’ll be there.” Aselan waited for Byrin to nod and back away before turning to Kaelyria. “Work for as long as ye will here.” He allowed himself to touch her shoulder. “Ye are always welcome.”
He might has well have told her to clean his laundry, too. He had never been good at flattery or flirting. What was he to say to her? He could make no open commitment. As cacique they depended on him. But would not two minds, trained for leadership, work better than one?
Yet . . . he had lost one love. Could he risk another?
55
Somewhere in Unelithia
“What is your name?”
Haegan would give neither his name nor any other information. He knelt in the middle of the cell, watching a large rat scurry over the chain that secured him to a rusted iron hook embedded in the ground. Odd bands cuffed his wrists, a strange thrumming emanating through them and the cell. The energy brought a bitter chill that raced across his shoulders and dug into his bones. His head ached, his nose dripping like a leaky tap.
The rat boldly sped past the guards, right into a small corner hole.
It was then that Haegan realized the tiny pieces of rock beneath him weren’t rock. They were rat droppings. How many were holed up in that corner? Disgust made his stomach clench. His skin itched. He wanted to push up. But ’twas a fitting end to his rebellion against Abiassa, was it not? He had not been forced from Hetaera. He had not been coerced. He’d walked out of luxury and stature . . . straight into imprisonment.
But I did not want to be the Fierian. Anything is better than that.
Trale and Astadia had sure vanished quick enough. For the first few hours, Haegan waite
d for rescue at the barred window. But none came.
“Your name.” Boots shined glossy black, the Sirdarian stood over him in his crisp blood-red uniform.
If they didn’t know his name, maybe the sibling assassins had not betrayed him. They had promised the Infantessa wanted him. But what was the word of an assassin? He would not provide any information. Would not answer their queries.
Pain exploded across his temple, his teeth clacking from the blow. He found himself lying on his side, a metallic sweetness in his mouth.
“One more time,” the Sirdarian said, his words menacing as two guards hoisted Haegan upright again. “Name!”
Lip and head throbbing, Haegan spit blood from his mouth. Giving his name would only get him killed.
Another blow—this time to the other side of his head. He toppled again, pain scorching his temple. A kick to his face snapped his head back. His eye began to swell.
Anger rose. He curled his fingers to wield, but he felt a searing fire rush back along his hand and arm. What . . . ?
“Shielding,” Sirdarian grinned. “They turn the current of heat back on you.”
“Captain.” A guard rushed into the cell and whispered to the officer.
The heavy shield around Haegan’s wrists made his shoulders ache, so he rested his hands on his legs as he knelt.
Shouts preceded an eerie silence that seemed to stretch in and snake around Haegan’s mind, making it . . . itch. The earthy, spicy sent filled his nostrils as the strange, insistent feeling needled him. He groaned, desperate to be rid of it all. What was it?
The guards snapped to attention.
Haegan stilled, wondering at the change.
From around the corner came a billowing sea of amethyst. Four—five—six guards in purple and silver marched in, then broke off to the sides, revealing a petite woman with russet hair and a green gown. She wore a crown of stars and a sheer veil that framed her round face and poured over her shoulders and thick, curly hair. Gems in the crown glittered beneath the prison torchlight. Her pale brown eyes settled on Haegan. Then widened. “Captain,” she said, her voice as satiny as her gown. Yet sharp as the points on the stars. “What is this?”
A man in a black suit with amethyst stitch-work along the cuffs and shoulders stood between them and the woman. “The Infantessa,” he intoned, “asks, ‘What is this, Captain?’”
The captain shifted nervously. “Please tell her highness, it is an interrogation. She shouldn’t—”
“And have you my permission to interrogate this man?” An odd mix of empathy and that bitter, discordant stench of fury swam at Haegan.
“The Infantessa asks, ‘Do you have my permission to interrogate this man?’”
The captain lowered his gaze. “No, your majesty.”
“The captain says, ‘No, your majesty.’”
Majesty. Your Highness. Infantessa. This—this was the woman who asked for him? She seemed but a child. Too young to have the experience and knowledge of even his father.
“Remove the shielders at once,” she commanded, and her lackey repeated the order.
“Yes, your majesty,” he said, lumbering in and disengaging the clamps. The annoying thrum fell away, and Haegan slumped beneath the relief.
The Infantessa waved the suit aside. Glared at the captain. “And of course, you know the punishment for such crimes, yes?”
Eyes wild, the captain nodded. “I do, your majesty.”
She extended a hand to Haegan. “Come.”
“The Infantessa says to come,” the suited man said.
Even as Haegan struggled to his feet, in his periphery he saw the captain draw his dagger. Haegan hauled in a sharp breath—would the captain murder him right here, before their monarch?
Instead, the captain turned the dagger on himself.
“No!” Haegan lurched.
But the captain drove the blade into his own heart.
Horrified, Haegan staggered with a yelp that died in his throat.
He deserved it.
The thought shook Haegan. How did a man deserve that? What justice—
The Infantessa reached toward Haegan’s face. Despite the captain committing suicide beside her, she wagged her fingers. “Come,” she said again, as calm as before, as unaffected as before.
“The Infantessa says, ‘Come,’” the black-suit said.
“No,” she said to the man. “I would speak to him.”
Confused at the strange formality and sickened by the captain’s suicide, Haegan accepted her hand. She tucked her arm through his, pulling him from the room. With one last backward glance, he noted the other guards were stunned and hadn’t moved. What . . . ?
Royal guards swarmed in around them, protecting and marching them out of the dank prison, down long, stone halls without ornamentation. Straight out of the building. Right to a waiting carriage of brilliant purple and gold.
Two guards waited and opened the carriage door. Held out their hands in assistance. She glided right into the gilt box and sat facing forward.
Something writhed in him, down deep—distant—as he neared the carriage. What was it? He slowed, but felt a bump against his spine. Hesitation held him fast. A roiling in his gut. There was that smell again . . . bitter, yet sweet. A stench but not.
A guard’s chest brushed his shoulder. A subtle thrust of his chin told Haegan to enter. Where else was he to go? Back to the cell?
Haegan climbed the two steps. Faced backward. He stole a peek at her, but it felt wrong to gaze upon the Infantessa. Especially knowing he must look a fright with the swollen-shut eye and busted lip.
“I do apologize,” she said, removing her long gloves. “The Sirdarians have a ridiculously high code that”—she sighed—“they sometimes take too seriously. I mean, killing himself over such a small infraction.” She clucked her tongue. “I would have overlooked such a display, but not the harm he visited upon you.”
He would not have survived there anyway. “I thank you for removing me, but . . . why?”
“You are my guest, Haegan.”
Surprise swam through him, heady. “You know who I am?”
She laughed, hands gracefully placed in her lap. “Of course! I sent dear Trale after you. But the poor boy just hadn’t anticipated that you might need a little extra looking after.”
“He was very good to me.” Haegan felt the need to defend the man. Would Trale find himself driving a dagger into his own chest when the Infantessa spoke to him next? “More patient than I’d expected of his kind.”
“His kind?” Her voice squeaked, and she bobbed her head from side to side. “I suppose he isn’t up to your moral standard, but Trale Kath is loyal to the core.”
“I have no doubt.” Haegan’s stomach roiled, so he looked out the window, guessing his nausea had to do with the rocking of the carriage. “Where are we going?”
“To Karithia.” When Haegan glanced at her, she smiled. “My home.”
’Twas then he realized he had expected the Iteverian sovereign to be as old as his parents. Her reputation, legacy, even her voice and maturity declared it so. But in her face, youthfulness. Beauty. Eyes as brown as the hills. Hair reddish-brown, thick, and curly. No woman was her equal.
Thiel would—
A sharp pain stabbed through his skull. “Augh!” Haegan grimaced and hunched, pressing the heel of his hand to his head.
“Are you well, Haegan?”
“Aye,” he gritted, ashamed she would see him like this. “A little pain—probably from . . . prison.”
“I am disappointed about your cruel welcome to Unelithia,” she said. “Be assured it will not happen again.”
Relaxing as the pressure eased, Haegan nodded his thanks. They raced through the city, unyielding of the people, who screamed and leapt out of the way. As they tore past them, he saw more than one face etched in fear.
No, in abject awe.
They really love their queen.
“So, you are the Infantessa Shavaussia.
”
She smiled, her complexion so pure, a beautiful paleness rivaling opals. “That is my title and diplomatic name. You may call me Nydelia.”
“Like Nydessa.”
She gave a nod. “Exactly. My mother was Nydessan when my father took her.”
“Took her.”
She breathed a laugh. “I’m afraid their story is not as romantic as your parents’, Haegan. My mother was a concubine.”
And yet, Nydelia was chosen as the heir to Iteveria. “I remember my father was very sad to hear of your father’s passing.”
With a sniff, she looked out the window. “As were we all.”
He knew diplomacy. Knew political speech. And that had a ring of antipathy to it. A shout went up outside, and the carriage slowed but little before careening through a bejeweled gate. “Home at last,” she said sweetly.
It took another five minutes of winding roads and climbing hills before the carriage pulled to a stop. The door opened, and the Infantessa stepped into the morning light.
Haegan exited and was immediately struck by the glittering of the tiered city set into the hills below, as if the dwellings knelt at the foot of the castle. White structures. All white. Everywhere. Stacked tightly, they crowded the mountain, some peeking from green foliage and trees.
“Sir,” a stiff voice said.
Haegan turned to the voice—a guard.
“This way,” he commanded.
Only as the towering man moved did Haegan see the golden castle. He’d heard of it—though Gwogh had rejected it as vanity. “What lies within must match the splendor without to earn the title ‘beauty,’ ” his old tutor had warned.
Clearly, Sir Gwogh had not met the Infantessa, or he would have instantly declared Iteveria not simply beautiful, but resplendent. Minarets and towers gleamed in the bright sun. Balconies reaching out over the portico sparkled and shimmered.
“Sir,” the guard prompted.
Haegan started for the portico and entered through a massive set of glass doors. Glass? Was the Infantessa not concerned with safety?
Who would want to harm her?
A butler greeted him with a low bow. “Prince Haegan, welcome to Karithia, the seat of Iteveria and the blessed halls of our beatific Infantessa Shavaussia.” He held out a white-gloved hand toward the monstrous balcony. “I am Paung, butler of Karithia. If you would follow me, I will show you to your room.”
