by J. D. Monroe
“Not yet,” he said. “If my mother’s suspicions are true, this may trump even your sister’s desires. Even she would not defy the Firestorm.”
Kaldir was notoriously secretive about his parentage. He wanted to stand on his own reputation, not his mother’s. Nicknamed the Firestorm, his mother was one of the legendary Arik’tazhan, an elite band of Kadirai who had risen to fight the Raspolin in the Great War. Viraszel Dawnblaze was a living legend among all Kadirai. He spoke of her reverently, but he hated being in her massive shadow and always had.
Zayir’s stomach churned. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “She’s waiting it out, so I’m biding my time.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. If the Firestorm believed war was on the horizon, then it was something bigger than a skirmish with the Thorn or even a bloodier conflict with the Stoneflight. It would be something cataclysmic.
He tried to lighten the mood, though he was still stunned. “Shall I break your ankles? Your dear mother will have no use for you limping about pitifully.”
“I appreciate your generosity, but the Firestorm will find a way around that. She is rather resourceful,” Kaldir said, reaching for more food. He suddenly yanked his hand back and rose to his feet, bowing politely. Zayir turned to see Ohrena in the doorway. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, with her dark hair streaming over her shoulders. Inrada stood behind her, eyes sweeping over the airy sitting room.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly as he stood to bow. His tongue suddenly felt useless and thick, despite the easy banter with Kaldir. The sight of her reminded him of last night, and her utterly perfect form. His raging lust did not easily forget how tempting she was, even if his mind chose restraint.
“Good morning, my prince.” Before he could speak, she corrected herself. “Zayir.”
“I apologize if I surprised you,” he said. “If it pleases you, I would like for us to eat breakfast together. My schedule for the day often keeps me busy, and evenings may require us to be at large events like last night, or at the very least, with the rest of the family. This may be the only time we have to speak privately.”
“I see,” she said. “I did not want to assume that eating breakfast together was within our business arrangement. My apologies for not seeking clarification.” Behind Ohrena, Inrada’s eyes widened. Her lips pressed together as if she was trying not to smile.
His jaw dropped slightly as she rounded the table and sat in the open seat across from him. Kaldir’s amber eyes found his, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I hope the meal is to your liking,” Zayir said mildly. “Perhaps we can discuss your preferred cuisine, and I will see to it that you have what you like to eat.”
Biatir scurried to her side and took her plate, adding food to it. When he had finished, he placed the plate in front of her. She murmured, “Thank you.” Then she stared at him, her yellow-gold eyes unwavering.
“Please, go ahead,” Zayir said.
“I apologize,” she said. “Among my people, we do not eat until the head of the table eats.” She gestured toward him. “That would be you.”
“Would it?” he asked. He glanced at Kaldir. “My people serve a queen. And you are closer to a queen than I.”
“And your people see mine as inferior,” she said.
Anger ignited in his chest. “I do not.”
“I apologize, my prince,” she said. The way she leaned on the formal title grated his nerves, but he bit back a retort. She had him dancing along a knife’s edge.
Kaldir cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you two to your business negotiations,” he said. “A pleasure to see you, tallei-Ohrena.”
“And you as well, tallei-Kaldir,” she said sweetly. When he was gone, she turned her unwavering gaze back to Zayir. Was she punishing him for his rejection?
Zayir glanced at Biatir. “That will be all. Thank you.” The younger man nodded and left the room. Ohrena’s maid followed him. Once they were alone, he took a deep breath and met Ohrena’s unwavering stare. “We have gotten off to an unfortunate start this morning. I do not see you as inferior.” He tilted his head, recalling her words from the evening before. “It would please me very much if you would start the meal. This is a new situation for both of us, and a new way of doing things would be appropriate, would it not?”
Holding out her hands with palms to the sky, she said, “Spirits above and spirits below, we give gratitude for the air in our lungs, the grain of the ground, and the water in the sea. We give gratitude for the wisdom and care of those who prepared our meal, and may we never take it for granted.” Despite his frustration, he enjoyed hearing her speak, perhaps the most he’d heard from her in a single exchange. Her voice was clear and melodic, and she spoke his language with eloquent precision.
“Beautifully spoken,” he said. “Thank you.”
But she simply nodded and bit into a piece of bread, drawing out the uncomfortable silence. If every day was going to be a battlefield like this, he would gladly swap places with Kaldir and go to war with the Firestorm.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, desperate for something to break the quiet.
“I did.”
Another long stretch of silence.
“Is there anything you require? Here in the palace, I mean.”
She hesitated. “There are a few things I’d like, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“I would like a space where I can have a workshop,” she said. “With a small forge and an anvil. If possible, an attached room where I can place a study.”
“A workshop?” he asked. “What for?”
She shrugged. “I dabble in a bit of metal work as a hobby. It will give me something to do when you have no need for my presence.” Her tone was neutral, but he still sensed the accusation in her words.
“Then consider it done,” he said. “It will be a few days, I’m sure, but I will see that you have whatever you need.”
Within a week of the wedding, life in Ironhold had returned to normal for everyone except for Zayir, who had been tense to the point of near exhaustion ever since. As he had requested, Ohrena was prompt in arriving at breakfast each morning and had been there several minutes before he had this morning. She was agreeable enough and had told him about the lovely winter gardens of Val Legarra upon his request to know more about her home. Though she was never unpleasant, she seemed to exist in a neutral state, always forcing him to ask questions or speak to her. He wasn’t sure if it was a fear of rejection or wishing not to offend him, or if she was simply toying with him and seeing how long it would take him to explode.
“I’m sorry, brother, do our discussions bore you?” Tarim asked.
He jolted and snapped his head up to see his sister glaring from the head of the polished table. Her bejeweled fingers tapped the hard surface, echoing her irritation. “I apologize. I was distracted.”
“Ah, give the boy a rest. He’s got a new love,” Councilor Ferha said. The older man gave him a knowing nod before continuing. “I have doubled the night patrols in the city. We wish to send reinforcements to the Talons, since an attack seems inevitable. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Zayir said. Trying to push Ohrena out of his mind, he rose to inspect the parchment map spread across the table. He traced the curve of the Azure Peaks, the mountain range that formed the southern border of Mardahl, the Ironflight lands. “Send word to Queen Halmerah first.” The Ironflight was rivaled in size and strength only by the Stoneflight, their neighbors to the south.
“We do not need permission from the Stone bitch to move our people into our own lands,” Tarim snapped. Councilor Ferha’s head snapped up at her harsh words.
Zayir winced. There was a good reason that he spoke for Tarim in delicate diplomatic matters. “A few miles of rocky pass are all that separates our lands from hers. It would be a courtesy that costs us nothing and gains us much, especially after the incident with her daughter.”
&
nbsp; “I should have her flayed for that,” Tarim said. “She tosses out wild accusations, nearly murders my brother, and yet I have to tread lightly with her?”
Months ago, Queen Halmerah’s daughter had been brutally attacked and left for dead. The culprits had tried to frame the Ironflight, so the Stoneflight queen had requested Tarim’s presence to discuss the matter. Zayir and Kaldir had gone in her place, knowing that putting Tarim in a room with the Stoneflight queen would unquestionably end in war. The only uncertainty was who would strike the first blow.
Zayir had underestimated Halmerah’s need for retribution. He’d been certain he could smooth over the issue as usual, but within hours of their arrival, Zayir and his entire entourage were imprisoned. They’d tortured Kaldir and had nearly executed the lot of them before the truth was revealed. Halmerah had apologized, but Tarim had not forgiven the incident. Dragons had gone to war for far less, but Zayir had convinced his sister that mercy was the right course of action for their people, if not for her own vindication. Still, the mere mention of Halmerah would send her into a fit of pique all over again.
“Yes, sister, we should go to war over it. It would be much better for hundreds of us to die over a misunderstanding,” he snapped. “Will you be the one to tell your soldiers they’ll be killed for a few scratches upon my pretty hide, or shall I?”
Her dark-painted lips fell into a wide O. “Brother, may I suggest you get some air? You don’t seem yourself.”
He mentally scolded himself for losing his patience. Zayir gestured to Councilor Ferha. “Double the patrols. Send word to Halmerah that we’re bolstering the outpost at the Talons for defensive purposes only. Offer to keep them informed and encourage them to do the same. Send reinforcements regardless of Halmerah’s response. In that order.”
“Su’ud redahn, do you agree?” Ferha said to the queen.
Tarim’s amber eyes met his, then she nodded.“Do as my brother commands.”
He made an effort to stay more focused for the rest of the meeting, though it was a dreadful bore of trade agreements and plans to mediate the bickering among the noble houses of Ironhold. Despite his best intentions, his mind drifted back to Ohrena.
Gathering advice and equipment from several merchants in the city, he’d built a workshop for her as requested. And oddly enough, he felt almost vindictive about it. She was so agreeable and compliant that it had become irritating. He suspected it was a game to her, that she amused herself by keeping him off balance ever so slightly while giving him nothing to complain about. After all, what sort of idiot would gripe that his lovely new wife was impeccably punctual to meals and never said a cross word to him? He wanted to score a victory and break through the smooth veneer, to see if he could actually make her happy rather than simply be an indirect source of amusement for her.
“That will be all,” Councilor Ferha said. “Su’ud redahn, I would like to ask you about your plans for Winter Festival, if you have a moment. We will need to begin planning for some of your arrangements early.”
“Of course,” she said. Zayir rose from his seat. The thought of sitting through a heated debate on the right color of flowers for a Festival that wouldn’t even occur for three months was enough to make his head ache. He rounded the table and bowed to Tarim, who tilted her face up slightly in expectation. He kissed her cheek, filling his nose with the scent of heavy floral perfume. She turned slightly to whisper in his ear. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just need some air.”
She narrowed her eyes, then made a dismissive gesture. He exhaled heavily as he emerged from the claustrophobic council room. As he entered the hallway, one of the guards approached him and gave a short bow. “Teviri sent word that the princess is enjoying a visit in the queen’s library. She said you wished to be apprised of her whereabouts.”
“Thank you,” he said, giving a polite nod.
The momentary relief of leaving the council chamber faded as a knot of nervous anticipation tightened in his belly. He had never lacked confidence. But he couldn’t shake the worry that the workshop he’d built for her would be too little, inadequate to her desires. She would be gracious and give him nothing to complain about, but he would still have lost the game, remaining one step behind her.
The library was on the second floor of the palace, occupying a massive space half the size of the great hall. Rumor had it that Tarim was too turbulent to read. As with most of the rumors that circulated about the Moltenhearts, it was false. For all her temper and flighty nature, his sister was a voracious reader and gathered books from all over Ascavar into her vaunted library.
And at Zayir’s recommendation, she had enlisted a scribe to create protective warding in the library’s walls on the off chance that a certain hot-tempered queen began breathing fire in close proximity.
The high stone walls were lined in dark wood shelves, jammed with books and scrolls from all over the continent. In the open sitting area, two blue-clad priestesses of the Brood sat together, talking quietly over an illuminated text. The room was filled with the pleasantly dusty, dry smell of books. Drifting just under it was the earthy sage smell of the Edra.
He heard her pleasant, clear voice before he saw Ohrena, nestled into a reading nook in the corner with two of her maids. A large green book was open in her lap, but she was looking across the low table at her blonde friend, Pamin. “Still nothing?” the woman asked in Edra.
“Nothing,” Ohrena said. Her eyes drifted up, and he ducked around the nearest shelf, listening as the conversation continued. “He touches my hand as if I am made of glass, but that’s it.” His heart thumped at her mention of him. Why did he feel like a giddy teenager again?
“You know what they say in the city?” Inrada said. “He’s more interested in his sister.”
“She is quite lovely,” Ohrena said. Her smile faltered. “I think it is more likely that he has no interest in me. Perhaps because I’m not Kadirai. But I should have expected as much.”
“Well, you’re not his sister,” Inrada said with a peal of laughter. “Perhaps you should steal some of her clothes and color your hair.”
Anger twisted into a spark in his gut as he approached the women and cleared his throat. Ohrena glanced up and smiled, clearly unbothered by the insulting tone of the conversation. “Good afternoon,” she said in Kadirai.
He bowed slightly. “Good afternoon. I would like to show you something, if you would give me a few minutes of your day.”
“Whatever you please,” she said, in that faintly mocking tone. She was careful as she put the book back on its shelf, adjusting the other books around it.
“Did you find something interesting to read?” he asked as they walked out of the library.
“I did,” she said. “I’m interested in the histories of the noble families of Ironhold.”
Suspicion sharpened his senses. “Why is that?”
She shrugged. “I know very little about them,” she said. “And I would like to not be ignorant.”
“I see,” he said.
Before his sister’s marriage, Zayir scarcely went a day without overhearing someone’s pointed barb that there was a perfectly obvious explanation for why neither of the Moltenhearts had a consort. It came as no surprise that Ohrena had heard the rumors after living in the palace for a week.
But he wasn’t sure if that bothered him more than her proclamation that he found her utterly unattractive, particularly with the implication that he was prejudiced against her Edra lineage. He’d been kind to her. He could have been a brute and taken her to bed as if all that mattered was a fleeting moment of pleasure, regardless of her desires.
He was tempted to take her hand, to twine their fingers together. But then she might suspect that he’d overheard their conversation. She did not know that he had been speaking her language since before she was born, and that was an advantage he wished to keep.
Instead, he walked along stiffly, feeling the prese
nce of Ohrena and her maids around him like smoke in the air.
The maids behind them spoke quietly in Edra. “I imagine he’ll take a mistress before winter arrives,” Inrada said.
“If not his sister,” Pamin said. They both giggled.
Zayir clenched his jaw, forcing a smile to his face as if he didn’t hear them. But to his surprise, Ohrena halted and turned to them. “Ladies, would you excuse us?” Ohrena said in Kadirai. “I would appreciate it if you would fetch my journals.”
“Of course,” Inrada said politely. Just like Ohrena, her voice took on a mild, sweet quality when she spoke. The tone was calculated and precise, crafted to elicit exactly the response she wanted. Both women gave a quick bow and turned to walk back toward the library. As he watched the pair of them go, he realized that he hadn’t seen the dark-haired one, Zahila, in at least two days.
Kaldir’s admonition to him to send the Edra away rang in his mind as they walked in near-silence down the wide stone corridor.
“I apologize,” Ohrena said. “We are accustomed to chatting often, and we sometimes forget things have changed.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said.
“Well, at the very least, we shouldn’t carry on a conversation in a language you don’t know. It’s rude.”
“I do appreciate the consideration,” he said. His smile was as much for her as it was for his own satisfaction at how wrong she was. “Down here.”
They rounded the corner to a set of simple wooden doors on the first floor. The scent of baking bread drifted down the hall from the kitchen. He produced a small brass key from his pocket and unlocked the doors, then pushed them inward.
Freshly swept and polished to a shine, the workshop had been laid out by the chief smith of the Blackscale family, who’d picked out the best tools and brought a crew of his own workers to install the new equipment that Ohrena had requested.
She gasped. He glanced over his shoulder to see a genuine smile on her face as she surveyed the room. There was a beautiful moment when her regal poise broke and she dashed into the room like a child at play. She ran her hands over the long stone table, lightly touching the fine tools arrayed on a dark cloth.
