by Jill Myles
She did, oddly enough. Her frustration and anger ebbed, and it was replaced with a new need. Hunger, though she’d just eaten.
No, she realized. His hunger. The sight of her throat had caused it. Seri stilled, eyes wide as he gazed at her, then moved closer. His hand moved to her neck and he caressed it, then pulled her toward him and brushed his lips over hers.
She could just barely feel the scrape of his fangs against her lips.
“I don’t wish for us to fight,” he said gingerly.
“Then what do you want?” Her voice trembled.
“I want to make love to my wife, if she’ll have me.” With his gaze locked on hers, he tugged at the belt of her robe.
And she could have protested. Could have said that this wasn’t what she wanted, that she didn’t want to make love to him, or feed him.
But it would have been a lie. Because being this close to him? Inhaling his masculine, spicy scent and feeling his skin brush against her own?
Seri hungered just as much as he did. And she didn’t protest when her robe fell open, and his kisses grew deeper.
“Is there still no sign of Kiane?” Seri asked the next evening as she dressed to go riding with Melene once again.
Idalla shrugged, fussing over the hem of Seri’s newest tunic. “Perhaps she’s taken ill. Or her father has. He’s a falconer here at the castle.”
Seri frowned. “I just worry. It’s not like her to disappear.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Idalla said, and smoothed down Seri’s tunic. “There. Your hem is perfect now.”
She nodded absently. “If you see Kiane, let me know?”
“Of course, my lady.”
Something nagged at Seri, though, and when she left her chambers, she started to make her way to the old servants’ quarters in Lady Mila’s wing. She did not put it past the woman to try to steal back her handmaiden. But as soon as she reached the main floor, a guardsman flagged her down. He bowed quickly.
“Princesse, I am told the prince seemed quite impatient to see you. Please come with me.”
“I’m busy,” she told him, trying to move aside.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, straightening. “But I am told that you must come with me. It is urgent.”
A trickle of unease moved through her, and instead of arguing, Seri nodded. Something felt . . . wrong. A bevy of confused, tormented emotions flooded her. Graeme. Seri let the guard lead her onward, and as they turned down another passage, a pair of guards appeared and moved to each of her sides, protecting her.
More guards?
A servant opened the door to the throne room, and Seri was led in, her heart hammering nervously in her throat. The prince sat at the front of the room in a throne, and the small one next to it was empty. The queen was nowhere to be seen, for which Seri was grateful, but the room was filled with guardsmen and priests. Every expression was worried or full of anger. They looked at her with angry eyes, and her stomach sank.
What had happened?
An elderly man with a long beard stood over Graeme’s shoulder, his robes rich, and he carried a tablet at his side. He frowned at the sight of her, a barely veiled sneer on his long-nosed face. He must be the oft talked about vizier.
The court was silent as she approached, and her heart hammered in her breast. Graeme gestured, ever so slightly, at the throne next to his. She sat, and swallowed hard when he extended a hand toward her. His fingers were cold against her own. Something dark and dangerous throbbed between them.
The vizier stepped forward and cleared his throat. “His majesty the prince asks that the prisoners be brought forth.” His strident voice rang out through the courtroom.
Seri’s heart skipped an uncomfortable beat when she noticed the dress of the men brought forward. Rough shirts, stained trousers. Bare feet. These filthy, bedraggled prisoners were Vidari. The guards shoved the men forward, and Seri jerked in reaction as they fell to their knees in humiliating submission.
At the end of the row, one looked up directly at her, his lip curled in disgust. Seri’s heart fluttered, then stopped entirely as she stared at a pair of familiar green eyes.
Oh Gods. Rilen.
She bit her lip to keep from screaming. His face was bruised and swollen. Mud and filth covered his clothing, and he leaned heavily to one side, favoring his left leg. He stared at her with cold, betrayed eyes, his gaze flicking to where Graeme held her hand. Next to him were Timmar and Jovis, as beaten and bloody as Rilen.
Tears pricked in her eyes, and she drew her hand out of Graeme’s and put it to her mouth.
“Recite the charges against these men for all to hear,” the vizier commanded. “His grace, the prince, will decide their punishment once all has been spoken.”
One of the guardsmen stepped forward. “My lord,” he said, bowing to the vizier and the prince. “One of the falconers, Jastin of Suth, came to the guard last night. He claimed that his daughter, Kiane, had left to go to the Vidari village two days prior and had not returned.”
A sour feeling rose in the back of Seri’s throat, and her stomach clenched into a hard knot of fear. No. No no no. She stared into Rilen’s face, begging silently for it not to be true, but he only met her with hard, accusing eyes.
“A search was conducted through the village, and in one of the huts, our soldiers found these men, along with the dead body of the woman in question.”
A low sob broke out at the back of the room and Seri’s horrified gaze darted to the elderly, balding man who clutched his hat and stared at the Vidari with heartbreak in his eyes. Kiane’s father. Oh Gods. She was responsible. She’d sent Kiane to the village and assured her that she’d be safe. This was her fault. Happy, welcoming Kiane was dead at the hands of her people. Self-loathing tore through her.
The vizier went on. “The woman had been brutally beaten by these men and then strangled. When questioned, the Vidari men before you admitted to the deed and then attempted to attack the guards, at which time we had to subdue them.”
Bile rose in Seri’s throat. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, willing her stomach to behave. But when she pictured Kiane beaten, dead, and strangled, a hiccupping sob escaped her. Graeme’s gaze swung sharply to her as the courtroom broke out in angry cries.
“Murderers!”
“Savages!”
“They’re little more than beasts!”
“Hang them all!”
Seri’s head dropped. By the four gods, this was all her fault. They’d wanted Vidari freedom at any cost, and she hadn’t been willing to pay the price. This was a message to her as much as it was to Graeme, wasn’t it? By allowing the prince to live, by accepting him into her bed these last four nights, she’d turned the men of her village into monsters. Murderers.
And Kiane. Oh, Kiane. Her friend. And how had Seri repaid her for her kindness? She’d sent her to be murdered. Hot tears slid down her face as the angry shouts continued to echo through the hall. This was all terribly, irrevocably her fault.
“Silence!” Graeme stood and instantly the room fell silent. He sat back down with a satisfied nod. “These men will not be tried?” His voice was cool and unaffected, and Seri felt a burst of hate for him. Her world was crumbling around her and he was as distant, as unfeeling, as ever.
“They will not,” the vizier agreed. “They confessed readily to the deed.”
“We would do it again,” Jovis shouted. “We’ll do the same to any Athonite that comes down to our village. We won’t rest until your cruel kind is gone from our lands.” He looked at Seri, his lips twisted in hate, and then spit in her direction.
The room fell quiet once more. Seri trembled as Prince Graeme got to his feet, his tense form radiating anger. He swept toward the prisoners, and a few of the guards took a step back, clearly uneasy. Graeme went to Jovis’s side and grasped him by his filthy chin. He li
fted the man’s face and angled it toward Seri where she sat trembling on her throne.
“You have insulted my wife.”
“She’s a betrayer.” Jovis sneered, trying to wrestle away from Graeme’s grip. “She’s given up her rightful kind for a monster.”
“Speak your apologies or your entire family will be destroyed.” Graeme’s quiet voice cut through the courtroom. “I do not tolerate insults to the Blood.”
Oh no. Please, no. Seri clutched the arms of her throne, torn between flinging herself at Graeme’s feet and begging for forgiveness for her people . . . or attacking them herself. Jovis was a fool to endanger his family. She knew them all—his sweet mother, Claeva, and his father, Rog, who had always come to help her father with the plowing. His sister, Ninna, who had been friends with Seri until hardship had forced Seri to spend all her time trying to keep food in her father and sister’s mouths.
Graeme cannot do this, she vowed, but the look on his face was alarming in its grim intensity.
Tension hung in the air, and after a grudging moment, Jovis looked her way and nodded.
It wasn’t much in the way of apologies, but Graeme seemed to be satisfied. He released Jovis and the man fell forward to the floor, his cheek smacking on the hard flagstones. Rilen and Timmar looked uneasily at the prince as he strode back to his throne, the tendons in his neck taut with anger even as he sat with a graceful gesture.
He placed his hand out for Seri’s again, an unspoken demand. She felt the link between them seething with emotion, dark anger, and jealousy.
With a quick, guilty glance at Rilen, Seri hesitated, then placed her hand back in Graeme’s. More tears rolled down her face, and she quickly brushed them away with her free hand.
“Two insults have been dealt to my wife,” Graeme began. “One here, and one in the reckless slaughter of her personal servant. It shall be for her to decide the punishment of the rebels.” His fingers tightened on hers, a possessive gesture, as if he could pry her away from them simply by holding her hard enough.
She gasped. He meant for her to choose?
It was clear that he wanted her to condemn these men, these murderers. Vidari custom was that a killer should hang, and she knew the Athonite law was no different. The murder of Kiane was foul, and she shouldn’t let them walk free.
But if she demanded their death, she would be a traitor to her people forever. She’d be an Athonite bootlicker, forever hated by all Vidari.
But could she let them go?
Agonized, Seri looked at Timmar. At Jovis. At Rilen, the man she’d been meant to handfast. She’d known them her entire life. She knew their families. They’d danced together at Spring Festivals, feasted at one another’s homes when the harvest was good, shared scraps when the fields failed them. They’d raised one another’s barns. They were kinsmen, family. Vidari.
She held Rilen’s gaze, a plea in his swollen eyes. All these men were fighting for was their people, their freedom. This rebellion—and her own gods-damned foolishness—had cost poor young Kiane her life. It was as much her fault as theirs. The look on Rilen’s face was begging for her to understand this. To see his point of view.
She looked to Graeme. His expression was cold. Aloof. Unyielding.
He wanted her to sever her last ties with her people. In one decision, he wanted her to choose between him and the Vidari. She knew what she had to do. The choice was heartbreaking, regrettable, but clear.
“Release them,” she said through her inner agony.
The vizier gave her an incredulous look. “What did you say?” At the prince’s stare, he stammered and dropped to his knee. “My lady,” he added.
Her heart breaking, full of self-disgust, Seri spoke again. “I ask that you let these men return to the Vidari people. Only a Vidari can pass judgment on a fellow Vidari tribesman. They will mete out the proper sentence there, in the Vidari village.” She raised her voice. “They are not Athonite, and should not be subject to Athonite law.”
Hushed disbelief filled the room, and she felt Graeme’s rage like a thundercloud. She knew he would be furious. But what choice did she have? Sentencing her kinsmen to death? She couldn’t do that. Not to her people. Not to the man she’d planned to handfast.
Seri looked at Rilen, but the pleading look he’d given her before had been replaced with a smug smirk. He exchanged a glance with Jovis and suddenly Seri knew she’d made a terrible miscalculation: They would get no punishment at home. And worse, they were proud of what they’d done. Proud because they killed sweet, happy Kiane who had remembered Seri’s altar and retrieved it for her because she knew it would be important to her.
Kiane’s father let out a loud, plaintive sob, and Seri’s gut twisted. His misery made her ache. She clenched her arms over her stomach, fearing she’d be sick right there in the courtroom.
“My lord?” The vizier sputtered, clearly unwilling to accept Seri’s decision. “Surely you cannot agree to this . . .”
Graeme’s voice was flat. “It is my wife’s decision. The insult was to her. No more shall be done if she does not wish it. You are all dismissed.”
With that, he stood.
Seri stood as well, and tried to move forward to Rilen and the others. She had to talk to them, to find out what had happened, but Graeme’s restrained her.
“Let me go. I must see—”
“No. They are prisoners.” He was curt with simmering anger. “This is not a garden party. There is no visiting. They will be removed from the castle and released outside of the city.”
Her protest died in her throat, his words striking like slaps. Did he think she didn’t realize how serious this was? But his hand was tight on hers, and as he led her out of the throne room and into an antechamber, she followed without a word of complaint. Her steps were wooden, her mind bleak.
Once inside, Graeme released her. He was utterly silent, but she could feel his disapproval.
“Don’t judge me,” she said, throat clogged with tears. “You’ve asked too much of me already.”
“I have not said a word, my lady.”
But it was there, between them. She could feel it. She wanted his rage, because then she could get angry herself. Instead, all she felt was more frustration and keen disappointment. Sorrow.
She’d disappointed him.
She turned away, hugging her arms around herself, unable to look him in the eye. Tears threatened but she dug her nails into her sides, fighting them back.
“We will see those men again,” Graeme said in a strained voice. “Now they will think they are protected by the throne, because the princesse is one of them. They will attack more women, steal more cattle, and be such a menace that I will be forced to put the entire city in a military state.”
“What would you have me do?” A sob tore from her throat. “Would you have me order my friends, my people, murdered? Destroyed by my own hand? Would you have me do that? Is that what you want? To have me renounce all of who I am? To renounce the man I was to be handfasted to?”
His eyes glittered. “Is that why you let them live?”
“I let them live because I am Vidari!”
Graeme straightened to his full height, towering over her. “You are now a ruler of those people, however pathetic your tribe may be. I expect you to make the right decisions, not to base decisions on the fact that you lust after a rebel farm boy.”
She slapped Graeme, her dark hand cracking against his pale cheek. “I will always choose them over you,” she raged, sobbing furiously. “I am one of them. Always! They are my people and I will always be Vidari!”
He stared at her, saying nothing. His mouth was a firm, disapproving line, and a red outline rose on his cheek.
When she could stand it no more, Seri fled from the room, sobbing as if her heart would break. She raced to their chambers, dashing through the twisting halls of the ca
stle, seeking sanctuary. When she found the room, she slammed the door shut behind her, tears pouring from her eyes. Her wild gaze landed on her altar, the cheery symbols of the gods delicately set in order by Kiane.
With an angry cry, she swept the symbols to the ground and collapsed in a haze of tears.
“Shall I get you anything, my lady?” Idalla’s voice was hoarse and soft, and Seri knew she’d been crying.
“Have you heard any news of my family? Has the vizier brought them?” she asked softly, her throat raw from her own weeping. She rolled over in bed, hugging a pillow. She’d never felt so alone, or despised, in her life.
“We’ve sent word,” Idalla said stiffly. “I am told it is being taking care of.”
Seri sighed.
“Will you be leaving the room today?” Idalla asked.
Seri shook her head. “No. Just leave me, please.”
Idalla left the room quietly. Once, she might have teased Seri to stop being lazy, to get out of bed because there was much to do. But with Kiane’s death, Idalla was different. Now she was silent. Resentful. And Seri couldn’t blame her. Seri had let Kiane’s murderers go free.
She’d been in bed for three days now. Graeme did not visit her. Her body ached with need, and their connection had changed from emotion and lust to flare after flare of hunger. Her body throbbed and pulsed with anxiety.
She wondered how it affected Graeme, this chosen abstinence. It made her irritable, and her head constantly throbbed. Gnawing, angry jealousy bit at Seri as she wondered if he’d decided that Lady Aynee would be a better companion than her. She pictured the prince in Aynee’s arms, their pale legs tangled together. Then she hated herself for even caring. It was truly the least of her worries.
Every night she dreamed of the courtroom, of Kiane’s sobbing father, and always she woke up retching and sick at heart. She’d chosen to save Rilen, because that was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do for the Vidari, she told herself, but she knew in her soul that she’d chosen wrong.
