A Heart of Blood and Ashes Page 11

  Another grunt, but this one clearly dismissive. “You’ve heard false. Never did that warrior-queen lead a raid against Parsathe.”

  “I said nothing of a raid. It was not silver or iron that Nyset took from your people, but something she saw with her moonstone eyes.”

  Amusement and interest deepened his reply. “What of value could she take with those?”

  “She watched Ran Antyl.” The successor to the thief-king, Ran Bantik, who had become a legendary queen in her own right. “And Nyset saw how much better it was to lead a people—as Parsathean queens and kings do—than to rule over them. So that is what Nyset did. That is what all my foremothers have done.”

  “And is that what you will do, when you are queen?”

  “It is.”

  His hard laugh stirred the loose tendrils of her hair. “Leading means nothing if your people will not follow. Should they follow you because of your moonstone eyes? Your brothers’ eyes are the same color.”

  “It would not matter. But for Tyzen, my brothers would not even attempt to lead. They would try to rule over them, as my father does.”

  “And how will you inspire your people to follow you? Your mother and foremothers were warrior-queens. You cannot even sit a horse.”

  “That hardly matters. If it meant freeing my people from my father’s rule, I would crawl upon the ground. Whatever I must do, I will do it. My people will see that, and they will know that every step I take is a better direction for us all.”

  “If you wish to free them, better to raise a sword against your father than to crawl at his feet.”

  “Certainly a sword is easier. That is why I would ally myself with you, to see your blade take my father’s head.” She glanced back, hoping for a glimpse of Maddek’s face, which revealed so many of his thoughts—but she had no good view, only shadows and the broad mountain of his shoulder. “Surely you do not believe that one must be able to hold a sword to lead. Would you not follow Nayil?”

  That council minister would never hold a sword again, yet Yvenne knew how deeply all Parsatheans respected him.

  “I would,” Maddek said, but instead of the solemn reply she’d expected, another laugh rumbled against her back. “Though I do not always listen to him as well as I should.”

  “No?”

  “He said that the ruling house of Syssia should be avoided. That everyone born of Zhalen’s blood was as cunning and vicious as a starving drepa.” Some of the humor leached from his voice. “Yet now I take Zhalen’s daughter as my bride.”

  “Oh.” Yvenne would lose her tongue if she told Maddek that his mother had heard the same advice, yet would have given Zhalen’s daughter to him as a bride, anyway. So instead she offered another truth. “Nayil is not wrong. If I had not been born into my family, I would make great effort to avoid us, too.”

  She thought he might have smiled at that, though she could not see his face. Because silence fell between them, but it was not uneasy or tense. Instead it was the comfortable quiet of two people in agreement.

  Everyone of Zhalen’s blood was vicious and cunning.

  But Zhalen’s blood alone did not pulse through her veins—or through her brothers’. Only Yvenne and Tyzen had been raised by their mother in their tower chamber, however. Her older brothers had not been so fortunate, and it was not just Zhalen’s blood that had poisoned their hearts. It had been every moment he’d spent with them.

  She might have told Maddek so, but this time it was he who broke the silence.

  “And what of your father’s personal guard?” The hardness of his voice told her that he was thinking of his mother’s rape. “Are they loyal to him, as a Dragon is?”

  “Some are loyal to my father. Others are loyal to his gold.”

  “They are not Syssian.” It was not a question, for Maddek must have seen how the Syssian soldiers responded to Yvenne. Never would a Syssian have kept Yvenne—or Queen Vyssen—imprisoned as her father’s guards had. A single word from either woman would have secured their freedom. But her father’s mercenaries cared nothing about Nyset’s heirs.

  “Most are from Rugus,” Yvenne said. “Many fought with him at the Battle of Fourth Ridge, when he held the pass against the Destroyer’s warlords, and when he smote the Smiling Giant. Those soldiers came with him when he married my mother.”

  “How many?”

  “Fifty in my father’s personal guard, made up of his most loyal soldiers.” Before her death, Queen Vyssen had counted them each day—monitoring their movements, their conversations, always seeking a weakness in Zhalen’s security. “Two hundred more serve as the palace guard. There are no Syssian soldiers within the royal citadel. They are instead charged with protecting the city walls and the Syssian outlands.”

  “Against what threat?”

  “The barbarian raiders from the north, of course,” she said dryly, and felt another laugh tousle her unbound hair. “My father claims the alliance will not long keep the Parsatheans at bay.”

  “I will only come for him and his guards,” said Maddek.

  “My people will be glad to hear it. Though, in truth, even if there was no alliance, the greatest threat to Syssia would come from Rugus.”

  “From your brother Aezil?” There was no surprise in his voice.

  Yvenne nodded.

  “Does your father not recognize the threat?”

  Her father was not so blind. Only arrogant. “He does, though he would never admit to it.”

  “Then why place Aezil on the Rugusian throne? Lazen was next in line. Why did he name the second son—and the greater threat—king of another nation?”

  “Lazen cannot be king,” Yvenne reminded him happily. “He’s dead.”

  Slain by the only arrow she’d ever drawn with the intent to kill. But Yvenne could not risk saying that without also risking her tongue. Maddek still doubted her part in her brother’s death, for the alliance council had been told that Ran Ashev had slain Lazen, instead—and that was why his mother had been beheaded.

  But if he was thinking of that failed escape now, Yvenne could not tell. Maddek only said, “He was not yet dead when your father gave Aezil the Rugusian throne.”

  “My father convinced Lazen that Syssia was the greater prize.” Which was truth, but it was not Zhalen’s true purpose in giving Rugus to his second son. “And if he had named Aezil the successor to the Syssian throne, my brother would not have waited for my father to vacate it.”

  “Zhalen fears his own son?”

  “With good reason. In the alliance council meeting, you heard of the contract between Syssia and Rugus, in which every available Rugusian soldier was sent to protect my father?”

  “I did.”

  “I suspect that Aezil agreed to send Rugusian soldiers to Syssia not to protect my father but so that, when the time is right, my brother might more easily take the Syssian throne.”

  “Is your father such a fool?”

  “No. But he must weigh that risk against the risk of allowing Syssian soldiers near the tower—and the risk of my people discovering that Nyset’s heir is alive and nearly a queen’s age, and rising up against him. And my brother has only been king a few seasons; most likely he’ll wait to secure his power in Rugus before trying to conquer Syssia. No doubt my father believed he would have time to allay that danger.” Yvenne shrugged. “It matters little. When Zhalen is dead, I will purge the Rugusians from the ranks of the palace guard—and purge Syssia of my father’s legacy.”

  Maddek only offered another indecipherable grunt. Probably thinking that she needed to be purged from memory, too. Perhaps it was best, then, to turn his mind away from how much he distrusted her, and toward something every Parsathean appreciated: their horses.

  Particularly since, if Yvenne was to be riding her own mount tomorrow, she needed to learn more about them, too. He had mocked her because she
could not ride. That didn’t mean she never would.

  Trying to find the horse’s rhythm, she studied the bobbing of its big head. Its long ears were turned forward but flicked back as if to catch the sound of her voice when she said, “What is his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Your horse.”

  Sudden humor lifted his voice. “It is a mare. And she has no name. We do not name our horses as we do not name our swords.”

  Because they were only tools. But the horses did not lack for care. From what Yvenne had seen, the Parsathean warriors tended to their mounts better than they tended to themselves.

  “Fassad named his wolves,” Yvenne said.

  Maddek grunted, a disapproving sound. “They are but dogs.”

  “Fassad says they are wolves.”

  “They are tamed.”

  So were the horses. “And named.”

  “And he will mourn them all the deeper for it when they are lost—and a warrior’s hounds and horses will always be lost on the battlefield.”

  “Or in the forest.” As Yvenne’s had been.

  “Yes.”

  “You have said you will treat me as a dog,” she reminded him. “I hope you treat me as Fassad treats his, for it is better than any queen could hope for.”

  His laugh was a deep quake against her back. “That is true enough. Though I vow it will not be the same. For Fassad does not do to his dogs what I will do to you.”

  Upon her moon night. No, she supposed it would not be the same at all.

  And her would-be husband must be thinking of what he would do. His hardness rose behind her—but although he could not be comfortable with his cock pressed between them and her bottom rocking against his arousal with the horse’s every step, this time he did not demand that Yvenne ease his need.

  Nor did she wish him to. Not here, in front of the others.

  Yet she liked knowing that he hardened against her for no other reason than the thought of having her in his bed. Yesterday his arousal had been fired by his anger and his desire to punish her. He did not seem angry or inclined to punish her now, however.

  And despite her own rage the previous day, she had known unexpected pleasure while touching him. She would like to know it again—but she had little hope Maddek would give it while he believed her responsible for his parents’ murders. Any pleasure she would have to take for herself.

  As long as he did not hurt her when he took his.

  Her breath shuddered as his broad hand suddenly pressed against her stomach. But not to hurt her—or to please her. In a low, rough voice, he said, “Tomorrow when you ride, you must tighten these muscles. Straighten your back. Do not be as a sack of meat sitting upon your mount. Instead move as one with her.”

  Yvenne tried but didn’t feel as one with the horse. Instead she felt as one with Maddek, for it seemed there was nowhere he did not touch: her back pressed to his chest, her hips cradled between his thighs, her legs dangling against his.

  He must have approved her new posture, because he gave no instructions to adjust it. Instead he said, “Do not rely upon your hands for balance. The steadiness of your seat is all you need to stay mounted. You should be able to ride with a sword in one hand and a crossbow in the other, yet still command your mount’s speed and direction.”

  A laugh shook through her as she imagined herself doing anything of the sort by tomorrow. “Perhaps within a few more days.”

  His answer was the barest tensing of his thighs. The horse immediately responded, moving faster. Yvenne desperately gripped his legs as she was jolted and bounced in the saddle.

  His voice hardened. “You strike like a hammer upon your mount’s spine.” Forearm across her stomach, he raised her higher against his chest, until she was rocking smoothly with him. “Feel her rise and fall through each stride. Sit tall and use your hips to rise and fall with her. You have no stirrups, so let your legs hang loose, steady your weight upon the insides of your thighs, and find your balance. Do not squeeze her sides with your legs to remain seated.”

  Though loosening the secure grip of her legs was terrifying, Yvenne did as he commanded. Her balance shifted, her weight sinking deeper into her seat. Pain shot through her stiffened hips when she tried to move as he did, but she gritted her teeth and persevered, until the pressure of his arm around her waist eased and she was not relying on his strength to keep from bouncing upon the horse’s back.

  “In that way,” he said approvingly, and the horse slowed to a walk again. “We do not often travel at that pace, but you must know how to ride at it.”

  Breathless from exertion, Yvenne nodded. “It was easier,” she panted, “on the first night. When my horse was running.”

  And was probably the only reason she had remained on its back. Had they trotted, she’d have bounced off before they’d traveled a sprint.

  “Running is smoother,” he agreed.

  As was walking. Though she still did not feel as one with the horse. “I have heard legends of Parsathean riders who truly became one with their mounts.”

  “No.” They had slowed, yet his arm remained around her waist, holding her securely against him. “Though it is almost a truth.”

  “How?”

  “Because we are as silver-fingered Rani.” Lightly he dragged the tips of his silver claws up over her forearm. Amusement deepened his voice again when a shiver raced through her. “There is no greater warrior than she.”

  That was not what Yvenne’s mother had claimed. “It is Vela who is goddess of warriors.”

  “And Rani is the finest of them all. The strongest warrior, the keenest hunter—for no one has ever defeated her, and no one has ever escaped her. When she comes for you, it is the end.”

  For she was death. On that Yvenne could agree. “Yes.”

  “And after Rani claims you, she flies upon her dragon to deliver you into Temra’s arms,” he said, and each word seemed to swell through Yvenne’s chest. “That is what the warriors of Parsathe do—we are as silver-fingered Rani, delivering our enemies into Temra’s arms. And when we ride into battle, one with our mounts . . . it is as if we fly.”

  Heart thundering, Yvenne whispered, “I would do that. I would learn to ride simply for that.”

  “Would you? Race into battle, even if it is into death?” His silver claws grazed the side of her throat before he pressed forward against her back and said roughly, “Hold fast to her mane. Crouch low over her neck.”

  She did. Maddek’s legs tensed and the mare sprang forward. Then they were racing, racing with the wind whipping tears from Yvenne’s eyes and the warriors racing with them, all around her, the hoofbeats pounding like the pounding of her heart.

  And it truly was like flying—though not into Temra’s arms. Not when Maddek held her so tightly in his. Everything hurt, yet there was no pain. This could not be like death.

  Not when Yvenne felt alive for the very first time.

  CHAPTER 10

  MADDEK

  For two days they rode beneath a blue sky shimmering with the heat of a glaring sun. On the third day, they started out when dawn was a distant gleam upon the jagged teeth of the Fallen Mountains to the east. Above the flat grasslands to the west, sullen clouds swept toward the riders on a hot wind swollen with the promise of rain.

  That promise was delivered before midday. A deluge fell in torrents from leaden skies. Blinded by the downpour lashing his face, Maddek bowed his head against the onslaught. His mare did the same, head hanging low as she walked, her great hooves wading through the muddy slop of a road.

  They traveled too slowly. Yet a faster pace through the slop risked injuring the horses’ legs.

  Any other day, Maddek would have found shelter and waited for the storm to pass, but they could not delay. No doubt yesterday Cezan’s body had been delivered to the alliance council. Bazir would immed
iately send word to his father in Syssia and brother in Rugus, but would also order his soldiers in all directions to search for Yvenne. She and Maddek’s warriors were but a single day’s ride beyond the bridge over the Ageras—barely three days ahead of any soldiers sent in pursuit.

  That lead would not last. Not at the slow pace they’d traveled the past two days, after purchasing a mount for Yvenne. Not at the much slower pace they traveled now.

  A powerful gust flapped Maddek’s sodden linens against his legs, the heavy weight of his braids whipping his shoulders. Swiftly he looked back, half expecting that Yvenne’s slight form had been blown out of her saddle.

  But she still rode tall—taller than any of his warriors, who sat low in their saddles, heads bent and bodies braced against the wind. Loosely she held the reins in her two-fingered hand. Her left hand she’d wrapped around the saddle’s pommel, anchoring herself.

  She did not return his gaze with a questioning arch of her eyebrows, as she had almost every time he’d looked back at her in the past few days. Instead her eyes were closed, her face lifted to the rain, her mouth curved into a soft smile.

  Another gust tore at her black hair, the long strands streaming out behind her in a wet silken banner. Heavy over her slim shoulders lay the homespun cloak he’d purchased for her at the same village where he’d bought her short-backed dullard of a horse. The coarse cloth was saturated, water dripping in a steady stream from the hem—just as it dripped from her exposed brow, her nose, and her chin.

  Frowning, he glanced at Banek, who rode beside her. They traveled the road two abreast, with Maddek and Kelir in the lead. Banek and Yvenne followed a few paces behind. The older warrior had appointed himself as her companion these past days, patiently teaching her how to sit a horse—and, by unspoken agreement, serving as her guard while Maddek rode ahead. It was Banek who alerted Maddek when she needed to rest or eat, and it was Banek who reminded her to drink often beneath the hot sun.