When she finally drew back, he found himself staring into her eyes, overwhelmed. His hand rose to the sleek transparency of her veil, gently clasping the white folds of material in his fingers. With delicate reverence he lifted the fabric and drew it slowly from her head, sliding it gently down her back. He let his arm fall to his side, still holding the white train of her veil as he traced the fingers of his other hand over the softness of her cheek, drinking in the beauty of her face. When he closed his mouth on her lips, he could almost imagine what it must feel like to be alive.
Naia’s long veil slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to land forgotten on the grass by his feet.
Godfrey Faukravar was the rightful King of Chamsbrey. But the man known infamously as the Black Prince had earned his epithet long before the crown was ever placed upon his head. Faukravar was notorious for his brutal handling of the Peasant Revolt, which had ended in the cold-blooded massacre of over three hundred commoners; men, women and children, alike. Another feather in Faukravar’s cap was the War of Five Days, when he had used the combined might of both his Northern and Southern armies to squash the small but embittered province of Glaucester that had risen up against him. The Black Prince was renowned for both his cunning political intrigues and his ruthlessly ambitious nature, a potent combination.
Darien was not looking forward to meeting the man. He was, however, eagerly anticipating the prospect of putting Faukravar in his place, as someone should have done a long time ago. In Darien’s opinion, the King of Chamsbrey was undeserving of the title. If he could be very assured that his action wouldn’t spark a civil war, Darien would have considered removing the man bodily from the throne. But there were simply too many hounds waiting under the king’s table that loitered around waiting to snap up the scraps the Black Prince threw at them now and again from his plate. If a vacuity of power ever existed on the throne of Chamsbrey, every dog of the pack would fight tooth and claw over it. Faukravar had never taken a queen, and he had no heir. And, if rumor was to be believed, the likelihood of the man siring so much as a bastard was remote.
Within, Darien heard the voice of the herald announcing them, “The First Daughter Naia Seleni, Priestess of Isap, and her escort.”
Darien had not provided his name to the sentries guarding Faukravar’s throne room. He hadn’t seen the necessity; the white cloak of the Prime Warden that fell down his back would be enough for Faukravar to identify him. If not, then the threat of his sword ought to give the man pause. Darien had donned a pair of black leather gloves just for the occasion, to cover the glaring absence of the chains on his wrists.
He stepped forward, following the white sweep of Naia’s gown through the door to the throne room. His eyes moved over the priestess’ slender figure as she walked before him, her stride a graceful sway. Unlike himself, Naia seemed very much in her element. Having been on the receiving end of her political graces, Darien appreciated having her there with him all the more. He watched as she swept forward in an elegant curtsey before the throne, bowing her head and spreading her gown.
Darien stopped at Naia’s side, lifting his eyes to regard the Black Prince coolly. He made no move to kneel before the king; by rights, it was Faukravar who should be the one on his knees. The white cloak with the Silver Star he wore outshined the radiance of any crown. But the man on the throne appeared not to even notice it. If he did, then he was certainly not ready to acknowledge the emblem of the Prime Warden that had insinuated itself unannounced into his throne room.
The Black Prince was older than Darien had expected, a man somewhere in his mid- to late-fifties. His silver hair was streaked with strands of faded brown, worn in perfect, shoulder-length curls under the golden circlet of the crown on his head. He was dressed in opulent layers of black and violet robes, an embroidered and ermine-trimmed velvet cloak covering the whole affair. Had it not been for his face, Darien would have immediately written the man off as a pansy. But Faukravar’s eyes refused to be idly dismissed. A cold, malignant power burned behind the man’s steely gaze, magnified by the harsh angles of his face. The immaculate goatee on his chin was shaped into two separate points that increased the severity of his countenance.
Faukravar’s eyes met Darien’s stare unblinking. When it became obvious that the man before him had no intention of kneeling, the king’s lips compressed to a narrow line as his glare fairly seethed in anger. One of four richly-garbed men who surrounded the throne stepped forward, a hand resting on the pommel of the ornamental sword at his waist, growling:
“One is expected to bend knee in the presence of a king.”
Darien kept his eyes trained on Faukravar, ignoring the king’s lackey. Behind him, he heard soft rustling sounds as the guards by the door tried to figure out what to do about the situation. A soft ringing noise scraped down his nerves as a blade was slowly bared. An uneasy tension spread throughout the room, growing as long moments dragged by. Darien simply waited and did nothing, while Naia remained frozen in the depth of her curtsey.
On the throne, the Black Prince blinked.
“An interesting companionship,” he uttered finally, leaning back and raising a hand to finger his wiry goatee. “A white-cloaked mage, by all appearances, and a priestess of Death. Tell me, First Daughter, how might I be of service to the Temple?”
Naia swept into motion, rising to stride forward with a swirl of her gown. “Thank you for the favor of this audience, Your Grace,” she announced in a clear and ringing voice. “But I am not here at the bequest of my temple; instead, I have come to present to you the new Prime Warden, Darien Lauchlin.”
The Black Prince glanced back at Darien skeptically, raising an eyebrow. “Another Lauchlin?” he rasped, sounding almost bored. “My, but that name does seem to be coming up rather often of late, and not always mentioned in the best of contexts. I am intrigued. But I’m also mystified; by what right do you claim the office of Prime Warden?”
“I elected myself,” Darien responded dryly.
Naia elaborated, “Darien Lauchlin is the son of Prime Warden Emelda.”
Her words served only to amuse the Black Prince. With a self-indulgent smile, he stated, “Aidan Lauchlin is also her son. Does that make him Prime Warden, as well?”
The silence that followed his words was quickly broken by the sound of nervous chuckles as the men surrounding the king responded to his dark humor. Darien merely waited patiently, unruffled.
At his side, Naia dipped her head and gestured expansively. “If I may, Your Grace? Aidan Lauchlin destroyed the Hall of the Watchers himself and ordered his own mother slain. Is that the kind of Prime Warden you would wish to replace her?”
Faukravar scowled, dismissing her argument with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter what I would wish; the title itself is empty. Aerysius is fallen. A king without a nation is not a king. And the last soldier left standing is not a general.”
This he pronounced with a taunting smile. Darien stood regarding him a moment longer, then slowly shook his head. This was enough. He’d known better than to let the man maneuver him into a corner, which was exactly what Faukravar was attempting to do. If he hadn’t, in fact, already succeeded. The sting of the king’s potent words troubled him; he couldn’t allow the man to undermine his position. Taking a step forward, he addressed the Black Prince in a carefully controlled voice:
“I’ll not be questioned over my right to my title. Whether you like it or not, I’m the last mage left alive who hasn’t sold his soul to the Six Hells.”
By the look on Faukravar’s face, the king could have cared less if he had. He asked in a patiently expectant voice, “Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask you to lend me your Northern Army,” Darien asserted, summoning all of the confidence he could muster into his tone. “As we speak, two great Enemy hosts are swarming down from the Black Lands. They’ll be close enough to threaten your walls in one month’s time. If I hope to stand a chance of turning them back, I’ll have need
of your Northern forces.”
This time, the laughter that filled the chamber was much louder and took longer to dissipate. Even Faukravar allowed himself a grin, visibly amused. “You expect me just to give you one of my armies? How incredibly impetuous.”
Darien waited as the cold wash of anger drained slowly out of him, until there was only emptiness remaining in its place. Dredged up from the depths of the emotional void that consumed him, his tone was utterly impassive as he warned the Black Prince, “I need your army, Your Grace, and I’ll not be leaving Chamsbrey without it. I thought to ask, first, out of courtesy. You have until sunset tomorrow to make your decision.”
“And should I refuse?” the king wondered, baiting him deliberately.
“Then I’ll take it from you outright.”
Gasps of anger and startled indignation filled the chamber. All around the room, Darien could hear the shiver of a forest of steel being bared, the sounds of footsteps as the guards distanced themselves from the walls, preparing for a fight. He could have removed his gloves; that would have given them something to think about. But he didn’t.
Instead, Darien turned and walked calmly toward the door of the throne room, pausing only as two guards with swords held at ready stepped forward to block him. He gazed intently into both men’s eyes with the slightest dare of a smile on his lips. Patiently, he waited for the men in front of him to decide whether or not they were ready to die for the honor of their king. In the end, it was the Black Prince that decided for them, sparing their lives.
“Let him go.”
Darien strode out of the chamber as the guards parted before him, their faces pale with relief.
“Well, he’s certainly arrogant enough to be a Lauchlin.”
Faukravar glanced sideways at Chadwick Cummings as the rest of his ministers snickered at the man’s comment. The king himself was still stewing in a trembling-cold rage provoked by the brazen young man who had just taken his leave after insulting both his honor and his throne room. Within memory, the Black Prince couldn’t recall ever being treated with such cavalier insolence.
“He’s the very image of Emelda, in face as well as temperament,” Clement Landry pronounced with certainty.
The king nodded, for once in full agreement with his Minister of State. He had met with the late Prime Warden on enough occasions to have immediately recognized her looks glaring out at him from the face of her impudent son. It seemed that the apple did not fall very far from the tree, after all; Faukravar had always considered Emelda Lauchlin insufferable. He had despised dealings with the woman, and her son was even worse. It seemed the man had inherited a full measure of Emelda’s ripe overconfidence without a grain of her subtlety.
“Opinions?”
Cummings spoke first, his voice raised above the drone of the others. “His threat is empty, Sire. Even if he truly is a mage, he is Bound by the Oath of Harmony.”
But Faukravar remained skeptical; there was something about the man that made him wonder. “Did any of you note the emblem of the chains?”
To his disappointment, all four of his ministers stood shaking their heads. He was furious at them, almost as furious as he was with himself for not thinking of the chains when the man was in front of him. He had allowed Lauchlin to unbalance him.
Lance Treaton, his Minister of the Treasury, bowed his head sadly. “I tried to mark them, my liege, but he was wearing gloves.”
“I abhor riddles,” the king grumbled.
“What of this Enemy host?” wondered Landry. “Is there a reason to suspect that it might actually exist?”
Cummings spoke up. “In his last letter, Garret Proctor mentioned that he was facing a serious threat with a critical shortage of men and supplies.”
“Proctor whines more than a tavern wench, and louder,” proclaimed Treaton.
But the king was not troubled by Lauchlin’s mention of the Enemy. It was the man’s other threats, especially the veiled ones, that worried him more. “That doesn’t concern me,” he told his ministers with a wave of his hand. “In order to reach Auberdale, any force would have to cut all the way through Emmery and lay siege to Rothscard along the way. Let Romana deal with them, if such a host even exists.”
“What should we do about Lauchlin?”
“Nothing, until we know more about him,” the king replied absently, deep in thought. After a moment, he beckoned his captain of the guard forward. As the man crossed the floor to the throne, Faukravar commanded him, “Find out where he’s staying. I want men positioned around him at all times, watching every move he makes. I want to know whether or not he wears the mark of the chains. And find out more about that sword he carries, what significance it implies. Also, I want to know the nature of his relationship to that priestess.”
“Maybe he’s just fucking her,” muttered Landry.
“Perhaps. If so, find out.”
Cummings pressed forward, inserting himself between the king and his other ministers. “Your Grace, I must urge you to treat this mage with the utmost caution. He is, after all, the brother of the very man who brought Aerysius to its knees. It is conceivable that they’re in league. Or how else did this Darien manage to survive when all else fell?”
The Black Prince raised an eyebrow. “An interesting notion. Find out about that, too.”
Another Lauchlin. He was already sick to death of that name.
Darien gazed down at Auberdale through the paned-glass window of the room he had taken at an inn. The size of the city never ceased to amaze him. It sprawled along the banks of the River Nerium, a mottled collection of disparate structures and haphazard streets ambling off in every direction. The dark towers of Glassenburgh Castle rose somberly over the slow waters of the Nerium, the sharp teeth of its fortifications visible even at a distance. Darien stared out at the castle’s North Tower with a strange sense of foreboding; the dark turret reminded him of Proctor’s tower at Greystone Keep.
Turning from the window, his gaze traveled across the floor to Naia where she lay spread out on the covers of the room’s only bed. Darien allowed his stare to wander over her, savoring the smooth curves revealed by the thin fabric of the shift she had been wearing since their return from the castle. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed with her and drown himself in her arms. But he couldn’t do that. It had taken everything he had in him last night to restrain himself when she had crawled under his blanket with him. He had fallen asleep with his arms around her, trying to ignore the desperate longing inspired by her closeness.
Naia noticed him staring and smiled. The smile went deeper than her eyes, brightening her entire face. He loved that smile, especially when it was meant for him, especially as it was now, unobscured by the fabric of her veil. He moved away from the window and sat down beside her on the bed. As he did, Naia’s hand traveled up to touch the back of his hand, stroking it gently with her fingers.
“You were magnificent today,” she told him, then grinned playfully. “I must admit, I had a few doubts.”
Darien smiled back at her, chuckling softly. He’d had more than just a few, going in. “No; you’re the one who was magnificent,” he corrected her. “You must have been a courtier before you ever became a priestess.”
She batted her hand at him with a look of feigned outrage. Chuckling, Darien tried to get up, but she caught him by the arm and drew him back down beside her. He closed his eyes as her lips wandered over the stubbled whiskers on his cheek, trailing upward to his forehead. Again he was filled with a longing ache as he collapsed on top of her and let his mouth explore the graceful curve of her neck beneath her chin. When he felt Naia’s hands slip under his shirt, he wanted to groan.
But instead, he took her hands in his own and, removing them gently but firmly, rolled away from her onto his back. He stared up at the beams of the ceiling, fighting against a raging desire that made his breath ragged in his throat. He wanted her, wanted all of her, with a need that was almost savage. The game they were play
ing was just too dangerous; every time they touched he found himself facing a losing battle. He felt besieged, his walls quickly caving in. Eventually, the struggle inside was going to defeat him. And when it did, Naia was going to be the one to suffer, not him.
“What is it?” she wondered, frowning down at him as she propped herself up with an elbow on the bed. Her dark auburn hair was almost a burnished scarlet in the light streaming in from the window. It draped down to spread across the covers beside his face.
Darien shook his head, staring up at the ceiling to avoid her eyes. “I can’t do this. It’s not fair to you.”
For some strange reason, his words seemed to infuriate her. Glaring at him, she rolled off the bed and wrenched herself up, stalking away from him as he stared at her in downright confusion.
“Perhaps you should have thought about that last night,” she accused, her tone brittle with anger.
“Naia, I did, but....”
“But?” she spat, plucking her veil off the floor and wadding it up in her hands. “But then you led me to believe that you have feelings for me, when it’s obvious that you don’t.”
Staggered, Darien sat up and looked at her in amazement. “What would you have of me?”
Naia flung the veil at his face, but it only fluttered down to land softly beside him on the bed. “I want you to make up your mind, Darien,” she told him. “Do you really care for me as you say you do? Or are you just infatuated with the idea of me? You need to think about it. I can be your lover or I can be a priestess, but I cannot be both. You decide.”
With that she grabbed up her veil and stormed over to where her gown lay folded on a chair and pulled it on over her shift. Before he even knew what had just happened, she was gone, the door slamming shut in her wake.
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