Negotiation: A Twelve Kingdoms Novella (The Twelve Kingdoms)

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Negotiation

  by Jeffe Kennedy

  A Story of the Twelve Kingdoms

  A wounded warrior trapped by the sorceress who knows him better than he does himself…

  General Uorsin escapes the last devastating battle, only to find himself alone on a mountain, feverish and no closer to finding the paradise that drives him on. Salena, greatest shapeshifter and magic-worker of her people, springs the trap she’s set to protect her land—and to prevent the ravager Uorsin from ever reaching it.

  Together, they spend a night setting the terms that will determine not only the rest of their lives, but the fates of the peoples of the Twelve Kingdoms—and the thirteenth.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Negotiation

  About the Author

  Read more books from Jeffe Kennedy!

  Copyright Page

  Negotiation

  Salena didn’t need to smell the blood to know the warrior was wounded.

  It showed in the sag of his body, the way he cradled his side, curling over it with that animal instinct to present the ridged spine to the cruel world, protecting the soft underbelly.

  Nothing he did would protect him from her.

  She hung back in the shadowy grove, letting the snowfall muffle her scent and the stark lines of the forest disguise her shape. After so much watching and waiting, the moment was finally upon her.

  The man swayed in the saddle, barely conscious. His will, however, penetrated his fevered mind to keep him clinging to his horse while the stallion carried him to the one place Salena could never allow him to go.

  None of this surprised her.

  Very little did, really. Which could be both good and bad.

  In this case, only one real question remained. Which would this be?

  She’d seen this moment coming for most of her life. This pivot point for so many fates arrowing in from the beyond, like a meteor set in motion eons ago, just now hurtling into physical view. From her dome under the sea, her sacred seat of power, the images had played out for her, all the futures equally possible until the moment of decision, when the pattern of events became inevitable.

  For years she’d examined the outcomes, unable to discern which of her actions would trigger each. Now the moment was upon her. The next choices would set the course for her beloved land of Annfwn, for the larger world and, not incidentally, her own fate.

  Nothing would stop this meteor of destiny and the resulting destruction. All any of them could do was choose the point of impact. And by any of them, that meant Salena, because she was the only one who knew.

  She’d made her first choice already, just by being here. The warrior must not be allowed to enter Annfwn.

  The stallion nickered nervously, rolling an eye in her direction. Not seeing her yet, but catching her scent perhaps. Or just sensing the presence of death, the predator in the forest. She padded nearer, the horse dancing aside, into the deeper snow off the path.

  The warrior grunted, pain jouncing him into greater awareness, his hand going even now to his sword hilt, as if he could swing it. He would be easy to kill. In her wolf form, she could overmatch the weakened man. His blood would run hot and sweet in her mouth and so many things would never happen. Especially for her. Her life would be reasonably good if he died now, alone in this forest he should never have entered. A short-term solution, oh so tempting in its simplicity. More, the outcome beckoned—Salena would live out her days in Annfwn, perhaps not happily, but not in misery.

  It galled her to see past the short-term, to the chaos of civil war, the death, disease and starvation that would grow so large that the festering would eat into Annfwn itself. Not tomorrow. Not next year. Probably not even in her lifetime. Another woman would have pretended not to see it, would have turned her face away and enjoyed the now for what it was.

  Salena herself would have done it, before her baby died. Before Tosin took the coward’s way out and killed himself.

  Grief taught you things.

  Salena would never again ignore the portents, never again place blind faith in joy.

  She slunk closer, letting the horse sense her now, the glimpse of a fang in the shadows, not too much. Just a hint of canine musk, of danger. Not this path. That way, towards the only choice she could make—saving the man who would be her slow destruction.

  *

  The pain worked on him like a dull knife. He fancied he felt shards of broken ribs shredding his liver, gutting him while he lived. It wasn’t real. He knew that much from years of cleaning fish and other beasts. Only the skin and muscles feel. Nothing ever flinches when you slice the internal organs. Only man, and only because he’s cursed with imagination.

  His mount stumbled through the deep snow, staggering precariously over buried limbs and Uorsin swore, blinking against the snowfall. The creature must scent a predator, to choose such a trail, moving in such a panic. He scanned the columns of trees, black against the greys of winter-shrouded slanted land, uncertain where he’d been carried in his delirium. Battle haze obscured the details—pretty Castle Columba in the distance with her deceptively low walls and scholarly occupants.

  It should have been an easy victory, but the siege had taken too long. He’d underestimated, an error that gnawed at him, the pain nearly as great as the sword he’d taken to the side, coming up from under his fighting arm, piercing him before he saw the movement.

  He gripped the reins, trying to steady the horse’s headlong plunge through treacherous deadfall. There had been a path. They must return to it. Through force of will, he guided the horse back the way they’d come.

  Where had he been going? Somewhere important. Important enough for him to make those cringing bastards at Columba patch him up with the simple bandage that clearly wasn’t enough.

  He hadn’t counted on the fever taking him.

  A soft growl echoed over the crack of the horse’s hooves on deadfall, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He flexed his sword arm, testing the strength he’d built since childhood, hauling fishing nets and climbing between boat and surf. Who knew being a fisherman’s son trained you to be a warrior? That strength failed him now. He could not face down a wolf. And where there was one, there would certainly be a pack.

  But they would not go downhill.

  Turning his mount away from the sound and scent of wild beast, he leaned forward in the saddle, willing the horse’s hooves to find purchase. It scrabbled willingly, grateful to move away from the danger.

  Uorsin clenched his teeth against the chattering waves of fever. Perhaps he should have waited to heal, as Derodotur had urged him. They’d taken Castle Columba only to find themselves under siege in turn. One they’d hopefully withstand better than the foolish Mailloux family had, despite their unexpected luck.

  And then—yes, that healer woman—she’d told him the story of paradise, just over the hill. Annfwn. A land where the sea lapped like warm honey on white sugar sand. More beautiful than Elcinea, better fortified than Avonligdh, richer than Duranor.

  Full of magic.

  Others would scoff, but Uorsin knew the fishermen’s tales of the golden land over the sea that couldn’t be sailed. A land of limitless abundance where the sun never set and the fruits hung heavy on the trees all year round.

  Glorianna the Good knew they needed resources. Duranor’s long gambit to solidify its hold on its neighbors stood on weakened legs. Winter had set in with an early vicious swipe that left Uorsin’s armies isolated, cut off from supply chains. They could not win while splintered into m
iserable huddles of starving soldiers.

  Annfwn.

  This was the golden prize he sought. He felt it in his bones. Even as a young lad, the stories and songs swept him up, stirring a longing in him that he couldn’t define, would never explain. He had to go there. Real or imagined.

  And to think it lay just over this hill, an actual place over a simple mountain pass. He hadn’t waited another moment. Annfwn—and all her lush glories—would belong to him.

  *

  The warrior proved stubborn, but this also was no surprise to Salena. If he didn’t have that quality, that double-face of will and obstinacy, he wouldn’t be such a threat.

  She slipped through the trees, letting her scent fall through the moist air to the already skittish horse. The poor beast feared its rider more than her, however, and struggled on. Time to change things up.

  Stilling, she gathered her magic, pulling it into her core and letting it flow out again into a new form. Her talons gripped the icy rock and she mantled her wings, testing them. She never changed into an imperfect form. Her father would never have allowed the slightest error. Perfection became a habit over time, even with no one watching.

  She launched herself from the rock, a black slash of raptor plummeting from the cliff side overhead. With a bloodcurdling scream no normal bird could produce, she stooped low over horse and rider, taking feral pleasure in the man’s startled cry, which became a cry of pain when the horse wheeled, taking him in a plunging ride back down the mountain.

  Yes, Uorsin. Feel that? That’s a taste of all the misery you will give me.

  Wings working against the heavy damp, she spiraled up, circling to see horse and rider fighting each other. If she could have cackled to herself, she would have, for they headed exactly for the cave she had in mind.

  All Uorsin needed was a bit more incentive.

  She landed and stilled. For months she’d conserved her energy for this, pulling from Annfwn’s rich supply of mother magic. Shapechanging away outside her homeland’s borders took more effort, but not so much that she couldn’t slide easily into a third form. These were all her favorites, but this one—the saber-toothed black cat—this was the best.

  Prowling behind, letting out low coughs of warning, she drove the desperate pair into shallower snow.

  See? This way is much easier.

  The horse, finding firmer footing, pulled ahead and she let it take the lead, especially with them so firmly headed for the cave she’d prepared.

  Now for one more transformation.

  And the final trick.

  *

  The cave seemed too good to be true. Which meant it was.

  Uorsin eyed it with deep suspicion and even more profound exhaustion. The stallion shuddered under him, the animal succumbing to the chill that fingered into its sweating hide. If he didn’t give the horse a rub down and a chance to rest, it would founder, leaving Uorsin to carry his treasure on foot.

  Not an acceptable option.

  Besides which, he needed to rest and eat. Perhaps wait out this blizzard and give his wounds a chance to heal. Steeling himself, he nearly crawled off the horse, managing not to collapse in the snow by clinging to the saddle in a most undignified way.

  The horse danced sideways under his leaning weight, turning to eye the forest. Something out there, stalking them both. He shook off the vague fear that the cave might be a trap. At least it would be defensible. If he died here, the songsters would say that the General of Duranor’s forces disappeared into the Wild Lands following a crushing defeat.

  There could be worse tales. Nobody sang about a crippled ex-warrior of a vanquished land.

  Now—if he survived the night and made his way to Annfwn—there would be a grand story. And his destiny, he felt it in his bones.

  The shadows of the cave wrapped around them as he led the steed inside, only somewhat less dark than the failing light outside. Some helpful someone had stacked kindling and larger pieces of wood. A clean firepit showed signs of previous use, but nothing so obviously convenient as a fire-striker.

  He unsaddled the horse and unloaded the necessary camping supplies, making quick work of getting the fire going—and, not incidentally, illuminate the cave and discourage any nasty denizens.

  With his horse rubbed down and contently dozing, Uorsin settled himself by the fire to gnaw on his usual field rations and kept an eye on the mouth of the cave, his sword and dagger beside him. The ache from his reopened wound served to keep him awake and alert.

  With the anticipation of a man addicted to battle, he awaited whoever had set him up.

  *

  She missed the cat’s body immediately. Truly, any of her animal forms would be preferable, like wearing a weapon instead of relying upon the simple dagger at her hip. If all went as she’d planned so meticulously, she wouldn’t need to physically defend herself. After all, he was only a man. And a mossback at that. If necessary, she could shapeshift in an instant to defend herself. But that would defeat her purpose.

  Her goals required the oldest tricks. Not attack, but seduction.

  So she took some care with her appearance—something she hadn’t done since Tosin died, she realized with a dull pang of moldy grief—using the supplies she’d stowed away. All men were the same in the end. A revealing dress, a bit of makeup and long, loose hair.

  Maybe her first offer would suffice.

  She paused at the mouth of the cave, letting him study her. She’d thought he might be sleeping, exhausted from his wounds and the adrenaline-spiked chase through the woods. But he sat upright, fist wrapped around the hilt of a sword she knew he could barely lift. Interesting that he still chose his dominant arm. The left hand draped casually next to a hunting knife. A decoy, then.

  His fair hair glinted in the firelight, chin stubbled. He hadn’t traveled that long, so clearly it was more that he didn’t care for appearances. If she made him High King, he’d had have to change that.

  She’d considered her first words to him. Playing coy was never much of a possibility—fun as it might have been to toy with him. From what she’d seen, his savvy as a strategist would cut through any dissembling on her part. Already, she sensed the cogs and wheels of his thoughts assembling the pieces, determining who she must be.

  Stepping into the cave far enough so the fire would show her features, Salena slipped back her hood and let her lips curve into a smile to stir even the most cynical groin.

  “Greetings General Uorsin. I am Salena of the Tala. I’m here to give you your greatest desire.”

  *

  The witch had balls, he’d give her that. Or perhaps that was the wrong word. She smiled with all the smoky sweetness of a woman offering a night of pleasure, but under it ran the glint of steel.

  Uorsin loved a challenge.

  “Sit then, Salena of the Tala. Share my fire—which I have no doubt you arranged—and tell me how you plan to deliver Annfwn into my hands.”

  She lowered her chin. “Annfwn is a myth.”

  “You offered my heart’s desire and that is Annfwn. I don’t care if others think it’s a myth. I know what my gut tells me.” He hadn’t gotten where he was by letting others tell him how the world worked.

  “It hardly seems rational to set your sights on something so…ephemeral.”

  “And yet, here I sit, trapped in cave during a blizzard by animals that seemed to intelligently hunt me down. Does that fit your definition of rational?”

  She tilted her head, the way a cat might to judge distance, and he found himself bracing for attack, the sound of that predatory jaguar’s cough echoing in his mind. Her shining dark hair shone with red and her skin looked pale as the snow she’d stepped out of.

  “Annfwn is a dream. I’m here to offer you reality.”

  “Who are the Tala? I’ve never heard of these people you supposedly claim.”

  She lifted one shoulder, the movement raising her full breasts under the cloak, drawing his eye like a starving dog’s to the haunch of
beef just outside its kennel. Lust had lowered many a man. He would do well to keep that in mind.

  “Does it truly matter which people I claim? I don’t think so, General Uorsin.”

  “If you mean to make me uneasy by making it clear you know who I am, you have failed. The people of the Twelve Kingdoms have all heard of me by now.”

  “But the Tala are not of the Twelve Kingdoms,” she said.

  “Neither is Annfwn.”

  “How can it be when it doesn’t exist?’

  He found his lips twitching in an unexpected desire to grin at her. “Exactly.”

  She might be dangerous as all hell, and probably a witch or something worse—whatever that might be—but a fair opponent presented certain delights beyond the pleasures of the flesh or the battle. Uorsin gestured to the opposite side of the fire.

  “Sit, Witchwoman, and make your offer. I am intrigued what you think might tempt my heart away from the fabled paradise of Annfwn.”

  *

  It made no sense for her, however grudgingly, to like him. Of course, he wasn’t as bad now as he would become. Something of the gentle seas of Elcinea clung to him still at this point in his young life, the simplicity of the working man. He hadn’t yet drunk enough of the power that would ultimately corrupt him.

  She sat, tucking the cloak demurely around her knees, pulling out the long fall of her hair and draping it over her shoulder, so he might better eye the gleaming sweep of it. He had his eye on her, oh yes, flicking down to catch what curves he could see.

  “You are a beautiful woman.” He threw it out as a statement, nearly a challenge. As if acknowledging an opponent with a strong sword arm.

  “I know.”

  “Most ladies would play coy, demur, pretend to be embarrassed.”

  Ah, and here he truly thought to flatter her. “I am no lady—make no mistake there.”

  He grunted and stirred the fire, making the flames jump. “I shall not fall into the trap of asking what you really are.”