A Heart of Blood and Ashes

by Milla Vane

  Yvenne used the water in the wineskin to wash while Ardyl took her place, then offered the other woman the same when she finished.

  “So it is not a foul sight.”

  “No.” Ardyl dried her hands on her linens. “When I look upon his beard, I see that the warrior I have proudly followed for much of my life now hopes to become something more. A warrior sends his enemies into Temra’s arms, and so aspires to be like the goddess Rani. But a Ran must speak for all the tribes, and so aspires to be like the best of us.”

  Not to be the best of his people. But to be like those who were. What mattered was not that Maddek was the finest of them—for one man could never be—but that he would never stop striving toward that goal.

  Yvenne could do a better job of helping him. For she had promised to make him a great king. Yet she had put in little effort so far.

  And knowing Maddek wore his hope—and his grief—for everyone to see, even when his immediate expression showed neither, made him even more beautiful to her eyes than he had been before. Yvenne could not imagine always being laid so bare. In that, she had not as much courage as he.

  But she did not lack a queen’s courage, and that drove her across the clearing. Yvenne’s roan ate from a small mound of grasses. At the mare’s side, Maddek stood with his back to Yvenne, flipping her stirrup up over the seat of her saddle.

  No doubt he heard her approach, but he gave no indication. Instead she heard the soothing murmur he directed at the mare as his fingers slipped along the girth.

  She stopped at his shoulder and watched as he began to loosen the knot she’d made. “Did I cinch it too tightly?”

  That earned her a swift grin, for the day had not yet come when she had cinched it tight enough. Always one of the warriors had to adjust the fit.

  Then he said, “It is nearly right,” and such joy filled her that she was nearly dizzy with it.

  Perhaps she would never be a warrior-queen. But she was stronger than she’d been even a full turn ago.

  His gaze fell to her wide smile and lingered before he returned his attention to her saddle. “There is bread and cheese on the gray.” Maddek tipped his head to indicate the horse he would ride. “Fassad has also found a nest.”

  Fresh eggs were a fine treat. “Will you have some?” She would feed him from her fingers while he adjusted her saddle, if he liked.

  “On the road.”

  “Then I will, too. For now, there is a lesson owing. You have taught me to make use of what I have, as a warrior does, but I have not returned that favor.”

  And even if his lesson had been part of a jest, it had been worth learning.

  He shot her an amused glance, then lowered the stirrup back into place. Facing her, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. From his towering height, he caught her gaze and silently waited.

  Waited for her to make him a king.

  She could not think of one thing to say. Her mind raced, collecting all that her mother had ever told her, yet not a single word seemed relevant now.

  Because those had been conversations, she realized—not simplified lessons. Conversations built upon conversations that stretched back to Yvenne’s earliest years. Her mother had begun teaching Yvenne before she’d ever taken a step.

  Now she knew not where to start. But perhaps Maddek knew where he ought to.

  “What would you first want to learn?”

  He huffed out a soft laugh, but what amused him she couldn’t determine. Nor did she ask. Instead she remained quiet as his gaze lifted from hers. He stared out over the tall grasses, as if searching for something in the distance, before looking to her face again.

  “We both had parents who taught us valuable lessons from an early age. I cannot think those lessons were so different. Yet you are a queen, and I am only a warrior. What did you learn that I did not?”

  How could she answer that? Yvenne struggled to think of what her mother might say—but perhaps that was the difference. Almost everything Yvenne knew was what her mother had told her. But those had not been lessons given. They’d simply been lived.

  “Perhaps . . .” She hesitated a moment, remembering the Parsatheans’ reaction to how her mother had watched everyone. But Yvenne could not be sorry for it. She and her mother had little else. “Perhaps it is because my mother and I did not only live our own lives. There was the tower, but there were also so many people that we watched—not only royals of other realms or their armies, but Syssians who went about their lives. Every day, my mother would look in on them and describe what they did, what made them laugh or cry, what difficulties they faced. And in that way we added their lives to our own.”

  Maddek seemed frustrated by that answer. “I have seen others in the same way—I have witnessed their joys and their struggles.”

  “So until my mother died, perhaps we were the same. Both only witnesses to how others lived. But after she was gone . . .” Yvenne’s throat tightened. “No longer could I see outside the tower. And it was as if not only my mother had died but also everyone we’d watched. They did not know me, but I knew them. And so many were lost to me at once.”

  Maddek grunted softly. “And you were lonely. Not just for your mother but for them.”

  “So I was. But I knew they still lived, so instead of grieving, I would imagine what they did each day—and imagining is much more difficult than watching. I would imagine myself in their place and then have to imagine how they would feel and react. What would bring them joy, what would they fear? What might break their hearts or heal them again? And every time I imagined these things, I felt it, too.” She clenched her fist over her chest. “As if I were also living those lives. I have been maid, soldier, farmer, noble, thief, miller, magistrate—and so many others. I have been celebrated and I have failed. I have been cruel and kind, corrupt and just. I know not whether my imaginings were those of a fanciful fool, but I think it not much different than what a Ran aspires to be. He must be like the best of his people. I have already been the best—and worst—of mine.”

  Thoughtfully he nodded. “And I have only been a warrior.”

  “And son. And commander. And friend.”

  “So I have been. But I have not much imagination beyond my own experience.”

  “That cannot be true. You would not have won so many battles if you did not understand your opponents and imagine what they might do. You have great capability for imagining. It has simply been directed toward a warrior’s purpose.”

  Suddenly lit by amusement, his gaze caught hers. “Of late, new purpose I have had—and many imaginings I have had of you.”

  Yvenne’s cheeks heated even as happy pleasure skipped across her heart. That tenacious weed, reaching for the sun again.

  As if her blush were a satisfactory response, Maddek grinned yet made no move toward her. “So I should imagine myself in another’s place.”

  “That might be a fine start,” she agreed. “Though not as I did in my tower. No time do you have to lie around and imagine yourself a seamstress. Instead do it as you speak with others or observe them—as you must have done last eve while talking to the Gogean soldiers, and seeing them not as a Parsathean warrior sees them, but as if you were in their place.”

  “Then this is not truly a new lesson, but one that you taught me last eve. It only requires practice.”

  “So it does.”

  “Then I will practice. But for our new lesson . . .” His eyes narrowed as if considering, before he finally said, “Had you but one lesson for the Gogean queen, what would it be?”

  That was easy enough. “That my father’s tyranny should not be admired or imitated.”

  His gaze sharpened on hers. “Does she admire it?”

  “Five years past, she did.” Beside her, the roan twitched a fat fly from her shoulder. Idly Yvenne waved the insect away, then smoothed her palm over the mare’s gl
ossy coat. “My mother watched her and her brothers closely—”

  “As a possible match for you?” Maddek interrupted.

  “For a time. Though Queen Felis married before I even reached a woman’s age.” It hardly mattered, as Yvenne would not have chosen either Felis or her brothers. The younger was not so objectionable, but the elder brother was. “She and Prince Oren were speaking of unrest in the villages, and of the farmers who refused to send the full portion of their harvest. Felis wished for a queen’s guard as strong and as ruthless as my father’s guard, so they could silence dissent more easily. Oren suggested that she hire Parsatheans to do it.”

  Posture abruptly rigid, Maddek growled, “If such a request had been made, we’d have helped the farmers tear apart the palace walls.”

  “So they realized.”

  “And Oren said this?”

  She heard his disbelief but understood he didn’t think that she’d spoken false. Instead his disbelief stemmed from his familiarity with the prince. Oren had served two years upon the Lave, leading the company of Gogean soldiers. Maddek had dined and fought alongside the other man.

  “He did,” Yvenne confirmed.

  A muscle worked in his jaw, anger in every taut line of his body, and Yvenne realized she had taught him the wrong thing. Already he knew not to resemble her father in any way. Although it was a lesson the Gogean queen might have benefited from, her people would have benefited more from another. So would Maddek.

  “Yet imagine if she had sent her guard to the villages,” Yvenne told him, then briefly left his side to untie a bag of feed from his saddle. “And if instead of—”

  “Give her no more than a handful.”

  Surprised by the interruption, she frowned at him. “What?”

  “The grain,” Maddek said. Arms still crossed, his feet planted, he had not moved except to follow her with his gaze. “At the pace we ride, too much feed will shorten her breath and tighten her gut. They can eat their fill at night.”

  “Oh.” Amused now, Yvenne returned to stand in front of his mountainous form. “It is not for the mare.”

  “Are you so hungry, then?” There was a teasing glint in his narrowed eyes.

  Smiling, she shook her head. “You are easily distracted from your lesson.”

  He grinned. “I am.”

  And unapologetic for it. But she was also too easily distracted, too aware of the pounding of her heart when his gaze fell to her lips.

  At least if he was watching her mouth, he would not likely note the unsteadiness of her hands as she fumbled with the ties cinching the bag closed.

  “I am to imagine that she sent her guard to the villages,” Maddek said. Distracted, perhaps, but still paying attention.

  “Not to crush them, though.” The sack opened and she glanced up to meet his eyes, which were no longer focused on her lips but seemed intent on the whole of her face. “Imagine if she sent them to help the farmers harvest another row. If in the spring she promised to send her guard to plow another field. Or if she had hired the Parsatheans to help instead of slaughter. For you are more than raiders with swords, and none of you is a stranger to the harvest.”

  Understanding lit his eyes. “That is truth.”

  “So here is your lesson, Maddek of Parsathe.” Holding the sack open between them, she urged, “Reach in with one hand and bring out as much as you can.”

  He did so.

  And even knowing the size of his hands, she had misjudged the amount of grain he might hold cupped in his palm. He drew out such a great heap that the weight of the bag between them was halved.

  Gripping the edge of the sack tighter, Yvenne also reached in and buried her hand deep in the cool, shifting grain. When she drew back, seeds slipped over the stumps of her missing fingers, yet still her cupped palm held a fine heap.

  “Whether you rule or lead,” she said softly, “with your people it is always better to keep an open hand. For even in sour times, with an open hand you will be able to carry them all—and their loyalty will remain with you. But the moment you tighten your grip, no matter how strong or weak you are”—slowly she formed a fist, Maddek copied her motion, and grain spilled like a waterfall into the sack—“they will begin slipping through your fingers.”

  With seeds raining from his powerful hand, Maddek asked quietly, “Is this what your father has done?”

  “It is.” She clenched her fist as tight as her strength allowed, then opened her fingers to show him the small number of grains that remained in her palm. “He clings to his power and squeezes those still loyal to him, and now there are hardly any left.” Abruptly she frowned as Maddek also unrolled his fist. “What have you done to your fingers?”

  “It is nothing.”

  Amusement filled his reply. And perhaps it was a joking lie, or perhaps he believed it was truth, but Yvenne could not. She caught his hand and held him still for a closer examination. Multiple bloodied slashes crossed his fingers and palm, as if he’d repeatedly gripped a knife by the blade.

  But not a blade, she realized. Gently she drew her fingertips down the strong lengths of his fingers, brushing away the grains that stuck to the shallow wounds. “This is from the grass you cut to feed the horses?”

  Maddek grunted.

  Sudden and hot tension gripped her body. That sound had been confirmation—and more. She could not always decipher his grunted replies . . . but his arousal, she could, for her own rose quickly to meet it.

  So quickly. In a single breath, concern for his injury dropped away and so many imaginings replaced it. Of sucking his fingers into her mouth, of watching his need burn until he begged her to do the same to his cock. Of urging his hand down between her thighs, where she was slick and aching, so that he might ease her need as he had the night before.

  But that would not disentangle her heart from his.

  Even as Maddek curled his fingers over hers, as if to catch her hand and drag her closer, Yvenne slipped out of his grasp, stepping back and beyond his reach.

  Agitated, her body trapped in a hectic rush of pulsing blood and prickling skin, she folded her arms over her chest and tried to hold her rioting emotions within her breast. Yet despite that effort—or because of it—her voice emerged in a strained whisper. “This lesson is done.”

  Maddek would teach her another. His fiery gaze and the primal stillness of his body promised it without words.

  But he would not teach her now. For he only gave a sharp nod and said, “Then prepare to ride.”

  He strode away, his arousal still etched in harsh lines upon his face and his erection jutting behind his red linens, though every warrior must see him and know what it meant. Nothing did he conceal or repress.

  If Maddek felt any affection for her, if there was any hope of love or trust, anything beyond lust—he would not likely conceal that either.

  And she saw nothing of the sort. But it mattered not.

  Hers would surely wither soon.

  CHAPTER 18

  MADDEK

  Maddek’s bride was truly a southerner, for she loved to build walls. He had not attempted to breach the wall of silence she’d erected that morning—her punishment was one he’d well deserved. Yet several walls remained even after she’d begun speaking to him again, and Maddek was truly a Parsathean, for he could not resist the challenge they presented. Not a moment passed that he did not imagine ways to climb over them, or break through them, or dig beneath them.

  For there was little else to do on this journey, and her walls filled him with hot frustration. Yet Maddek would not need to breach them at all, if he could lure her out. First the wall that she intended to put between their beds until her moon night. That one required patience, because she claimed not to fear him, yet he could not mistake the way she’d stiffened and pulled away from his hands. She no longer punished him for pulling at her tongue, and he’d s
een how his touch still heated her blood, yet he’d foolishly damaged the one easy bond they’d forged between them—a bond forged by mutual desire. The repair there was his alone to make and it would take time.

  Yet now there was another bond: she would teach him to be a king and he would teach her to be a warrior. So when they took to the road again, and she put up yet another wall that was made of short responses, tight smiles, and averted eyes, Maddek had bait that Yvenne could not resist.

  “Another lesson,” he said to her. “Before any Parsathean becomes a warrior, first she must learn to hunt. If you ever wish to become a warrior-queen, you must look with a hunter’s eyes.”

  Those moonstone eyes were not a hunter’s yet and gazed at him full of wariness and doubt. He saw none of the joy of that morning’s lesson before she nodded.

  “How does a hunter see, then?”

  As Maddek did. He showed to her the mounds of earth that told him of the giant rodents burrowed beneath them. The quivering stalks in the fields that said long-toothed cats slinked between them. The large and shallow depressions in the mud where heavy reptiles bedded down for the night. Every marking in the soil, every broken stem or twitch of a leaf, every disturbance that was not created by the wind or the rain, they all told him of creatures that might be hunted—or that might be hunting them.

  Her eyes brightened all the while as she began looking anew. As the sun dipped toward the west, it was no longer Maddek pointing to what she should see, but Yvenne noting each marking and asking him what he made of them.

  Until she was not always asking, but seeing for herself. “That trail there,” she said, indicating a swath through the long grasses. “It is as wide as the trail made by mirens, but those stalks are flattened and these are cut short, as if by a scythe.”