Heir to the Sun

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “What’s so funny?” Lormac asked. Leran kept giggling, until Lormac told him he would need to settle down if he wanted to stay.

  And so began our new sleeping arrangements, with Lormac and me spending every night since with Leran wedged between us. I can say truthfully that I enjoyed his presence more than Lormac, since it further delayed the consummation of our mating. Lormac must have suspected my motives but said nothing, preferring instead to sneak up and ravish me for a few moments, then abruptly leave and carry on with his duties.

  One morning Sibeal asked me to accompany her as she went to meet with Grelk in the great hall. I thought it odd that she would request my presence, but soon enough her motives were revealed.

  “Tell me,” Sibeal began, “how are things with you and my cousin?”

  “Well,” I replied. “Lormac is a wonderful man.”

  “Once, we thought to unite the royal lines of Tingu and Thurnda. I see our chance has passed.” Sibeal gave the Sala a rueful glance.

  “You and Lormac?” I asked as my heart fell. Sibeal would be an ideal mate for the Lord of Tingu, what with her noble blood and title. She almost looked like an elfin version of me, with her thick white hair and slender frame, albeit on a more diminutive scale. I imagined that she had never been a slave.

  “No,” Sibeal replied, “perhaps he would have accepted my sister, but Lormac has never seen me as anything other than his little cousin.” There was an edge to Sibeal’s words, and I suspected that Sibeal had long aspired to be Lady of Tingu. And why shouldn’t she? Lormac was every elf woman’s ideal mate. He was strong, fearless, and powerful. And he was mine.

  Well, not yet.

  Not that anyone knew.

  As I looked about the hall, bustling with the preparations for war, I wondered if anyone would dare to suspect that Lormac had yet to claim me. Since our return from the doja, all had treated me as his mate and Lady of Tingu. Neither Lormac nor I had done anything to dissuade them; indeed, how could we, for Lormac would look like a fool if anyone knew the truth.

  And while I still wasn’t his mate, it was not for lack of trying on Lormac’s part. I spent every night with him, though with Leran between us. I’d even stopped sneaking out to crawl into bed with Torim, mostly because the last time I attempted it she refused me and sent me back to Lormac. It seemed that she was as eager as Lormac to get me into his bed.

  I knew that it was difficult for Lormac to hold himself back, and the strain was evident to all who looked at him. I imagined that others thought it was the pressure of war, but I alone knew the truth.

  “The burden of these preparations is showing on his face,” Sibeal commented and gave me a sidelong glance. “Is my cousin sleeping well?”

  “As well as one could expect,” I replied sweetly. Did she really think that I was going to discuss what happened in my bedchamber with her?

  “Good,” she replied. I couldn’t decide if I was furious with her for being so nosy, or frustrated with my own reticence to make love to Lormac. I looked across the hall and saw Lormac speaking with Balthus, their heads hunched over a scroll that detailed provisions or weapons or something for the coming march to Teg’urnan. The pressure he was under was plain for anyone to see. His hands trembled where he held the map, and there were dark smudges underneath his eyes. I resolved to send Leran to the nursery that evening, though I knew he would pout. I had no idea if I really could give myself to Lormac that evening, but I wanted to. I owed it to myself to try.

  “Now, what is it you wanted to discuss about Grelk?” I asked. If this fool asked me here merely to question my and Lormac’s relationship, she would get a piece of my mind. Before Sibeal could either defend herself or admit guilt, a voice startled us.

  “Mama!”

  Sibeal was just as shocked as I to hear the word, and we turned in unison to see Leran run toward me and leap into my arms.

  “He calls you Mama?” she asked, shock evident on her face.

  “He never has before,” I murmured. “Leran, why did you call me Mama?”

  “I asked Da if you could be my new mother,” he replied.

  “And what did he say?” I pressed.

  “He said he would like that very much,” Lormac replied. The man was always sneaking up behind me, but this time I did not mind. In fact, I minded less and less each day. “What do you say, little star?”

  Two sets of gray eyes looked at me expectantly and I sighed; Leran wasn’t going anywhere but to bed with us that evening, and I was more than a little relieved. “I would like that as well.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The elfin custom of Madoc’na was a celebration of life in the face of death, where everything was permitted and nothing taboo. In times past in had always occurred on the eve of battle, but later generations had found wisdom in letting warriors rest for a sennight after the revelry.

  As Lormac exited his chambers, clad in his king’s regalia, he remembered his first Madoc’na, when he had just barely been a man. The feast had begun as any other held within the Seat, with an endless array of food and drink for all to partake in. There had been music and dancing, but as the food dwindled men sought to quench other appetites. At that Madoc’na Lormac’s intent had been to lie with as many women as possible, and at each subsequent Madoc’na he had succeeded in adding to those numbers.

  Then there had been Leran’s mother, with eyes like a doe and a tongue soaked in acid; he’d had first lain with her at a Madoc’na. While most hadn’t been able to see past her sour demeanor, the fact that she hadn’t been impressed by his royal status had intrigued Lormac. That, and parts of that bitter girl had been as sweet as honey. Lormac’s fascination had been short lived, and after she had left Tingu he’d sworn that at the next Madoc’na he would lie with more women than he’d had at the last to atone for the time he devoted only to her.

  Now that feast was upon him, and Lormac thought not of the many women who would eagerly take him to bed, but of one faerie that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He still hadn’t claimed Asherah, and he feared his quest to make her comfortable had only succeeded in making it impossible for them to be intimate. If they weren’t in the presence of the Prelate or Balthus planning war, they were in his chamber with Leran glued to Asherah’s side.

  Lormac smiled when he thought of Asherah and Leran together. He had wanted his son’s acceptance of Asherah, though he never dreamed Leran would be so taken with her. Asherah managed to fill the void left by his true mother, and Lormac enjoyed having a complete family.

  Make her yours.

  Lormac shook his head, ridding himself of the Sala’s influence. Lormac reached Torim’s chamber and knocked brusquely. He had rearranged his schedule before the feast in order to spend time alone with his mate, but Asherah had insisted upon being with Torim instead. Lormac would never admit to such a base emotion as jealousy, but he had every intention of sharing his displeasure with Asherah.

  Torim opened the door bearing a smug grin, which only added to Lormac’s annoyance. He stepped past her into the chamber and called Asherah’s name, determined to tell her once and for all she was to leave Torim be, but when she emerged, he promptly forgot what had angered him so.

  If Asherah had been beautiful before, as she stood before him she looked like a goddess. Her pale hair was swept back from her face with a circlet of pearls and flowed down her back, small crystals woven into the length of it. She wore a simple gown of white silk edged in silvery blue embroidery, the diaphanous fabric trailing and dragging across every soft curve. The long, full sleeves were slit from shoulder to elbow and she wore the Sala on her left arm, the only jewelry that so adorned her.

  “You’re a vision.” Lormac took her hand, then spun her around to admire her from every angle. He glanced toward Torim, who smiled as she slipped from the room. “This is why you wouldn’t spend the afternoon with me?”

  “Forgive me?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. Lormac’s heart skipped a beat when he realized she was fl
irting with him.

  “Forgiven,” he replied. “I’ve never seen a woman attired so.”

  “You’re always trying to dress me up like an elf, but the fae style suits me so much better,” Asherah said, to which Lormac heartily agreed. He grasped her about the hips, the silk of her gown so fine it was as if nothing lay between his skin and hers. Asherah rested in his arms for a moment, then pulled him toward the door. “They’re waiting for us,” she reminded him.

  Lormac captured her in his arms again. “We can be a little late.” He brushed his lips over her neck.

  “They cannot begin without the king,” Asherah said, and he let her lead him toward the door. The Sala screamed inside Lormac’s mind to bolt the door before throwing Asherah to the floor, feast be damned. His skin tingled and his heart pounded with wanting her, so much so that he wondered if one could die from unrequited desire. Lormac also knew that if he did throw Asherah to the ground, even in jest, he would lose every ounce of trust he had built with her.

  Lormac quieted the Sala and extended his arm to his queen, and they made their way to the grand hall of the Seat. As they walked, Lormac told her of the first battle he faced, when his father pushed Tingu’s northern border past the World’s Spine and to the land of ice and fire, home of the mountain trolls.

  “And you sought not to conquer them as well?” Asherah asked.

  “The land is inhospitable, home to such beasts as orcs and gryphons. Our only interest there was to establish an alliance with the mountain trolls, but they proved much less cooperative that our friends of the forge,” Lormac replied. They arrived at the hall, and took a moment before they entered.

  “Your first Madoc’na as my queen,” Lormac murmured as he traced her cheekbone. “Tell me, mother to my son, where will Leran be spending the night?”

  “With us, of course. Why would he spend it anywhere else?” Asherah asked, black eyes wide and innocent. “Is there something of this feast you haven’t told me?”

  “If you keep looking at me that way, we’ll never make to this feast,” Lormac replied, then worried he had gone too far. He did not want to do or say anything that would jeopardize the carefully constructed trust that now lay between them. To his relief, she was unoffended.

  “And that simply wouldn’t do,” she said, stretching to kiss his chin. With that, the Lord and Lady of Tingu entered the grand hall, and the sacred feast of Madoc’na commenced.

  ###

  As Lormac and Asherah entered the hall, Caol’nir and the rest watched the king and queen make their way toward the dais. Their progress was slow as every lord and lady in attendance stopped to congratulate them, and swear allegiance to the new queen. Caol’nir wondered if others found it odd that the elf king would take a faerie as his mate, especially since Lormac was rumored to have the purest bloodline in Tingu.

  Some claimed that the king’s son wasn’t a pureblood elf, and that Lormac had a penchant for women of other races. The rumor was that Leran’s mother was a nymph who had enchanted the king to get with child and dilute the royal elfin bloodline, but when the boy was born the spell shattered and Lormac cast her out. While Caol’nir could believe that Leran’s mother was a nymph, he doubted that Lormac had been enchanted in any way. Men were men, regardless if they were kings or swineherds, and if Leran’s mother was as lovely as they said Caol’nir understood exactly what Lormac had seen in her. Caol’nir smiled to himself as he felt the ribbon on his wrist, and knew that Alluria had been right: people readily believed in legends.

  As Caol’nir thought of his mate, he absently brushed his new sword, the hilt set with a blue gem that matched Alluria’s sapphire gaze. Grelk had impressed twining herbs upon the length of the blade, an amazing feat for one with fingers the size of saplings. Caol’nir had been specific about the six herbs he wanted represented and in which order. Grelk had grumbled and complained, but the finished product had been well worth it. Grelk had also insisted on making Caol’nir’s new sword himself; trolls have long memories, and Grelk remembered when Solon had descended from the skies. Caol’nir had been flattered by the troll king’s insistence, but that quickly gave way to frustration.

  “None of these are blue enough,” Caol’nir said when Grelk had shown him the thousandth blue gem. “These are blue like the sky, blue like the sea, but her eyes are so much… richer.” Caol’nir sifted through the stones while Grelk looked on. “Forgive me,” Caol’nir apologized, worried that he had offended the troll. “I just have an idea of how I want it to look. I don’t mean to trouble you so.”

  “No trouble, Solon-son,” Grelk said. “Blade difficult to make, but no trouble.”

  “That’s what I meant. I don’t wish to make things difficult for you,” Caol’nir said. He had long since stopped trying to get Grelk to refer to him by his actual name. “Any sword will do.”

  “No, Solon-son. I make Solon’s sword, I make his son’s sword.” With that, Grelk produced a pouch from beneath his beard. Caol’nir wondered what else was buried in there, being that he could see a few mushrooms and what might have been a bird’s nest huddled in the depths. “I keep this special for you.”

  Caol’nir opened the pouch and tumbled an assortment of stones into his hand, not the smooth stones that were in the basket but gems cut and polished to a brilliant shine, each a deeper blue than the last. He selected one that was half the size of Alluria’s palm and held it up to the light.

  “This is it,” he proclaimed, grinning at the troll. “This is the color of her eyes.”

  “I put in hilt,” Grelk said as he took the stone, then turned away.

  “Wait!” Caol’nir grabbed the troll’s shoulder. “That gem must be priceless. Let me select another.”

  “Worry not, Solon-son. I make for you.” Caol’nir protested, and counted out gold coins. “Coin no good. I make, you kill.”

  “How can you not charge me for such a weapon? You time, your effort; you deserve to be compensated!”

  “When Solon come from sky, he save not only faerie and elf, but troll, too. Grelk no forget. You get new sword, Solon-son.”

  “I am not his son,” Caol’nir explained for the hundredth time.

  “Fool me,” the troll said, smiling so his grizzled teeth poked through his beard. “Look like him, act like him, could be him.” Grelk lumbered away, then called over his shoulder, “You have sword five days.”

  “That’s what you said ten days ago,” grumbled Caol’nir. Five days was in truth twenty-three, but in the end, Grelk produced the finest sword Caol’nir had ever seen. He couldn’t wait to show it to Alluria, tangible proof that though they had been apart, he never stopped thinking of her.

  Caol’nir was itching to leave the Seat and march south, back to his home and to his love. While he had not attended a Madoc’na in the past, Caol’nir was well aware of the purpose of the feast: it honored Nexa’s firstborn, Madoc, who had feasted his enemies with endless casks of ale, then bedded their women while his enemies slept and conquered them the next day. Nowadays the king wasn’t expected to lie with all the women, but Caol’nir knew the feast would become little more than an orgy by midnight, and he had no intention of participating. Three winters ago he would have eagerly anticipated the event, but that was before. His mate brought out the good in him, and he wanted nothing more than to be the honorable man she deserved.

  “How long are we expected to remain?” Caol’nir whispered to Tor.

  “Don’t worry, things will be quite calm for most of the night,” Tor reassured him; earlier he had told Caol’nir that this was the fourth Madoc’na he had attended. Caol’nir wondered how long his father planned to stay during this feast. “Lormac has just now reached his throne.”

  Caol’nir watched Lormac and Asherah as they wound their way through the throng of well-wishers, finally reaching the dais. Lormac had asked Grelk to construct a throne for his new queen in white metal, studded with blue gems and polished to a mirror sheen. Lormac had wanted to surprise Asherah with it, and ju
dging by her shocked expression, he had.

  “I don’t think Asherah was expecting that,” Caol’nir said to his father. “Look at her smile.”

  “Lormac is nothing if not a good man,” Tor proclaimed loudly enough for the elfin warriors seated around them. “And a good man seeks to please his mate,” he added with a wink. Caol’nir’s thoughts returned to Alluria, not that his thoughts were ever far from her. He knew that Alluria disliked living at Teg’urnan, and Caol’nir resolved to take her to wherever she would be happiest, even if it meant the cold north surrounded by elves and trolls. He began to tell his father, but there was a commotion at the far end of the hall.

  “What is happening?” Caol’nir demanded.

  “Lord Drustan.” Tor jerked his head toward the rear entrance. Caol’nir’s gaze followed; the king of the dark fae’s arrival was causing an uproar during Lormac’s Madoc’na. “He has always enjoyed making an entrance.”

  Drustan the Dark looked a great deal like Sahlgren in that he was short for a faerie, with slick black hair and a stocky build. Tor was easily a head taller than Drustan, Caol’nir more so. Drustan swaggered as he approached the dais, as if he was doing Lormac a favor with his attendance.

  Lormac, not sharing his sentiment, cast him an icy glare, settling his queen on his knee rather than upon her new throne. When Drustan arrived at the base of the dais, Lormac eyed him with thinly veiled contempt.

  “My lord,” Drustan said as he and his men bowed low.

  “You’re interrupting my feast, Drustan,” Lormac said, his voice booming across the crowded hall. “Have you come to congratulate me?”

  “I’m here in response to your summons,” Drustan replied.

  “I summoned you nearly a season past,” Lormac stated. “You’ve ignored me until now.”

  “That was in the depths of winter,” Drustan cried. “We needed to wait for the thaw.”