Love is My Sin: Oathcursed, Book 2

by Julia Knight

  Break his oath, he loses his soul. Keep it—and he loses his heart.

  Oathcursed, Book 2

  Devastated crops force regent Lord Hunter to do the one thing he always swore he’d never do: form an alliance with the neighboring tribal kingdom. The oath to offer his beloved foster son in marriage, however, begins digging holes in his heart the moment he meets the intended bride. He can’t afford to fall in love with the alluring Reethan Chieftain, not if he’s to keep his oath—and his soul—intact.

  Nerinna has always used her charms to manipulate her tribal chiefs, as tradition demands. But Lord Hunter’s honest, passionate nature intrigues her like no other man’s has before, challenging her cynical notions. Her wiles have no effect on him. In fact, her every action only seems to alienate him more.

  Although their desire hangs thick and heavy in the air, Hunter keeps to the letter of his oath—until the god of justice decrees that Hunter must die. Nerinna knows of only one way to save him: offer herself in exchange. It’s a sacrifice Hunter can’t allow her to make, but to defy the priest means he must choose a side.

  With his god—or against him.

  Warning: Includes a sultry temptress, a noble hero, a fatal attraction, a sarcastic wizard, a forbidden passion, a vengeful god, a sly priest and a religious war. Oh, and people spontaneously combusting.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Love is My Sin

  Copyright © 2010 by Julia Knight

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-874-1

  Edited by Deborah Nemeth

  Cover by Amanda Kelsey

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Love Is My Sin

  Julia Knight

  Dedication

  For Aran. My own sweet prince.

  Prologue: Ilfayne

  Down through the ages I fought, unwilling and oft alone, and now she fights beside me. I have destroyed a continent. I have defeated a god and thrown him down into the Dark. I have destroyed that god’s greatest power left on this world. I have caused his chief lieutenant to cease to exist even in the afterlife. But still it does not end. It will never end. He still has power, even in the Dark.

  To destroy the dark god Mithotyn and all his servants, until our deaths or the end of the world, that is our charge. To do only what we are commanded to do. We cannot turn aside. There will be no rest for us, feared and despised wherever we go. No peace but the everlasting nothingness that awaits us when we die. No sweet promise of the Halls to console us, not even the dread company of the Bitter Dark after death. Our fight will never end. We serve our master forever.

  But we dream, Hilde and I. We dream.

  Hunter

  Ganberg, capital of Ganheim

  “Kyr’s mercy, these figures must be wrong.” Lord Hunter dropped the slew of papers onto his desk and stared out the window at the rose-pink granite of the city of Ganberg. The trouble with the figures was that there weren’t enough of them. The entire year’s harvest of wheat, barley and oats had been devastated by some disease no one had seen before and no one could cure. Thousands of acres had produced nothing more than straw. There would be no bread, no feed for the livestock in the harsh winter. The lands of Ganheim and Armand teetered on the brink of starvation.

  “The surveyors assure me the figures are correct, my Lord Regent,” Sannir said.

  Hunter stared at the people milling about below, the temples, the statues that dotted the square. Thought about the panic this news would bring. He scrubbed his good hand up his short beard and rubbed at his eyes. “Very well, Sannir, thank you.”

  Sannir slid from the room. Hunter turned away from the window, sagged into his chair and stared at the drawer that held the duria. His hand trembled at the thought. Not yet. Too soon since his last drop. Yet his arm ached for release from the pain, his body craved the drug that unravelled the knots in his muscles and his mind. He slid the drawer open and looked at the vial. His fist tightened with the effort not to take it out. Not now. Soon, but not now.

  A knock at the door jarred him upright and sent a new wave of pain through his arm. He slammed the drawer shut as the young king bounded in with his sister Amma at his heels. Aran had grown up well, a gangly lad of sixteen who promised to become as strapping as his father and a fine man. Not Hunter’s son, not in name or ancestry, but the son of his heart. And sweet little Amma, not so little now. And the pair of them the only reason he was here and not at home. The reason he kept the duty of regent which had been thrust upon him, like it or no.

  Amma drifted over and with a gentle hand stroked at the lines of care that furrowed his brow. “You look tired. You should sleep. Or have more fun. Maybe the Reethan ambassador will bring someone nice for you to have fun with tonight?” She laughed to herself and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  He smiled at her, grabbed her hand and kissed it in return, her affection running the weariness from his bones. “I wish I’d time for fun. But I think there’ll be a lot less of it to go round.”

  “How bad is it?” Aran rifled through the papers and stared at them before he dropped them from trembling fingers. “Gods alive, what are we going to do?”

  Hunter shook his head and rubbed at the scar by his eye. The trouble was he didn’t know. It had taken five long, hard years to claw back this much normality since the Sorcerer’s War. Five years of hardship, want and sacrifice until Armand and Ganheim were, if not back to how they had been, at least able to feed themselves comfortably. Or had been till this news.

  “And nothing cures it?” Aran asked.

  “They’ve tried everything they can think of, and a few others just in case. Too late now though. We should be harvesting but there’s nothing to harvest. The grain we’ve stored won’t last long. Some will have to be saved for planting, in the hope this disease will have gone. The rest—the rest isn’t going to be anywhere near enough.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “Almost nothing. If an alliance were possible…” But alliance was more than unlikely. Ganheim and Armand were friendless and trapped between the nomads to the south and the Reethan to the north and east. Though the Reethan army, and thus almost every man of age, had been destroyed in the war, Armand and Ganheim had fared little better and didn’t yet have the resources to harry them. And the Reethan ambassador’s arrival was just too nicely timed. Hunter’s bones ached with weariness. He shifted his bad arm into a more comfortable position with a grimace.

  “Are you sure it’s not?” Aran asked.

  Amma sat on the arm of Hunter’s chair and massaged his shoulder, eased out the kinks with digging fingers that sent spikes of pain through his shoulder before the muscles relaxed. Gods but she could be evil and kind at the same time.

  “No, but look at the options. You think the nomads will suddenly overcome centuries of hatred? Or that the Reethan will find it in their hearts to give us the food we need? Or if they will, and this sudden visit is an indicato
r of that, don’t you think there will be something else behind it? Something we can’t afford? The Reethan aren’t known for their charity. It might well be that he’s here for that, that their Chieftain Nerinna knows how much grain we have down to the last kernel.”

  Hunter rubbed at his shoulder as Amma finished her massage. Kyr’s mercy, that felt better. “From everything I’ve heard, she’s a shrewd woman. She’s ruled that country since she was not that much older than you, and still it hasn’t dissolved back into a group of tribes who only love one thing more than fighting each other, and that’s fighting someone else. That doesn’t mean we’d be better off taking the food they’ll no doubt offer. Because what we’ll have to offer in return might well break us. We have nothing to offer.”

  Aran frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but a knock at the door silenced him. At Hunter’s call, Sannir came back in.

  “Well?” Hunter couldn’t keep the tired irritation from his voice.

  Sannir blinked in surprise at his terse tone and stammered out his few words. “You’d best come quick, sir.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s Valguard, sir. He, er, well he…”

  Hunter had never known Sannir be quite so lost for words. That was why he was sergeant, because he had forgotten what nervousness was when he was fourteen. Hunter’s stomach seemed to drop to his knees. “What’s he done now?”

  Valguard had long been a stone in his shoe. The Chief Priest of Oku, head of the Justice Disciples, he’d never quite forgiven Hunter for becoming regent over him, among other things. But lately, as times grew thinner, Valguard grew stronger in the faith. And meaner with it.

  Sannir opened and closed his mouth once or twice, as if practising how best to put it. In the end he just came out with it. “He arrested your personal guard for tonight. Both of them. For heresy.” His face screwed up, as though to ward off a sudden flame.

  “For heresy? Don’t be ridiculous.” But by the look on Sannir’s face he was far from jesting. Hunter’s fingers tightened once more into a fist and he had to work to keep his voice level. “How exactly are they supposed to have done that?”

  Because though Hunter and Valguard might have different views on things, heresy had never been a sore issue before. And to arrest a man for that— In Ganheim they didn’t hang men for many crimes, but heresy was one of them. Those men were his personal guard. Men all well known to him. Valguard had best have some good reason for this.

  Hunter stood up, clenched and released his fist in an attempt to stay calm. Once he wouldn’t have made the effort, would have gone blasting down to Valguard in a fit of anger. He still wanted to; something about Valguard always brought his temper to the fore and he was often sorely tempted to let it show. But as regent he didn’t have that luxury. Still, his teeth were clamped tight as he left and there was a hot ache behind his eyes, a shout of rage stiff in his throat waiting for release.

  He left Aran and Amma behind. This was his business, not any of theirs, not even the king, young as he was. Because it was Hunter who Valguard had trouble with. He who the Disciples had lately taken to whispering about when they could, when they thought Hunter would not hear of it. That he was a murderer, an associate of mages. A heretic. Only vague whispers so far. And only one of them was true.

  Hunter had associated with magic during the war, with the dreaded mage Ilfayne. Not by choice, but because he’d sworn an oath to the legend that had been Regin the Wolf, a man any Gan would follow rather than their own king, if he asked it.

  Sannir led Hunter down the worn steps to the cells. They came to his guards, who looked bruised and angry. The younger one was only married a few months, a babe on the way. The older had four, or was it five, children. And neither one Hunter would have thought capable of this. He would have trusted them with everything he had, or they wouldn’t be his guards. But then every man adhered to the god Oku, keeper of oaths and justice. To a promise made.

  “What happened?” The pent-up anger in Hunter’s voice made the guards jump in alarm.

  “Nothing!” said the older. “I swear. We had a beer coming off duty like, just one seeing as we’re working later, and someone said, ‘How’s the shrine?’ And I said, ‘Regin’s been getting a lot of visitors just lately.’ That’s it. All I said. I swear it, on whoever you want to name. Then the Disciples came found us when we left, when we was alone, and made up a whole load of stuff we said and did. I never attacked no Disciple, sir, I ain’t that daft.”

  “You swear that’s the truth?”

  Both of them nodded vigorously and Hunter knew them well enough to believe them. What was Valguard up to? Whatever it was, there would be hot words exchanged between regent and priest before tonight was over. And if he did not have the duty of regency, there would have been more than just words.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have the pair of you out of here. Just settle down and I’ll see to Valguard.”

  Empty words perhaps. For all his anger, his wish to take a sword to Valguard, as regent he had little power over the Chief Priest and his Disciples. They were the gods’ law, and as such almost inviolable. He must keep his temper in check, however hard that might be. He had to because he knew, none better, what it felt like to be in a cell waiting your own hanging for a crime you didn’t commit.

  Sannir led the way back up the stairs and Hunter gave him his instructions. “I’ve no time now before this bloody dinner. Valguard certainly picks his times. Send out who you can spare to find out exactly what went on. What we need are witnesses. That’s the only way I can overrule Valguard. When’s the trial?”

  “First thing in the morning, my lord.”

  “Then you’d best hurry.”

  Hunter had to hurry himself. There was little enough time to make himself presentable before the dinner for the Reethan ambassador. And what exactly did he want? It had puzzled him ever since the ambassador had arrived in the southern port of Mimirin four days ago and sent a messenger ahead to request an audience, though today’s news about the grain might answer that. Had Nerinna known before he had, or was it a lucky guess? Or something else entirely? He wished there had been time to study them in the last few years, but they had barely looked outside their own borders. The Reethan had stayed within theirs, and that had been enough, at least while Ganheim and Armand were in such a mess.

  He gave the black wolf’s head on his breastplate a final polish and hesitated before he left. The drawer in his desk called to him, to open it up and take what he kept inside. Duria. The longer he went without it, the stronger this recently reawakened pain ran through his muscles like fire. The more they twisted with it. But he would need his wits about him tonight.

  Without him being aware of it, he’d taken the vial from the drawer and set it on the desk. He stared at it, like a man dying of thirst might stare at a well. Then he put it back in the drawer and shut it firmly out of sight with a trembling hand. Later. He could have some later, once he’d dealt with both the ambassador and Valguard. And maybe, just maybe, it would push back the pain enough and allow him some sleep.

  Two guards were ready outside his door and they made their way to the Great Hall.

  Apart from the space allotted for the Reethan and an area for dancing later, the hall was packed. Not surprising; many Gan had never seen a Reethan. A few came to trade occasionally but not many, and their general enmity for anyone not Reethan was legendary. Which had made the ambassador even more of a surprise.

  Hunter took his place on the dais. Aran was already there in the chair to his right and Amma darted in and took her place on Aran’s other side, looking flushed and excited.

  Valguard, a hard-faced man who always seemed to Hunter as though his faith had dried him out, paced in sedately only moments before the ambassador. Hunter did not have the chance to say anything before the Reethan were announced. Valguard smiled slightly at him as they stood to greet their guests, and Hunter’s fist itched with anger. Smug bastard. Anything he wanted to say to the priest
would have to wait. But his words would be hotter for the waiting.

  The Reethan ambassador entered, along with a sizable retinue. He was an older man with a halt leg, one reason perhaps he’d been spared the decimation in the war. But his darkly tanned face was a mass of tattoos that showed he’d some success on the battlefield before that.

  Fadeen, head of Gazir tribe, he was announced, and Hunter had to stop his eyebrows from rising in surprise. The Gazir tribe was one of the more powerful among the Reethan and the most rabidly in support of the chieftain’s rule of her tempestuous tribes. It spoke a lot that Nerinna had willingly sent him into the heart of her oldest enemies.

  Fadeen bowed as though the movement was unfamiliar and spoke in a heavy accent. “Thank you for your welcome.”

  After the formalities were done with, the meal started. Fadeen was courteous but as dinner progressed his impatience became more apparent, his fingers twitching on his wineglass. Hunter’s own impatience was directed at Amma, who flirted outrageously with the young Reethan opposite her despite Hunter’s best efforts, and with Valguard, who did little but make sniping little comments that managed to dart at Hunter all too keenly.

  “How long will you be staying?” Valguard asked Fadeen. “If you have the time, I would be honoured to show you some of our customs. For instance, we have a trial in the morning. Heretics.” He said the last word as though it made his mouth feel filthy, and Hunter tried not to imagine how satisfying it would be to punch him.

  Fadeen raised an eyebrow. “It sounds most educational, but as soon as my business is finished I’ll be leaving. In the morning, I hope.”

  “And your business is?” Valguard asked, and several Reethan gasped at his impropriety.

  Fadeen merely favoured him with a long stare and an icily polite “With the regent.”

  Valguard sat back sharply as though he had been slapped.