The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Always.”

  “Waiting for me.”

  He inclined his head briefly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I couldn’t not watch you or wait for you.”

  “And I never looked at you.”

  “Now that is blatantly untrue. You’ve danced with me, plotted war with me . . .”

  “Yes, but, not like I’m seeing you now.” And she moved a bit under him, reminding him how close their bodies were and how much she tempted him.

  “I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

  “Oh, it is.” She wrenched a hand free and put it up to trace the corner of his brow and brush back a stray bit of hair there. “It’s too bad Sinok and Bistel are gone.”

  He frowned a bit. “Why?”

  “Because they would have pushed for this alliance.”

  “I was a boy when your grandfather ruled.”

  “True. He held a certain distrust for your father as well. He couldn’t understand why Bistel would have the inherited title of Warlord and yet be happiest tending the fields and groves of his lands. Or why the aryns flourished so greatly for your blood.”

  “My father used to say the guilty had just cause to be wary of the innocent because the innocent had never found their limit yet, so they didn’t know how far they could be tested.”

  Lara laughed softly at that. “A man must be broken.”

  “A man must know what could break him, so he can be prepared to handle it rather than be shocked or used by it.”

  She wiggled under him again, getting comfortable, despite his ever increasing awareness of her. “And that was why Bistel was a Warlord. He looked at life like a strategy for . . . well, living. Victory.”

  “No. Not victory. Survival. And, once having survived, being able to reach for fulfillment. Joy.”

  “Joy,” she repeated. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Why bother to live if there is no joy in it? No love?” His nose nearly met hers with her soft mouth just a touch away. He thought of hesitating, of pulling back and releasing Lara, and then he thought of what he’d just said. For once, he thought he knew exactly what Bistel had meant. He claimed a kiss from her—soft, slow, and gentle at first—with a heat behind it rising that she answered eagerly. After that kiss came another, and then the desire to taste her skin and her response to nibble him back and that progressed wonderfully until it didn’t matter who was the victor and who the surrendered, and he had taught her what he meant and needed by love and joy.

  The morning passed into late afternoon before they were truly done with one another, and Lara lay so quietly beside him, he thought she’d gone to sleep. He tensed his muscles so that he could ease from under her outflung arm, letting her rest, but she lifted her head.

  “I hope you have an explanation for this, when my dresser asks me how I got the imprint of a dagger’s haft on my ass.” And with her other arm, she wrenched the blade from under her and held it up, only to let it clatter back to the arena floor.

  “My apologies! I’m only sorry you didn’t discover it sooner.”

  “I was . . . occupied.” And she kissed the side of his jaw.

  “I was going to use that for my excuse.”

  She laughed.

  “That’s a rare sound.”

  She nodded. “I’m much too solemn, I admit. It seemed the rulerly thing to do. I didn’t dare laugh before Sinok passed, and I had little to laugh about after.”

  “Tranta used to coax one out of you now and then.”

  She tucked a wave of molten gold behind her ear. “He had that easy way, didn’t he? Of course we all knew his true love was the sea.”

  “No woman could stand that competition.”

  “Indeed.”

  Silence curled up about them again. Lara slid a hand into his. “I’m going to say something, and I want you to consider it seriously.”

  The corner of his mouth went up in curiosity. “All right,” he said cautiously.

  “Not that it wouldn’t be helpful to me, to Larandaril, but mostly because it’s something I want—marry me.”

  His mouth worked, but not a word came out.

  Lara considered him. “Is it that bad?”

  “N-no! But unexpected.”

  “Perhaps I should have approached it strategically.”

  “There’d be no argument there, if I were to consider a diplomatic viewpoint on the proposal.”

  “But you have an argument?”

  Bistane cleared his throat. He said, carefully, “No argument as long as you think you could love me, someday, as much as I love you.”

  “There’s an argument in there?”

  “An important one.”

  She traced his lips with a finger. “I plan on it. I hope for it. Only time will tell us if I’m successful. But I already do love, and that’s a beginning, isn’t it?”

  “One of the best.” He sat up, and drew her close to him, his lips at her delicately pointed ear. “Marry me, as I will marry you.”

  “Done.” She laughed again and threw her arms about his shoulders.

  “When do you wish to make the announcement?”

  “My scribes will want to do fancy engravings and printings, but I think I will have them send birds out tomorrow morning. I don’t want to wait any longer. I hear,” and she brushed her lips over his cheek, “that Abayan Diort camps on the border, to be helpful if he might and to be a suitor, if called for. I think it’s time we thanked him for his attentions.”

  “He has been a help.”

  “I know. But he’s not for me.”

  “Understood. And what about . . . everything else.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Everything else? The ritual, the celebration? I don’t want to wait. I want to take the Moonlit Walk with you as soon as the skies allow.”

  “Now you’re in a hurry.”

  “Yes. I’ve wasted too much time already. I want to be selfish.”

  “Done, then. I remind you it was your decision to wait this long.”

  “I’m glad I waited, but I do miss one thing about the young man you used to be.”

  “Oh?”

  “You used to sing. Quite a lot.”

  “Ah. Well, it doesn’t feel seemly for me now, what with minding the troops and two kingdoms and all.”

  “Right now, you’re not minding anything but me. Sing me something.”

  He looked at her eyes, those same brilliant eyes before they’d made love, but now her lids curved into a sulky, pleasured expression. And so he sang for her one of his favorite songs of years past, about a boy wondering on the love he’d just discovered, a long leisurely song which put both of them to sleep before he could finish.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  BISTANE SAW IT COMING. He saw it, he felt it, his muscles all bunched to move but not fast enough, and red pain lashed up the side of his head, taking him down. He threw out a hand to catch himself and felt his wrist tweak as it bent under his awkward weight, adding another lance of sharp pain through him. He hit then, in a cloud of agony and darkness that descended on him so quickly, he only caught a bit of Lara’s dismay and scream.

  He rolled onto his back. The lack of pain or even feeling anywhere except in his skull told him that something untoward surrounded him. That and the fact he could not see through the shrouds of ebony around him. He tried his voice.

  “Where?”

  “Where all good soldiers go at some time in their life.”

  Bistane put a hand to the side of his head where he’d been hit. It came away sticky as he thought it would. It smelled of blood, that metallic tang, that subtle other scent that people couldn’t quite identify but any of the war dogs he owned would. Gradually his vision returned until he could see his hands, his fingers smeared with crimson, bu
t not the surface he had fallen upon. He realized he couldn’t hear Lara at all.

  “Father.”

  “Son.” Bistel moved within view, folded his long legs, and sat. On what, Bistane couldn’t quite tell, but it was something. Tree stump, ottoman, saddle, cushion—who knew.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think so?”

  “Because of what you said.”

  Bistel’s even voice rose a bit. “What I said? What blame do you put on me for foolish thoughts—ah. Yes, you could have misinterpreted me. Forgive me, then. I meant only that you’d had all the sense knocked out of you. Occupational hazard, I would think.”

  “Not if one can help it.” Bistane sat up, head aching, but not his wrist which gave him pause because he knew he’d done damage to that as well. He flexed his right hand cautiously. Nothing. He shrugged and looked to his father. “Nice to have the company, I suppose.”

  “There’s nothing nice about this visit. It is necessary.” Bistel cut his hand through the air, his signal to prepare for a charge, and all the darkness about them fled before an onslaught of light. “This is a court of Gods, and they are about to convene on Kerith. You must know what you’re facing.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the table revealed, with various high elven sitting about it, arguing amongst themselves, their aspect handsome yet brittle as though the comfortable, honest, qualities of aging had been carved away from them. “Are they aware?”

  “Of you in this moment? Not yet. Of Kerith, very much so.”

  “Are they our Gods?”

  “If you speak of Kerith, no. If you speak of Trevalka, our home, yes.”

  Trevalka. The spoken word jolted home internally. Brought a sting to his eyes and a momentary halt to his heart, as if he’d been struck with an ineffable power that touched him, seized him far harder than he’d have thought possible. He leaned forward. “Our lost world.”

  “Not so lost and, more probably, no longer ours.” Bistel scratched the underside of his chin thoughtfully. “I barely remembered it, and you never had cause to think of it as home.”

  “Is it what you remember?”

  “No.” Bistel stood. As he did, he became more solid and clearer, his boots, his hands, the clarity of his sharp blue eyes deepened. “Our writings, what few remained, and what few we could decipher, for the magic that brought us here was meant to devastate us in totality, and nearly did . . . what few we could count as memories . . . told us of a fertile land. A land made prosperous by our ability to invent and build well, and to hold our farmers and tradesmen in kind regard for the work they did. What I see now is poisoned. Troubled. A land that is dying. And it was done to keep one woman in power, to increase her power, to put us in exile who would have opposed her.”

  “And what of these Gods? They wouldn’t stop it?”

  “They ride on the backs of the people who believe in them. They draw their godly powers from those same souls, having none of their own without that support. I’m not sure I would even call them Gods, except that now they do have power and a capricious ability to use it.”

  “And you said they had their eyes on Kerith.”

  “Yes.” Bistel nodded to him. “Kerith is young. Promising. New. Fresh. For all the damage the Mageborn did to it, it’s still relatively unspoiled. The pooled magics of the badlands are, unfortunately, an additional enticement to those who can siphon them off. Having been given a glimpse of our world, over the bridge Trevilara had built, the Gods want nothing more than to rule Kerith.” Bistel turned his face away, assessing the court.

  “We have our own Gods.”

  “We do, indeed, and they are beginning to rouse, but they are not such as these. Kerith’s Gods are sunk deep into the basic elements of the world, and are dispersed throughout, no one with any great power in one place except for those anomalies such as earth-breaking events or terrible storms which can arise. They cannot defend themselves against such as these, unless it would be to band together and destroy the world as a whole, to destroy these Gods.” Bistel faced him again.

  “What can I do?”

  “What any of us can hope to do. Live. Rise to meet the challenge. Prepare. Take whatever life offers you while you can.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, congratulations on finally having taken steps with Lara.”

  Bistane would have answered that, but pain began to throb in the side of his head, and he became aware of warmth sliding down his face, at war with a cold, rough cloth in the same area, and a massive throbbing ache that ruled his wrist. The court of Gods grew blurry though not before all of them turned, en masse, and focused on him.

  “We have another one of them,” a beautiful but hollow sounding woman said.

  “He knows how to break the chains. Crush him now.”

  Caught between one heartbeat and the next, Bistane could only curl his lip in defiance at them as Kerith reached up to snatch him out of harm’s way. His last awareness was not of the Gods of Trevalka hurling epithets at him, but of his father’s calm voice saying, “It is war, Bistane, but we are warriors.”

  He wanted to tell his father something important that occurred to him just as he was yanked away, his thoughts reeling and then impaled on sharp blades as he began to gain consciousness. He grunted and threw a hand out to protect himself as a cold, rough cloth scraped over the wound, bringing his eyes open.

  “Gods above and below,” Lara said. “I thought I’d killed you!”

  He caught her and then yelped as it sent shocks through his wrist.

  Lara scrunched down even lower. “Sarota is on her way. Your wrist, too?” She probed at it gently.

  “Tried to break my fall.”

  “Of course.” Lara damped her rag and put it to his head again, and he gently took it from her fingers and held it in place himself. She rocked back a little. Her hair hung in gold-and-silver wisps about her face, and there was a tear trail down one perfect cheekbone, through the dirt on her face. “I thought I’d killed you,” she said again.

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  “You should have rolled with it!”

  “If I had seen it coming a little sooner, yes. As it was, I managed to keep my head on my shoulders.”

  She put her fist to her mouth, muffling her words. “I know. I didn’t realize you’d gone to rest and we’d disengaged. I have no way of catching you that much off guard otherwise.”

  “Actually, you do. You’ve trained well. And I—” He thought to stand, but the world went sideways and slid out from under him. “I think I’ll just wait here on the ground for Sarota.”

  “That might be wise.” She started to add something, but then the shadows of approaching figures touched them and she fell silent as Sarota hurried into the area, a basket of simples under her arm.

  “Now,” Sarota commented as she dropped down beside Bistane. “I was expecting to see my lady on her ass, not you.”

  “Her technique has improved.”

  “So I see.” Sarota frowned as she pulled his hand and cloth away. “You’ll need stitches. Honey should be a good enough poultice. I have a few herbs for a drink you’ll need to take. You’ll have a dashing scar just behind your left eyebrow and over your temple.”

  “It’ll give me that sardonic look I’ve been lacking.”

  Sarota traded looks with Lara. “Seems you haven’t jogged his brain too badly.”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “I know, it often is with men.” Deftly she cleaned his wound, not caring if he yelped or gasped, and even more deftly pulled the skin flaps together and stitched it. Something she’d put on numbed the skin a bit, but he was used to stitching and put it out of his mind, except for the pulling. That always unnerved him a bit. He could tell when she knotted the thread off and broke it, albeit sharply, between her fingers because the last tug pulled smartly and he hissed through
his lips.

  Sarota laughed softly. “Such a brave one. Now let’s have a look at the wrist.” He put his forearm across her thigh while she expertly probed the wrist, then popped it back into place with a gentle manipulation. “Wear wraps on it for a few days. Soak it as you would one of the horses. You’ll be lame for a bit, but nothing is broken. No more sparring till it heals sound, or else you’ll tear a ligament permanently, understand?”

  “Perfectly.” He rotated his wrist a bit gingerly, but it felt better than it had. It would be sore for the better part of a week, though, unless he missed his guess.

  “I’ll have that potion sent . . . where?”

  “My offices,” Lara said. She stood smoothly and brought him up by the elbow.

  “Done.”

  “Our thanks.”

  Sarota waved it off. “It’s what you hired me for.” She closed her basket as she walked off, telling the young apprentice who’d said not a word but stood nearby watching with keen eyes everything that had transpired, and now took notes, hurrying to keep up with the long stride of her teacher.

  “Your office?”

  “We have logistics to plan, haven’t we?”

  “I thought we were just going to Calcort.”

  “I think a visit to Hawthorne as well would be advisable.”

  “You’d leave Larandaril alone that long?”

  “Farlen knows what must be done.”

  “The ranks are thin.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I saw most of them die; to me, it’s as if it happened yesterday.” She took a moment. “I have to recruit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Calcort isn’t big enough to fulfill the needs. Hence, Hawthorne.”

  “It’s your ass,” he told her. “You’ve not done that much riding in a long while.”

  “And what’s wrong with my ass?” She feigned a look over her shoulder as they crossed the arena.

  “Nothing, but it’s going to be too sore for me to so much as think of touching it before that trip is over.”

  “Then make sure my saddle is padded with a skin.”

  “Majesty! Are you that green a horsewoman?”