“Eager, are you?” With quick fingers he undoes each strand, loosening the gown until it’s one tug away from falling off me. But then he stops. Why does he stop? I turn back to him and separate the fabric from my skin, allowing my body to escape its hold.
My breasts are suddenly heavy desire, the stupid red lace chafing them. Nakedness excites me, dulling the ache of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
Silas brushes his thumb over my nipple, staring for a moment. Ideas threaten to spring up in my mind, so I press my chest against his. He gently lifts the lace over my head, being careful not to rip it. But I don’t care if he does.
My bared chest grazes against his and the warmth of him seeps into me. He pushes the bottoms down to my feet with his fingers and drags his hands back up my legs. I allow his touch to wander over every inch of me, closing my eyes and focusing on the feel of his soft fingertips.
“I need to know,” he says.
“I have been with no man, Silas.”
His jaw sets. He undoes his belt, dropping the dagger and silver chain into the heap of sateen. I open my eyes and look straight at his erection. I swallow hard, eyeing the girth of it. I walk backwards toward the bed.
He follows, never taking his eyes off me, but I just keep mine on his body. The edge of the bed hits the back of my knees and his legs hit the front of them as I sit down. His cock is level with my breasts, and I wrap a hand around it, examining the velvet softness and pulsing strength.
He lifts my chin. “You don’t ever need to be afraid of me, Keres.”
“You aimed your crossbow at me and now this.” I stroke his shaft and he bites his lip. He places his hands on his hips and arches his back, his body asking for me to touch him like that again.
“It wasn’t the weapon that scared me, Silas. It was your malice. Your threats, the words, didn’t scare me. The darkness in your heart did. The place they came from.”
“You know darkness well enough to judge.”
I bite my tongue. Am I a hypocrite? I think of Thaniel and Liriene. All the things I’ve fucked up recently. The relationships I’ve damaged, the people I’ve killed. Again, I’m wishing I could shed my skin and be someone else. Someone that will love Silas for all he’s worth and look upon this ruby ring as if it’s a piece of his red heart instead of a drop of blood.
He rolls his head back to me and he takes my face in his hands, so I grip him harder.
“I was wrong. I was jealous. I needed to make you mine the minute I saw him touching you.” He kneels before me. “I felt the desire between you two. I wanted you to look at me that way. It should have been me you wrapped your long beautiful legs around.” His hands run up my thighs, gripping onto my hips as he pours himself into Darius’ place in my memory of that afternoon. His golden amber eyes shine with hunger, still swirling with jealousy. Yet here he is. Kneeling. A Silas I never expected to see.
He folds his hands before his bowed head, as if in prayer. “Keres, I swear never to do you harm, by my hand or my words — again.” His eyes search mine in supplication. “Can you forgive my slander? For all of it?”
I pull his hands apart and take them in mine. I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what to feel. I’m naked and he’s bowing to me. His apology is cloyingly sincere. How did this relationship get so messed up already? Did it ever have a chance?
Trying not to think about it, I place his hands around my neck and his eyes instantly come back to mine, only brighter this time. He kisses me and I feel him searching for that same safety I sought in his kiss at the altar. I lace my grip around his forearms and lean back onto the bed. He leans forward, raking his eyes over my body as he positions himself over me.
“Make me your wife then,” I breathe, allowing his legs to come between mine as we move farther onto the bed. I glance down between our bodies and see the truth: I do not fear him. I don’t fear his touch. I look down at the part of him that will anchor me in the storm of conflicting emotions and feel relief.
Death is sure. Mrithyn’s power is constant — it’s life that’s earned my utter fear. Life is wild and unpredictable. It’s not his hands opening my legs as he sits up on his knees between them. It’s not that I’m splayed before him like a feast that daunts me either, and maybe those things should. Right now, my mind is reeling with anxiety, my stomach tightening, because of what life may do to me — is doing to me. How can I take back control over my life when I’ve just become someone’s “until death” against my will? Is this a mercy in an unpredictable universe to be tethered to another soul? Is it a punishment to be forever bound by vows?
All too suddenly, his hand grazes across my most sensitive flesh. He massages me, using his fingers — then lowers his mouth onto me and uses his tongue. My mind goes numb as my body’s overwhelmed with warmth. I’m too shy to make a noise but he gets a pitiful sound out of me despite it.
He brings my body to its peak and sends me jolting over the edge. My body relaxes from the thrill and he takes the opportunity to enter me. At first, pain steals all the physical bliss. Slowly, he inches his way into my body, using his hands to continue bringing my body pleasure to mask the pain. He fully sheaths himself inside of me and my body threatens to break. I’m sure he’s made me bleed, but he kisses away the pain and begins moving in the depths of me.
I could cry. I could laugh. I could blush. I could bite my lips. Milk and honey, salt and liquor. He takes from me while he gives, and it’s a bittersweet exchange.
My body soon forgets the hurt, adjusting to his size. He feels the tension inside of me eventually ease and loosens his control, like a mare bucking at its reins. Not knowing what else to do with my hands, I hold onto him. Digging my nails into his back as he thrusts harder and faster. My voice shatters, gasping and moaning for him not to stop, and he doesn’t. He switches up his pace, angles my hips, and moves my legs to his shoulders with an understanding of what my body wants. I lose track of time; I lose track of where I end, and he begins. Only when he knows I’m satisfied does he ditch restraint and finish with me.
Our connection dissolves into a tangle of limbs. I rest beside him as he winds his fingers in my long white hair. We don’t speak a word for a while, as I thought I’d prefer the quiet, but then the silence gets too heavy. My skin begins to crawl with the realization of what’s changed. I lay staring at his impressive body as his hands wander over the curves and edges of mine.
What makes two people belong to each other. A piece of paper? A few governed words? Sex? The bed is as messy as my thoughts.
I must have frowned, staring at his beautiful face because he asks, “Are you still afraid?”
I look into his honey eyes. “Very.”
Not afraid of you. Afraid of who I’m allowing everyone else to make me.
16. PILGRIM
“Keres,” the wind slithers through the tent, gliding along my naked skin. My eyes open to darkness. Am I awake? Am I being channeled again? I wriggle out from under Silas’ heavy arm and cover him with the fur blankets. I scan the dark room. I slip into my new crimson satin robe.
“Keres,” that voice says again. I go still as stone. My skin crawls. I decide quickly: Before the Oracle is on fire. Before she’s screaming. Before my eyes shut, before she claws them open again. I have to go.
Lightning fills the sky outside, turning the room near white. Thunder explodes out of one cloud and slams into another. The voice of the rain hushes my startled nerves. I fumble for a quill and parchment, sitting down at the table to write a note. I fold it, decorate it with Silas’ name, and drop it on the pillow next to his. On the small table next to the bed, I notice a thick, old book. I allow myself a second to thumb it open and am more startled by the images within than anything else.
Tangled limbs; illustrations of passion. Sex, sex, and more sex. On every page. My eyes widen as I leaf through the depictions of positions and what I can only imagine are instructions on how to fold one’s body into them. My mother’s book collection included a f
ew novels with erotic romance, and I relished in secretly reading them as I grew up. But this? How to pleasure your lover with — Oh. Too instructional for my tastes. I flip the book shut and flinch at the sharp shift in Silas’ breathing. I glare back at the book and remember Ivaia and Liriene’s argument at the Weaver’s tent. This must have been the book that horrified Liri and excited Iv.
I find new lacies and leathers to wear in the chest and wrap myself up for travel in the rain, tugging at the new clothes and pushing them into a large rucksack. My old rucksack is also here, and I realize so are my inherited belongings from Katrielle. I transfer my stuff from the old bag into the new one, tossing some things into the fire pit.
My weapons aren’t here. I look at Silas’ bare back rising and falling as he sleeps. I wonder if he arranged for my weapons to be taken from me. I wonder if he desires me to retire from my role of a warrior— to take up a more docile occupation. At that thought I convince myself the bed is cold with him in it, and my feet carry me without hesitation outside to the dark and rain.
Cold assaults my senses, and heavy raindrops slick my leathers. I draw my crimson shawl over my head and closer to my chin, and pull the traveling cloak over it. Red frames my face, but the heavy dark halo of the hood shields me. I secure my rucksack straps under my arms and pick my way through tents to find my old home.
This dwelling with Silas isn’t my home, I don’t care how many of my belongings are moved into his possession— with me, his possession. Images of us from hours ago haunt my vision. Us. What a strange new meaning the word holds. Two people wrapped up in each other, escaping the reality of their exchange. He doesn’t love me, even if he thinks he does. He doesn’t know me. And now that the exchange is over with, I allow the rain to wash the memories away. I stop outside my tent’s entry. Everyone inside is asleep from the sounds or lack thereof. No candles are lit within. Still, I wait.
“Child,” A voice forgetting to whisper draws my attention from behind me. I turn and face Attica, the Weaver.
“I knew you’d be here,” She says. Seriously, what is up with these old women hunting me down in the dark? How could she have known that I would be here? Does she know where I am going? I don’t speak. I don’t move.
“I brought this. You’ll need it.” She presses a parcel tied with a scarlet string into my hands.
“Your weapons are behind the tent in a crate.”
Why is she helping me? “Thank you, Attica.”
“Don’t listen to all the rumors there. Secrets.” Shadows dance over her face, moonlight distorted by tree branches. I shudder.
“Keep your eyes open, always. The blood in your veins runs with secrets deep as rivers. Do not drown in them again.”
The storm ravages the sky and I turn toward the screech of a bird. When I look back to her, she’s gone.
I’m creeped out. I don’t even want to take the time to consider her words, and thankfully I don’t have time to because other thoughts surface: different guards will be on the wall tonight. Silas is asleep and if someone sees me leave, I have no reason to trust they won’t send someone after me. Indiro knew I would leave; he gave me the letter— The letter! I look down at the parcel Attica gave me before mysteriously dissolving into the night. The woman is odd.
I tear back the paper and rustle through the familiar fabrics. My clothes are here, all mended. I reach a finger into the folds of a pocket and find the letter is still tucked within. I’ll read it later. Taking a moment to shove the parcel into my rucksack, I consider which part of the wall will be easiest to slip through. I skirt around the corners of my tent and find a crate with my weapons leaning against a tree, just like Attica said.
“Oh, Slip, Mama is here.” I caress the bow I’ve named so fondly. I pocket my knives and daggers, sling the bow over my shoulder, and pause. My other weapon gleams in the moonlight, curved blade bowing to me. Wrapping a fist around its short, iron hilt, I hold up the small scythe in the rain and moonlight. It glitters, black and silver. I whoosh it through the air a couple times and smile.
When Mrithyn claimed me, Ivaia gave me two things: The crimson shawl and this scythe.
“Fitting weapon for the White Reaper,” she’d said. “It’s no legendary weapon, like the fabled Scythe of Mrithyn, but it’ll do.”
I snicker at the memory of her passing this deadly weapon into my clean, child-hands. She taught me to use it. She taught me to lace the blade with spells, too. I anchor the hilt to my belt and cover the blade with my cloak. I never wielded it once I fell in love with the bow. Slip belonged to my mother. My father gifted it to me when I turned eleven. It was the same day he informed me I’d marry Silas when I came of age. Images of Silas’ body, naked and panting as he claimed me as his own, drip into my head like raindrops. I push onward. Aiming my steps in a similar direction I walked to meet the boys by the river, I leave home.
Fording the river is never easy, especially not in a rainstorm. Lightning blazes through the sky and I pray it won’t strike the water. Stepping across rain-slicked logs and slipping a few times makes me bitter. My feet are soaked and prickled, ice cold by the time I get to the other side.
“Curse my kind for never wearing shoes.” It’s such a ridiculous nuance of our earth-worshipping culture. To don shoes is to imply you’d rather be off the earth than be one with it. It’s a crime against our traditions. Arranged marriages and bare-footed escapades on merciless terrains, two things on my growing list of reasons to wish I’d never been born an Elf. Let’s not forget the blight of our race to be forever subjected to human terrorism. Wonder what we did to earn that one.
Thunder rebukes the night; lightning punishes its darkness. Eventually the hour is cleansed by the storm and dressed in new robes the colors of dawn. My mind wanders as my feet follow the map beneath my cloak, which I’ve been shielding from the rain. I stop when the rain does. Pushing my hood back, I breathe in and absorb the fresh smell of the forest. I stretch the map out on a log and bring a little pouch out from under the cloak. I empty it of its quill and a jar of ink and scratch these words onto the back of the map:
Under the darkened skies
We lapse into our deepest thoughts.
Midnight’s canopy,
Question of truth or lie,
Is strung by stars
Witnessing our faults.
Then, interrupted by the dawn,
Our guilt is absolved
By the sun.
With a satisfied sigh, I fold up the map and deposit it into the pouch with the quill and ink. Rising to my feet, I take a long look in every direction before turning straight ahead.
This way, a path has been cleared and is marked with looming flags and lanterns that don’t seem to have been affected by the rain. Magic lights? The path stretches on for what seems like forever, winding through the trees. Magic pulses through the air and I figure it makes the path seem longer than it is. A mirage like the one that protects Ivaia’s loft. I take a step and stop. The trees whisper.
I close my eyes and listen to them. They ask, “Why are you here, Our Child?”
My eyes flutter as I seek my answer. It eludes me, running into the depths of my mind. The reply that follows comes out of a darkened, unexplored corner of my head.
“I have come to think.” On each bough, I find space to hang my thoughts. If the wind comes to carry them away, let them be lines of poetry whispered through the leaves.
“I have come to grow.” Nestled amid the roots of these trees, I find depth in which to bury my troubles. With fear beneath my feet, I turn my face toward the light of the sun.
“I have come to feel.” My bones are as mighty as these trees. I am small but I am not slight, for I am from them. They are the ribcage of my home, the Sunderlands, and I their beating heart.
“Reach,” They say to me in their hushed tongue. “To brighter heights.”
My eyes open, wild with the desire to see the earth; this pathway through the trees that tell me I am theirs. The earth vib
rates beneath my feet, its energy tingling against my skin. Magic reverberates, echoing off every stone, every tree, each leaf. Filling my body with the hum of life.
Suddenly, I understand why we do not wear shoes. I understand and appreciate everything about what it means to be Elven. A Child of the Forest.
“The blood in your veins runs with secrets deep as rivers.” Attica’s warning whispers in my head again, but it’s silenced by the music of my existence, the call of duty and purpose. An allure of belonging.
Wonder overrides my senses. Green is no longer a color. It’s a feeling. The voice of the trees is no longer on the wind, but in my head, singing in my blood. My ancestors call to me through them. I fall to my knees, bowing toward the path that blurs and extends, and the illusion of it falls away into piles of leaves. A magnificent pearl gate stands before me.
It swings open, “Welcome home.”
The trees are not trees at all. They’re armored guards, tall and clad in silver and jade. Flag poles stretch into mighty pillars and banners unfurl with the insignia of the Ro’Hale Kingdom, a White Stallion. I rise to my feet. The sounds and sights grow more vibrant and melodic with every step I take. Scanning the guards, I count their heads and lose track. Time becomes obsolete. I am passing over the threshold, from an land stained with blood to this… holy ground.
The eyes of a guard peer at me as I pass him, his expression shielded by his helmet.
“Princess.”
It’s not a question. It’s not a greeting.
Maybe I imagined it.
I do not answer; I dare not blink.
I walk into my Kingdom.
17. HEIRESS
“You look just like her. Save the hair.” Her mouth stays open too long on that last word. She laughs. The sound of it fills the room, a stark contrast to the fearful silence of her courtiers. She is ill-placed and mismatched in this heavenly throne room. A cacophony for the eyes. Beauty and horror, a vision and a nightmare: Queen Hero sits on a throne of mirrored glass, clothed head to toe in black and bones.
The Sunderlands Page 17
