Lightfall, p.17
Lightfall, page 17
Chills slithered down Ashe’s spine. Maleck and Rozalie shifted subtly on either side of her.
“Yes, as long as there is love between these two kingdoms, Mahasar sees no room in the marriage bed for a third,” Jad continued. “It’s a shame, really, such a waste. You could have married mind over might for lovely Talheim, but then, you’ve always preferred the strong arm over the subtle thought, haven’t you, Cyril? You and that whoreish wife of yours.”
Rion snarled, but Cyril silenced him with a cut of his hand.
“Someday, you’re going to face an opponent you can’t beat with a blade, no matter how sharp,” Jad purred, “and you’re going to have to think very hard about how to best a man cleverer than you.”
“I’ll learn when I find one.” Cyril’s smile carved like a dagger. “If you hope to goad me into misconduct with threats and taunts, Your Eminence, you’ll have to try harder. I learned from my father’s mistakes, and I owe it to Talheim’s new allies not to drag them into a war for the sake of my pride.”
Rion cast him a quick, unhappy glance, but Maleck visibly relaxed. Ashe’s annoyance spiked at both men for no reason she could name.
Jad’s eyes skittered back and forth like a pendulum. “I suppose that concludes our business.”
“I suppose it does. Mahasar will withdraw from the border?”
“Oh, yes, of course. We wouldn’t wish to provoke our allied neighbors, would we?” Jad’s gaze found its resting place with Ashe again. “After all, Valgard has proven itself exceedingly willing to leap to the defense of its weaker friends in the Middle Kingdom.” Ashe bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood, and Rion scowled. “Now, should anything go…amiss with this treaty, at any time, Mahasar’s offer for the princess’s hand still stands. I know I’m generous beyond reason, no need to tell me. Just remember what I’m willing to offer. How badly we all desire peace.”
The grim steadiness froze into terrifying rage on Cyril’s face. “You can trust I will never forget that offer, Jad.”
The Mad King smiled, twisted and indulgent. “Not that it matters, does it? What you won’t forget. Because you have all the allies you need. Perhaps you should make Wardens of one or two of them, hm? Round out your ranks with capable, strong, true warriors—”
The room echoed with the scrape of Ashe’s chair shoving out, the clap of boots on stone as she lunged to her feet. “Do you have something to say to me, bastard?”
“Asheila!” Rion barked.
Jad puckered his lips. “Such insolence from those at your left hand, King Cyril!”
“You’re one to talk!” Ashe spat. “Cornering one of the King’s own in a hallway, spewing threats—”
“Ashe, enough,” Cyril warned.
“I did no such thing!” Jad shot to his feet as well. “You dare accuse a foreign royal who came to your kingdom under the banner of peace?”
“Don’t lie to them, I have the marks on my throat to prove what kind of royal you are!” Sense begged her to stop, but the reins had finally snapped loose from her furious tongue. “You lying, disgusting, gods-damned—”
“Kovar!” Rion roared. “Sit down!”
“She speaks the truth,” Maleck glared at Jad. “Don’t forget who found you with her in that hall.”
Jad’s brows wagged. “You would defend her, of course. Your new ally. Nothing can ever tarnish that treaty, yes? Not even the infamous brutality of Valgardan warriors.”
Maleck stared him down, dangerous tension bristling in his shoulders. “Are you implying what I think you are?”
“I imply nothing but that even King Cyril’s finest hasacs need brawny men to leap to their defense.” Jad cocked his head, first one way, then the other, measuring Maleck carefully. “Unless this accusation of bruised throats is all some cleverly-concocted tale to shed shame on Mahasar.”
Maleck kicked his chair back and rose as well. “She is not lying.”
“Sit your ass down!”
The shout burst from Ashe’s lips, quieting the whole room—even Jad. Maleck blinked at her, unmoving.
“Sit down,” she repeated. “Stop intervening, stop fighting my battles for me. I am handling this!”
“Valgard will not sit idly while its honor and the honor of its allies are threatened,” Maleck said.
“This is not about Valgard and Talheim, this is you and me and your gods-damned sense of—”
“Enough!” The thunder of Cyril’s voice yanked Ashe from her exhausted rage, snapping her focus to the Wardens gaping wide-eyed around them, Jad smiling faintly, and Maleck gazing at her with inscrutable emotion raging in his face—and to the King’s eyes, full of displeasure.
“A word, both of you,” he growled. “Privately.”
Jad was not the only one smiling when Cyril stalked from the table. Rion’s lips barely twitched, but from him, it was as good as a smirk.
Cyril banged the door shut and whirled on Ashe and Maleck. “That was disgraceful. The pair of you…there aren’t words for that display.”
“Forgive us,” Maleck said. “But he was lying.”
“You have more to learn about diplomacy than I thought if you really believe a ruler’s lies need to be shouted across the table.” Cyril gazed at Maleck with something that hadn’t been there since the day they arrived: mistrust. “You haven’t once raised your voice in this house. Now you’re crying for blood.”
“He hurt her.”
“I know she was hurt, I was in the hall that day.” That suspicious stare lingered, then swiped to Ashe. “And you. I know you know better. I’m disgusted with your behavior.”
Every word was a blade piercing straight to the heart. “Cyril, I—”
“Your Majesty. I’m your King, though I’ve never been embarrassed to call myself that before.” He pivoted to the door, snarling over his shoulder, “Get out of my sight, both of you, and pray to the gods or the stars or whatever you hold faith in that I can salvage this. Any lives lost or battles sworn from this outburst are on your heads.”
Face burning, Ashe turned and walked blindly from the disappointment in his face, from her own humiliation forever stamped into every person’s memory in that room. She didn’t even realize where she was going until she reached Maleck’s chamber, and he followed her in and shut the door behind them.
Then she whirled on him, rage exploding again. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
The mask of calm slid back onto his face, but not before hurt flashed in his eyes—as if he had any right to feel hurt after he destroyed her strength in front of the King, her former Commander, and Mahasar’s beating heart. “I defended a friend, as allies do.”
“You made me look like a soft-hearted fool who couldn’t defend herself—like I needed you to rescue me from Jad. Twice!”
“Where is the shame in that? Why do you fear so much to ask for help?”
“I’m not afraid, I’m furious! Do you realize how tenuous my position is right now? I don’t have anything left after this! I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but then you keep undermining me and taking away the only thing I have left…my gods-damned pride!”
He raised his hands for peace. “That was not my intention.”
“I don’t care what you intended! Cyril thinks I’m a disappointment, you should’ve seen how Rion looked at us when we left that room…I had nothing, Maleck, and now thanks to you I have less than that!”
“Why does that matter so much?” He lurched away from the door. “Why do you concern yourself with the opinions of those who care so little for you, rather than those who would lay down everything to keep you safe?”
She scoffed, crossing her arms “Like who?”
He stared at her, unspeaking.
Chills pierced the fog of rage, digging into Ashe’s skin. “Maleck. What are you saying?”
A humorless smile quirked his lips. “You don’t know the depths I sank to, searching for you. The dazes that overcame me after Cistine and I traveled to Jovadalsa. The nightmares I had in Stornhaz that frightened even Ariadne. I went back to the places I feared most to find you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have done that!”
“Why not? You don’t believe you were worth it? Every risk, every moment since? Even in these meetings, in this place?”
“No! I’m not worth losing yourself over!”
Maleck burst forward, gripping her shoulders and backing her against the wall. “If you believe I’m not already lost, that I don’t lose myself again whenever I look into your eyes, then you aren’t as perceptive as I’ve always believed.”
Her mouth dried. The air rushed from her lungs. “What?”
He cursed lowly, not harshly, his grip tightening. “Why do you think I do any of the things I do here? Why I can’t help taunting Meszaros? Why I stepped into the Mad King’s path, why I risked everything we came here to do? It’s all for you…because they hurt you, belittle you, threaten and intimidate you, and I can’t bear it. I’d sooner wreck every promise of peace between our kingdoms than watch these men tear you down.”
Terror sliced through Ashe’s veins. “Don’t. Do not do this.” He couldn’t want her this badly, couldn’t do this to himself—to them. She was too busy falling to pieces without that look in his eyes stealing the last of her strength.
“It’s already done.” Maleck released her and slid a hand through his braids, staring at her in wonder and shock and reverence. “I love you. I have loved you since I was fourteen, before I knew your name, before I knew the truth of how magnificent and fearless you are. I will live and die loving you, Asheila Kovar, and I am not afraid of that. I’m not afraid of anything I must do to keep that love alive.”
Ashe stared at him, the words glancing by, her heartbeat lulling into something dangerously calm and close to not feeling anything at all.
“Get out.”
Maleck’s brow tightened. “Did you not hear what—?”
“I heard you. Now get out of Middleton. Leave. The mission is over, you did your part. I got what I needed from you. We’re finished.”
She despised herself for every word, for the lies, for the pain dancing in his eyes. “Asheila…”
“Don’t. You said it yourself, if you stay, you’ll wreck the peace we were sent to build. I can’t risk you ruining more than you already have. Leave.”
He reached out to her. “Asheila, please—"
She jerked out of his reach, freeing one tear down her cheek. “Don’t touch me, you gods-damned augur! Get out of this city! Go home, Maleck!”
The only gift she could offer him after he laid his heart before her was to loosen his grip, to cut him free before she finished her descent into darkness; before he broke with her at the bottom of this pit she’d fallen into.
But perhaps this was breaking. This moment, and that look on his face like she’d gutted him.
It was so quiet, she heard footsteps tapping in the hall and the moan of wind in places where the estate didn’t fit together quite right. Then Maleck stepped past her, gathered his pitiful belongings from the bedside table, and slowly laid them in his satchel.
Giving up. Leaving her.
She didn’t wait to hear what furious parting words he might have for her. Like a coward, she left his room for hers, walking quick and sharp all the way across the estate and gulping breath to keep the tears at bay. She went to her room and slammed the door, then stepped straight out onto the balcony. Bracing her hands on the railing, she watched Maleck emerge below, stride down the path, up the steps, toward the city; watched until the pike gate lifted, then lowered again. Until the stormy sky blurred.
This was the best thing for them; that he went home where he was loved by those who deserved his tender heart, and she remained here, where she’d begun her breaking, and finished this. She would make up some excuse for his absence, hinge it on his loyalty, draw his devotion to Valgard in broad sweeps. She’d sing his praises all the way to the end of her plunge. And when she broke, it would be alone, where the shards wouldn’t cut others and leave them bleeding.
She backed away from the balcony, pulled the doors closed, and leaned against them, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her mouth to muffle sobs that ached to form his name.
I feel it. I know what this is. I love you, too. I’m not afraid.
But he deserved better than yet another lie. So she swallowed the tears, took in a deep, fortifying breath, and turned to go tell new lies to her king, to explain where Maleck went.
She turned straight into a blow instead.
The punch shattered her nose, flinging her through the glass balcony door, thick shards slicing her scalp and hands. She crashed into the railing, knocking out her breath. A kick swept her legs from under her and a fist dragged her head down and bashed her temple into the stone.
Darkness stole her from the world.
The
PRISONER
of
SCHEMES AND
STORIES
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE WIND AUGMENT swiveled over Cistine’s knuckles, fitting like a second sheath of skin. She could almost see the currents eddying, the distant call strumming her muscles, quieter than ever since she visited Vandred—as if it knew better than to roar again and reawaken her bitter unease.
Maybe Thorne was right; maybe it was just her spirit aching with the world’s pain.
“All right.” Quill’s voice snapped her from her reverie. “Stop staring at the augment like that. Give it here, Stranger.”
She flicked him a grin. “Why don’t you come and take it from me?”
“You know that’s not possible.”
Jutting her lip in an exaggerated pout, she clasped her augment-girdled hands behind her back and sidestepped him. “Well, you may just have to fight me for it anyway.”
Quill lunged at her, renewing the storm of kicks and hits that marked their morning thus far. Combat with augments required more thought, more balance, even greater awareness of where her body was and the space it occupied, and that precision chased out ciphers and dark storms and impatience from her overcrowded mind.
The trial’s next session loomed the day after tomorrow. Yesterday, Aden and his contingent had returned from Detlyse Halet with a report that kept the entire cabal from sleep. And today, Thorne and Cistine would deliver it to the Chancellors and discuss the treaty again.
Nervous energy sang through her next volley of blows, and Quill parried each one, effortlessly matching her unspoken need to pour worries into this fight. He and Tatiana had returned the night before from some hunt on behalf of an elite woman, and the concern for that battled with the strain of Aden’s report, bright in the shadows of his eyes.
He needed this as much as she did, so she baited and teased him, letting the augment drive her thrusts harder and quicker—almost too quickly for him to block. In minutes, he was smiling, leaning his whole weight into their sparring.
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to yield!” he crowed, deflecting her left and right hooks and kicking at her middle. “You’re the one with noble duties to perform. I could do this all day.”
Cistine stuck out her tongue and feinted. “After watching you chase Pippet every night after school, I doubt that, old man.”
“All right, that was uncalled for!” Quill caught her next punch, twisted his fingers around her wrist, and pivoted behind her, pinning her elbows to her sides and her back to his chest. His frame covered hers as he hunched over, laughing in her ear. “Yield!”
“Never!” Cistine shrieked, squirming against his iron grip. He blew hot breath on the back of her neck, turning her screeches to squeals as she bucked in his arms. His laughter and hers shook through her whole body, loosening what pressure remained, and her cheeks ached from grinning when she bent her head and chomped down on his wrist.
Cursing, Quill released her, and she thrust the wind against him, sending him skidding back against one of the pillars. A hand shot around it, twisting his arm up behind his back; he went down in a spiral, sweeping a kick toward his attacker—bringing Thorne crashing down with him.
Cistine laughed at their brief, violent tussle. In seconds Thorne had Quill pinned, a knee to the small of his back and both arms laced at sharp angles near his waist. Smiling, Thorne looked up at Cistine. “Good morning, Princess.”
“Chancellor.” She dipped her head, face hot with the memory of their parting kiss outside her door last night, the thrill of her back against the wall and the triumph that she’d guided him to do it and never once felt out of control.
Thorne sprang up and offered a hand, towing Quill to his feet. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late for the meeting.”
“I’m ready.” Nevermind that there was dust caked in her armor or that her hair had come undone from the many braids Tatiana wove into it while they listened to Aden’s report the night before.
This was who she was. The Chancellors could have her or leave her, but she was not stepping before them in a dress again.
Thorne pulled a sugar-crusted yeast roll from his pocket, tossing it to her as they walked with Quill toward the steps up from the training hall. “You’re going to need this.”
Inhaling the warm scent of powdered sugar from the crust, Cistine was inclined to agree.
She was still licking crumbs from her fingers when she and Thorne reached the door to the Chancellor’s sanctum fifteen minutes later, and he took her shoulder. “I’ll go first. We don’t want them suspicious about how we arrive everywhere together.”
“Fair enough. I’ll give you two minutes’ headstart.”
She took the solitude to rebraid her hair and straighten the loops and seams of her armor, battling down the weight that dragged her heels from the moment she entered above the Door. It was only a slab of rock, and she was determined: a princess couldn’t be ruled by a rune-littered lid far below her feet.
After exactly two minutes, she squared her shoulders, breathed deeply, and shoved open the doors.
