Silence descended on the last echo of prayer. Karok opened his eyes, drunk with the zeal of belief. Behind him, his men began the ritual chant. He fixed his gaze on the stone beak and reached for the dagger. The sacrifice screamed behind the wad of cotton but he didn’t pause. He held the blade high, his native tongue pouring from a dry mouth.
“O Great One, Twylea of the Skies, Warrior of Wind and Goddess of Glory, receive my gift of blood and breath. Your humble servant praises your beauty, your courage and your might. Bestow to me your blessings. Grant me the wisdom and strength to triumph in your name.”
A deadly song hummed as the knife plunged. The muffled screams grew louder as he sliced first one way and then another. Copper, iron and the foul stench of refuse grew thick, mixing with the wax on the air. The stone slab slicked with oily crimson blood. The chant rang louder but the screams stopped.
Karok laid his warm red gifts around the stone base. Each offering held meaning—the heart for valor, the stomach for bravery, the liver for purity, the tongue for wisdom and the spleen for clarity. The perfect ruby, its color the same hue as the spleen, he nestled in the belly of a gold goblet. Blood, beauty and brilliance would satisfy the winged deity.
He dipped his hands in the cooling sacrifice and touched a smeared palm to each man’s forehead, sharing his worship with them. Returning to the eviscerated remains, he lifted the small glossy womb. He cupped his treasure, stroking it with reverent fingers and offered it first to Chakor. He took a single bite to renew his bond with the giver of life, to request rebirth through Twylea. The womb passed from man to man until Karok hefted the small bit left in praise before stuffing it in his mouth.
Both arms toward the iced-blue moon, he begged for the spirit of his goddess to return. The inky bones on his stained hands shone beneath the sticky red smears as if his very frame were reaching toward the obsidian sky. He would be blessed and prevail. He would bring Twylea’s customs to this vile new land. The Great One would rejoice when he ruled, crushing the weak beneath his boot like insects and laying their organs at her altar.
Salome stretched, muscles waking and warming beneath the wool blanket. Her sensitive nipples brushed the fabric with a pleasant reminder of his mouth. The pallet smelled of Bryton and their loving, the sweet sensual fragrance stirring her blood. She’d slept, deep human sleep with soothing blackness, while cradled in his arms. The rest had revitalized her body, his love had enlivened her soul. With her eyes still closed, she stroked one palm down her bare stomach, dipping her fingers into the moist flesh between her thighs. Remembered sensations flooded her mind and a low hum rekindled in her blood.
Loving with Bryton surpassed flying, surpassed the call of magic, surpassed all she had imagined. She rolled to her side, pillowed her head on her arm and opened her eyes. He sat just outside the cave, staring into the pale predawn. Clad in only his breeches, dark brown mantle across his shoulders, Bryton toyed with his pipes. Leaf pawed at his cloak but a shadow caught her eye and she whirled, pouncing on nothing and falling on her tail.
The pine boughs made no sound as Salome rose to her feet. She tucked the blanket around her chest and padded silently to him. His head snapped up at her approach.
“It’s chilly this morning. Come here before you catch co—Well, maybe you can’t catch a cold but come here, anyway.” He laid the pipes aside, opening his arms. She settled between his widespread knees, leaning on his bare chest. He wrapped the mantle around them both. Warmth cocooned her.
A melody of emotional dissonance resonated from his aura, the harsh turmoil of varying pitches and notes jarring her essence. He rested his jaw on her crown and slowly his fugue-laced soul-song quieted. His heartbeat measured time with hers. Under the cover of his cloak, he brought her hand to his, straightening her fingers until they lay flat, palm to palm. The size difference was clear, his dwarfing hers by a quarter, but the tenderness of those sword-hardened fingers stroking her hand screamed with more significance.
“Are you all right?” His gentle question brought her smile.
“You worry when there is no cause.”
His arms tightened and she burrowed closer. His chuckle rumbled beneath her ear. “Humor me. I’ve never taken a virgin but have heard tales that…I was afraid of hurting you.”
Her brow dipped. “You said you hated virgins.”
“When did I say that?”
Salome nibbled her lip and ducked her face, avoiding his eye. “When you argued with your horse while shaving.”
“You eavesdropped.” He laughed and her blush scorched hotly. “I may have said that but it was more frustration talking than sense. You made me feel, Salome. I wasn’t prepared for that.”
“Katina was not a vir—?”
“Kat was promised to another man. He died in battle before they could marry.” There was no anger or disappointment in his tone, just simple acceptance.
The blanket edge slipped and she tugged it higher to her chest, the move hiding her spinning thoughts. “Did it bother you she had a lover before you?”
“It would’ve bothered me a hell of lot more if she’d had a lover after me.” His indignation pushed against the damp air with swift heat. She stiffened and his hands gripped tighter. “Sorry. No, it didn’t bother me. How could I judge her when I was no innocent myself? We were a good match, she and I. We understood each other. We loved each other.”
Cottony fog clung to the ground, swirled around the trees and wrapped the last breaths of night in softness. Salome let her gaze drift to the shifting skies. The sun rose beyond the mountain ridge, spilling pale gold light into the fading gray. Streaks of red lined the sky, birthing blood of a new day. She drew the cool air deep into her lungs and relished the crisp tingle. Every muscle in her temporal human body cramped from her position but her heart rejoiced holding him, being held.
Her joy was tainted by his wife’s memory. Katina was everything she could never be to him. Mother to his child, companion for his life, music for his heart. Human. Salt swam across her vision and blurred the sunrise. The day was born beneath the shimmer of her tears.
“I need to get moving,” he murmured, brushing her temple but making no move to rise. “I want to plot out where you saw the Skullmen’s camp on the map and do some scouting.” Panic shrilled through her. Salome stiffened but he wouldn’t release her. “I’m just going to be nosy and look. Relax.”
“Relax?” Salome backed away, using her hands to push at his chest. Brisk morning air shivered over her shoulders. Her damp eyes fixed furiously on him. “You have a death wish, you know the location of your enemy’s lair, and you say
relax?
I may have no training, Bryton, but I am not a fool. Do not lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I’m not ready yet, okay? I’m only going to watch, I promise.” The truth in his words eased her spine. His jaw shifted. “Would you get a message to Taric for me? He should know about this ward stuff and where Karok is in case I fail again.”
“Why do you care if you fail so much? Even if Karok lives, if you’re dead, your soul will fly from this plane.”
Strength flooded through his muscles, firmed his jaw and lowered his brow. A predator’s growl rippled through her essence, emanating deep within his magic’s core and powered by his honor. This was not a man bent on self-destruction but one solidly bound by a vow. He was, down to the very fiber of his soul, the King’s Captain and Eldwyn’s Might. He was a soldier with a mission. He would not be deterred.
“Salome, I took an oath and, despite everything, I still believe in that oath. I pledged my life to Taric
and
to Eldwyn. This is
my
homeland. I would die for her and have proven that many times over. Eldwyn deserves peace, and anything I can do to give that to her, I will do.”
Hope kindled. He still had his honor and that might be enough for her to reach him. Any aid she could give brightened her spirit. “Then give me your message and I’ll give flight to the fastest wings magic can summon.”
Her eager response brought his grin and he smoothed a bit of hair from her cheekbone. The gentle touch shook the marrow of her bones.
Taric fixed his sights on the chessboard. Under glass, the onyx and ivory players mocked the scream echoing in his head. Without thought, he lifted the dome and stared at the white pieces scattered about the square board. They’d never finished the game. Bryton had left midmatch to question the Skullman the guards brought in.
A rough inhale raised his chest. His hand trembled slightly, reaching to stroke the crenulated rook. The chess piece tipped slightly under his finger.
The rook falls and the king stands alone
.
“If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, who is he?”
Domic Gerog’s question barely penetrated Taric’s turmoil. His answer was a low whisper. “The brother I never had.”
Gruffly clearing his throat, Taric palmed the rook and turned to the goldsmith. An ironic thought quirked his lip. Domic looked more king than
he
did at this minute. The older man wore rich forest velvet and fine cream linen, the gold braid catching the light and shining brightly next to his burnished skin. Even the gray at his temples spoke of dignity and grace.
Taric had been in the lists when the morning guard had told him a message came from the southlands, from a man with bright hair with a black streak. Sweat and dirt coated nearly every inch but Taric hadn’t thought about changing, just getting the news.
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, sire, just what I have told you.”
Nodding, Taric lowered into the throne and leaned on one high armrest. His thumb stroked his bottom lip. “What was his demeanor? Did he look well?”
“Stoic, determined.” Domic twisted his lips then sighed. “He looked fine but he acted a bit…distracted, perhaps. He was quiet for most of the night and left early the next morn. His falcon followed like it was on a leash.”
“Falcon? A bird?”
“Yes, sire. I’ve never seen one so loyal. He didn’t even use a lure to call it back, yet it never flew far from him. Remarkable control.”
Bryton had a bird? He hated birds unless they were smothered in gravy or fire-roasted with rosemary. Taric never could get him to hawk with him. Hawking wasn’t a true hunt to Bryton. He preferred his bow or a spear.
Soft footsteps brought his head up and a ghosted smile warmed his heart. Myla wore a gown today, a muted eggplant color that made her eyes vivid green. The youngers were off in the forests for training and, by his request, she wouldn’t leave the castle grounds. Domic bowed and her brow arched as she strolled to Taric’s side. She did not take her throne but perched on the arm of his. His hand caressed her spine.
“This is Domic Gerog, a goldsmith from Windmere. He brings word from our absent friend. This is my wife, Queen Myla.”
“My honor, Your Majesty.” Domic did not rise, keeping his low bow. Myla studied him with intense scrutiny.
“Yes, you have a great deal of honor.”
Domic nodded, his resonating baritone humble and touched. “I thank you, my queen.”
Taric dipped his head as his smile widened. She’d captured another admirer. Polite conversation filled a few moments, then Domic took his leave. Taric motioned to his steward and a slight nod let him know that the goldsmith would be rewarded for his information. He waited until the older man left the audience hall before dropping his head to the throne back. Myla stroked his shoulder.
“He brought news of Bryton?”
“And other things. Gamot is going to feel my royal boot in his ass and Bryton is not happy with you. But that isn’t what bothers me.” He opened his fist. The ivory rook stood tall in his palm. “He sent a cryptic message that isn’t so cryptic. The rook falls and the king stands alone.”
She took the chess piece as her gaze shifted to unfocused. “Fear not, husband. Bryton made a grave error.”
“What’s that?”
A feline grin widened her pomegranate mouth. “He forgot about the almighty queen.”
“How could anyone forget you, my love?” Taric chuckled and tugged her down to his lap. Myla’s gaze shifted from unfocused to glowing green. An unsettled spasm ripped through his gut. She climbed from his lap and stepped to the window. Her mystic sight trained on the clouds. “She comes.”
“Who?”
“Bryton’s deliverance.”
“She? You sent him a woman?” Taric gawked at her. “Oh, he’s going to hate that.”
“Quite the opposite,” she murmured.
The split window was huge, taller than two men and wide as his arm span, but the pulleys worked smoothly. She had no trouble pushing the right side open. A faint breeze carried the sounds of soldiers training, children laughing and the tanner yelling for his apprentice.
A falcon glided to a landing on the ledge. Myla angled her head, stepped back and swept her arm out in welcome. The bird launched into the room in a plume of lilac smoke. Taric’s eyes went wide and he stood. He’d never imagined another creature like what his wife had been. But then, Myla was once a jaguar, not a falcon.
A human form grew from the small feathered frame, a woman in dazzling orange. Her chiton was different from the one Myla used to wear, one-shouldered and fuller. Hair the exact shade of the falcon’s golden-brown coat spiraled down her back and large gray eyes looked around the hall. Myla rejoined him on the dais. The woman dropped to a low curtsy before them.
“King Taric and Queen Myla, I bid you good morn. I am Salome.”
Myla stayed silent, her studious eyes searching for something he would never understand. He stepped in front of the visitor. “Why do you bow to me? You owe me no allegiance.”
“I was called for your captain and serve him. Therefore, I honor you as he would, in respect for him.”
“Rise.” He studied her as she straightened. So this was Myla’s gift. She was tiny, small framed and nearly elfin in appearance. She didn’t carry herself with the same poised stealth Myla did but had a glow about her, a natural grace that for some reason made him smile. Thoughts of his captain erased the grin. “How is he?”