Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

by Madison Hayes

  * * * * *

  Petra hugged her arms and murmured in her sleep. She was back in her cell. It was cold. She whimpered. Davik had…Davik had…

  Petra awoke with a start. It was past dawn.

  Davik had loved her. Last night. Most of the night, actually.

  She bolted into a sitting position and gazed around her with sudden apprehension, sudden realization. “Davik?”

  Then she was on her feet and moving, as she cursed with the rustic vocabulary of a soldier. “—Dye,” she spat at the end of a vicious stream of adjectives. Struggling into her clothes, she whistled for her mount, threw herself onto its back, and rode hell-bent for Veronix.

  * * * * *

  Locked in his rooms on his mother’s orders, The Heir groaned as he watched the lone rider streak toward the city walls. He hammered on his door and roared for his mother. When the doors swung open, he almost hugged the woman in his relief. “I’m ready,” he gasped. “Let’s get on with it.” His long stride took him down the corridor at a brisk pace, forcing his mother into a near-run as she tried to keep up with her formerly recalcitrant son, now evidently keen on wedding.

  He was keen, alright—keen his mother should not know about the rider who had just swept inside the gates—praying that Dye would somehow find her before his mother’s men did.

  “…and do you know what these barbarians have planned for your wedding feast,” his mother was complaining breathlessly. “Barbeque! Barbeque! What will Queen Tien think of us?”

  He swept into the hall with all the handsome confidence of a Khallic Prince, ignored the many attendants who filled the room, and approached The Old Queen unwaveringly, took her hand and kissed it. Her black hair had long since turned white. Her skin stretched over her face, crinkled and creased everywhere, but without sagging anywhere. He looked into the old woman’s eyes and was surprised. As always, her expression was solemn, but her keen gray eyes laughed.

  She stood to accept his greeting and he was surprised again. She had always been taller than he; she must be shrinking with age, he thought. The idea made him melancholy; The Old Queen was a lone paragon in a world filled with deceit and self-serving avarice. And he felt guilty, knowing he would disappoint this woman—as he was sure to do—when he found his way back to Petra.

  “Prince Davik,” she said, and her voice did not waver or creak. “How handsome you’ve grown. Small wonder my granddaughter snapped up your tender for wedding.” She pulled the Khallic Prince to sit beside her. “I trust you can be entertaining as well? A sense of humor is important in a wedded relationship. I hope you can rise to the challenge.” She regarded him expectantly.

  Damn. That was putting him on the spot. He honest-to-god could not think of anything amusing in his situation. And the Queen wasn’t joking; she was serious about humor. She had wed a Westerman with a brilliant wit, overlooking entirely his horribly scarred face. “A sense of humor is required in wedding? Is that a hard and fast rule?”

  Her old lips quirked upward.

  “Or shall we save hard and fast to fill some other wedding requirement? On either count, I assure you I will rise to the challenge.”

  Queen Tien smiled her approval as a steady tramp grew outside the hall’s doors. Davik braced himself, hoping the Princess was ugly—and dull—so he could start hating her right away, so he wouldn’t feel bad when he left her. Inwardly, he groaned. He couldn’t remember any of Tien’s granddaughters being ugly, or even what you might call plain.

  The Queen’s murmurings interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve always been fond of this one,” she was whispering to him. “She reminds me of myself when I was younger. I suppose that makes me a vain old woman. She takes after my father—Morghan.” The old woman leaned toward the Prince. “You might like a warning, though. There’s a short distance between this girl and my throne.”

  Davik turned to stare at the Queen and almost jumped when the doors swung open to admit a company of Thralls. Pink eyes blazing in chalk-white faces, the small men trooped into the hall and arranged themselves to form an honor guard for the Princess. Expectantly, the hall occupants turned toward the open door.

  A young woman stepped though the opening. A woman dressed toe to crown in crisp red silk. She was the most beautiful creature the Prince had ever seen. He rose to his feet both breathless and wordless at the sight of her as she approached him with great dignity.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “You look good in red,” he eventually managed to croak.

  “Scarlet,” she corrected him. She gave him her hand and he hurried to take it. Raising it to his lips, he placed a kiss on her scarred wrists.

  “I deserved that, didn’t I,” he said with a wince.

  She nodded. “You’re going to get everything you deserve, Davik. You should have killed me when you had the chance.” Petra smiled sweetly at the Southern Prince.

  He shook his head. “I should have made you my wife.” He stopped as dawn hit his expression. “The Ballad of Chay! Erith, the Maydayn warlord said that to Chay!” His eyes got very big. “Chay, your grandmother. You’re Chay’s granddaughter. You’re named for Petr. Petr Maghmarin.”

  “On my father’s side.”

  “And on your mother’s side?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “My grandmother is Tien.”

  Tien. The Queen of Thrall And Etc. Tien, the daughter of Morghan of Amdahl and Tahrra of Agryppa; the stuff of legends. “You’re a Princess.” These words were whispered in quiet awe.

  She shook her head. “Only a Princess’s daughter. And there are many cousins between me and the throne.”

  Davik smiled at her. Or so she thought.

  “My parents chose a simple life in Northern Khal.” He looked at her reproachfully. “It’s a large farm,” she admitted.

  He slid his hand to her elbow and guided her to the perimeter of the room. Like a yard of sunflowers, every head in the room followed them. “A moment, Queen Tien?”

  The Old Queen nodded her amused agreement.

  Davik pulled the girl into the alcoved corridor surrounding the hall and started down its length. “You’re the Princess from Northern Khal Dye said I must wed. Not a Khallic Princess; a Princess of Thrall.” His eyes rested on one long caramel leg exposed by the slit in her dress. “Morghan was dark, I’ve read.”

  “Skraeling blood,” she admitted.

  He shook his head. She was not only a Princess and the granddaughter of Morghan’s daughter. She was the granddaughter of Morghan’s general, Chay. Not only that! She was a Maghmarin. Chay had children by one of the Maghmarin brothers, although the Maghmarin responsible had never been identified with absolute certainty.

  But her last name was Maghmarin! Mithra and Donar Together at Once! And she was a brilliant strategist and captain in her own right. “I thought you’d read Chay.” He smiled at her and shook his head again. “You were just recounting family history. I never really stood a chance, did I?”

  “Not really. Although, if I were anything like Chay, that prison couldn’t have held me. She’d have gotten out one way or another. Dead or alive. Dead if need be. And whistled as she strolled through Hadi’s Gates. I’ve never been willing to sacrifice so much. I’m more like my mother, my grandmother.”

  “And your grandmother waits to attend our wedding. To protect you, and make sure the commitment is honored by me—and my mother.”

  She nodded. “When you sent the Queen your wedding offer, Dye sent my acceptance along to her at the same time. He probably mentioned something to her about your mother’s wish to see me dead, as well as her threat to replace you as The Heir. If grandmother’s missive was a bit threatening, it was to protect you as much as me. She can’t actually go to war without the council’s approval,” she reminded him. “I intend to wed you—Davik—regardless of your inheritance.”

  He smiled faintly but sincerely as he found his mother’s face across the room. “Mother will be furious.” He frowned suddenly. “Do you want all th
is? Any of this?”

  “An irate mother-in-law?”

  “An irate mother-in-law. The country of Khal. The throne one day?” He paused. “Otherwise, I have three brothers,” he reminded her. “It’s your choice.”

  She lifted her chin proudly and smiled. “Actually, I’ve a mind to rule, Davik. Or to lead, as grandmother would say.”

  He was surprised, but not disappointed.

  “I’ve a few ideas I’d like to see instituted…particularly in the area of prison reform.”

  He winced again and she smiled meanly.

  He gave the girl a sidelong look as he considered what this meant; taking into consideration Queen Tien’s earlier statement, one day Khal would probably be united with Thrall and self-rule would likely take another step west. “But. How is it my father could imprison Tien’s granddaughter?”

  “It was the only thing that saved me from hanging. I got the lashes before they realized who I was; before Grandmother intervened.”

  “She could have demanded your release.”

  “I had broken Khallic law. My sentence was not undeserved. Grandmother would intervene no further.” His eyes fell to her wrists. “She didn’t know I suffered,” she said quietly.

  “How do you intend to get through the binding ceremony?” he asked. “People might take it wrong if you faint away at the critical moment.”

  As a part of the binding ceremony, always two strands of some sort—usually meaningful, but often just slim braids of hair—were twisted together and wrapped around the couple’s wrists.

  She gave him a look of sudden realization and his eyes dropped to her wounded wrists, the wrists she couldn’t bear to have wrapped, even in linen bandages. By now they had traversed half the hall and arrived back at the doors. Together they faced the corridor formed by her honor guard.

  “Follow my lead,” he whispered, then put her hand over his arm and stepped into the hall.

  The Old Queen stood. A figure stepped from the crowd to join her. Tien smiled at her grandson, Dye, then turned to watch the young couple approach. Simultaneously, the pair sent the redhead their individual and personal glares of condemnation, the combination of which seemed to please the redhead no end; he returned them both an extreme grin.

  Taking both of their hands, Davik’s left and Petra’s right, the Queen laid their wrists atop one other and addressed the Khallic Prince. “What do you take from this woman for the binding?”

  “Only her hand do I take,” Davik answered. “Her hand to represent Northern Khal where she was born and raised, a citizen of Khal—Northern Khal’s staunchest advocate—knowing that she will bring unity to this country, wisdom and strength to the throne, to the South.” He turned his warm gaze on the woman beside him.

  Petra spoke up without hesitation. “And I take the Prince’s hand to symbolize the South, knowing he is the man to unite this country, and that he will bring leadership and temperance to the throne, to the North.”

  Their fingers met, and Khal was united when their hands formed a closing circle around their wrists.

  Epilogue

  As Davik and Petra said their vows, Warrik let out a breath of relief and nodded. “I knew they’d be alright.” He turned from Andarta’s looking glass.

  The goddess pressed her breasts into his back and reached around to stroke a hand across his wide chest.

  Warrik put his big hand over hers. “Was there something you wanted to show me, darling?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she purred warmly. “A little place on the other side of the universe. The people who inhabit it call it Earth.”

  “The other side of the universe? How in Hadi’s name do you get to it?”

  Andarta’s eyes slipped to the other side of her bedroom. “Through that door.”

  Warrik frowned. “I thought that was a clothes closet.”

  “It is.” She separated herself from him and crossed the room to open the door.

  He followed her and found her digging through a stack of shoeboxes. “Now,” she asked herself. “What did I do with it? I know I threw it in here someplace.”

  About the author:

  I slung the heavy battery pack around my hips and cinched it tight—or tried to.

  “Damn.” Brian grabbed an awl. Leaning over me, he forged a new hole in the too-big belt.

  “Any advice?” I asked him as I pulled the belt tight.

  “Yeah. Don’t reach for the ore cart until it starts moving, then jump on the back and immediately duck your head. The voltage in the overhead cable won’t just kill you. It’ll blow you apart.”

  That was my first day on my first job. Employed as an engineer, I’ve worked in an underground mine that went up—inside a mountain. I’ve swung over the Ohio River in a tiny cage suspended from a crane in the middle of an electrical storm. I’ve hung over the Hudson River at midnight in an aluminum boat—30 foot in the air—suspended from a floating barge at the height of a blizzard, while snowplows on the bridge overhead rained slush and salt down on my shoulders. You can’t do this sort of work without developing a sense of humor, and a sense of adventure.

  New to publishing, I read my first romance two years ago and started writing. Both my reading and writing habits are subject to mood and I usually have several stories going at once. When I need a really good idea for a story, I clean toilets. Now there’s an activity that engenders escapism.

  I was surveying when I met my husband. He was my ‘rod man’. While I was trying to get my crosshairs on his stadia rod, he dropped his pants and mooned me. Next thing I know, I’ve got the backside of paradise in my viewfinder. So I grabbed the walkie-talkie. “That’s real nice,” I told him, “but would you please turn around? I’d rather see the other side.”

  …it was love at first sight.

  Madison welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.

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