Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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C ONTENTS

Content Warnings

The Realm

Zev & Mayah

Prologue

Part I

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Chapter Twelve

13. Chapter Thirteen

14. Chapter Fourteen

15. Chapter Fifteen

16. Chapter Sixteen

17. Chapter Seventeen

18. Chapter Eighteen

19. Chapter Nineteen

20. Chapter Twenty

21. Chapter Twenty-One

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Part II

23. Chapter Twenty-Three

24. Chapter Twenty-Four

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

26. Chapter Twenty-Six

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

30. Chapter Thirty

31. Chapter Thirty-One

32. Chapter Thirty-Two

33. Chapter Thirty-Three

34. Chapter Thirty-Four

35. Chapter Thirty-Five

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

40. Chapter Forty

41. Chapter Forty-One

42. Chapter Forty-Two

43. Chapter Forty-Three

44. Chapter Forty-Four

45. Chapter Forty-Five

46. Chapter Forty-Six

47. Chapter Forty-Seven

48. Chapter Forty-Eight

49. Chapter Forty-Nine

50. Chapter Fifty

51. Chapter Fifty-One

52. Chapter Fifty-Two

53. Chapter Fifty-Three

54. Chapter Fifty-Four

55. Chapter Fifty-Five

56. Chapter Fifty-Six

57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

60. Chapter Sixty

61. Chapter Sixty-One

62. Chapter Sixty-Two

63. Chapter Sixty-Three

64. Chapter Sixty-Four

65. Chapter Sixty-Five

66. Chapter Sixty-Six

67. Chapter Sixty-Seven

68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

69. Chapter Sixty-Nine

70. Chapter Seventy

71. Chapter Seventy-One

72. Chapter Seventy-Two

73. Chapter Seventy-Three

74. Chapter Seventy-Four

75. Chapter Seventy-Five

76. Chapter Seventy-Six

77. Chapter Seventy-Seven

78. Chapter Seventy-Eight

79. Chapter Seventy-Nine

80. Chapter Eighty

81. Chapter Eighty-One

82. Chapter Eighty-Two

Epilogue

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Bonus Content

Acknowledgements

About Leena Kazak

More from Leena Kazak

NO BOOK IS WORTH your mental health. Below is a list of content warnings. Please note, the content warnings include spoilers.

This book contains mature themes including on-page attempted SA (the FMC) and references to past SA (not the FMC), as well as portrayals of PTSD and trauma. It also features complex arranged marriage dynamics, including two kisses outside of the primary relationship, and some readers may interpret the FMC's actions as infidelity. Other warnings include: character death, on-page torture, and injury to a child (no death).

PROLOGUE

NINETEEN YEARS AGO

RAIN SLAMS AGAINST THE windows, so loud it seems like the whole house is shaking. What if the glass breaks? Who will fix it? I don’t think Mama knows how. I curl tighter in the closet, knees locked to my chest.

Mama said not to come out. No matter what happens.

No matter what I hear.

Thunder booms again. What if the roof falls in and Mama can’t find me?

Someone’s shouting downstairs, but another crack of thunder swallows the words. The rain pounds harder, like it’s trying to get inside. If I were a baby, I’d think the storm was here for me. But I’m not a baby. I’m six. A big girl. Mama needs me to be a big girl right now.

But a whimper slips out anyway. My legs twitch to run, to find Mama, but I squeeze my arms around my knees and stay put. I promised. I have to keep my promise.

A flash of lightning fills the thin line beneath the door, white and sharp. My knees knock together. Darkness rushes back in. I clutch my carved wooden reindeer—a gift from Father—so hard, its edges bite my palms. Tears sting my eyes.

I might throw up.

I wish Mama were here. She’d rub my back, stroke my hair, let me hide my face in her soft dress until I felt brave.

Between angry thunderclaps, I hear it—boots on the stairs. Heavy. Loud. Too loud to be Mama.

I cover my eyes. My cheeks are wet.

They’re in my room now. Strangers. Bad men. That’s why Mama wanted me to stay hidden. Things crash to the floor. Where’s Mama?

I hold my breath and make myself as small as I can.

It doesn’t help.

The door flies open.

I scream and scream and scream.

CHAPTER ONE

“COME ON, PRINCESS,” A deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I’ve taught you better than that.” I struggle beneath him, the ice floor cold against my back, but his heavy weight pins me down. Dark, mischievous blue eyes—ones I know as well as my own—trace my face, settling on my lips.

I scowl and bring up my knee. Hard.

Daak narrowly shifts out of the way with a huffed laugh before jumping to his feet. I ignore his proffered hand and rise on my own.

“Again.” I drop into a defensive position, arms raised.

Amusement dances in his eyes. “If you say so.”

With a flurry of punches, he attacks.

Daak gives me no quarter, but I know his routine—he’s been training me for years. I easily deflect his blows. When his leg sweeps out in a roundhouse, I crouch just in time, his boot passing scant inches above my head.

Water burbles in the large fountain carved into the ice wall of the palace’s training room, though its sound is muffled by my own heaving breaths. From the center of the fountain, a massive polar bear—one of my least favorite ice sculptures—glares at me. He’s always glaring. I like to pretend he’ll look pleased when I finally win.

Maybe it’ll be today.

I attack with flying fists and well-aimed kicks, my grunts echoing through the vast, cold room. Daak blocks every single strike, eyes glinting in the sunlight filtering from the large, arched windows. Just when I’m about to land a solid blow, a large wave of clear, cold water surges from the fountain. It flows toward us in a rushing torrent, wrapping around my legs.

It freezes.

Before I can blink, another icy wave crashes into me, covering my hips in thick ribbons, before they also freeze.

“Cheater!” I snap, glaring at him. “We said no wielding.”

Daak is a skilled waterwielder—the best in all of Tundrayn—and captain of my father’s guard. It’s the only reason Father never sent him into battle.

“I changed my mind.” He smirks at me, palms angled to cheat some more. I lift my hands up, when—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Three sharp knocks echo through the training room.

I drop my hands. The door flings open, and a servant barges in, panting. “Princess Mayah! The Healing Chambers. Come quickly.”

The ice holding me captive melts, crashing to the floor with a loud splash. With a wave of his hand, Daak wicks the water soaking my fur-lined tunic and leggings back into the fountain. His eyes reflect the worry that must be mirrored in my own.

“Go,” he says, brows furrowed. “I’ll check in soon.”

My dark braid swings behind me as I follow the servant through the cold palace halls, boots skidding on the ice floors. I could sprint this path blindfolded in the dead of night and not slip once. I’ve done it several times on a dare. But the urgency bracketing the servant’s posture rocks my balance.

We make it in record time.

Carved into the palace’s icy heart, the Healing Chambers have smooth, white ice walls that glisten like polished marble. Stone basins brimming with crystal-clear water sit beneath frost-rimmed shelves lined with glass jars of salves and rows of neatly stacked liniments—rarely used, but handy when healers are depleted of reserves. I’ve never touched any of the medical supplies in my entire life.

I’ve never needed to.

Usually, the air in the Healing Chambers is crisp with the scent of mint and snowroot, but today, the stench of death permeates the room.

A sharp gasp breaks loose from my chest, and I resist the urge to cover my mouth.

There are no empty cots. Every available surface is littered with broken bodies—warriors with gaping wounds and twisted limbs. Three unfortunate souls are sprawled on the cold floor between cots.

Tides have mercy.

The metallic smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils, and I struggle to stifle my gag. I don’t know why. I should be used to it by now—I’ve treated hundreds of such injuries in this tidesdamned eternal war with Arbinj.

“What happened?” I demand, surveying the injured men and women. “We agreed to a ceasefire!”

Jennah, the head healer, snorts, the lines around her mouth etched deeper as she scowls. “Apparently, news of the alliance didn’t reach the front lines in time.” She doesn’t look up, glowing hands pressed against her patient’s bloodied arm. “Arbinj attacked a small battalion. All commons.”

My anger flares hotter at her casual use of “commons,” the derogatory term for nonwielders, but I purse my lips and hold my tongue.

Rolling up the sleeves of my tunic, I set to work.

First, I treat a warrior with horrific lightning burns covering nearly every inch of his body. His clothing is shredded, fused to his skin in some places. Tides damn whoever did this into uncharted depths. Gingerly, I peel back the fabric where I can, revealing raised, branching scars where the lightning struck.

The work of a stormwielder. A very powerful one.

I tamp down on my rage, summoning the power inside me until my hands glow with soothing white light. Slowly, painstakingly, I skim my palms over the injuries. The warrior groans, his pale face contorted with agony, sweat soaking his dark braids.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t hear me or is too consumed by pain to respond.

“There were no healers at the front lines?” I ask sharply, glancing at Jennah. “These wounds should’ve been treated immediately. Not left to fester.”

“There were,” Jennah responds slowly. The lines around her mouth deepen, her white hair blending with the ice walls. “They were overwhelmed treating the waterwielders.”

I hold my tongue. Again.

Like I’ve been doing for years.

“Apparently,” Jennah continues, her voice dropping to a quiet hush, “this was the work of the Dark Commander.”

Bile rises in my throat. Tides, I knew Prince Zevayr was ruthless, but this level of violence—

He’s been called the most powerful wielder in the realm.

And these defenseless nonwielders faced his wrath.

Jennah shakes her head with a soft tsk. “Such brutality. I suppose unchecked power will do that to a man.”

I scoff. “Maybe he’s just angry he was born a second son. He’ll never be king, so he seeks glory on the battlefield. A cruel, mindless soldier.” Even as the words leave my lips, I know them to be false.

The Dark Commander is anything but mindless. He’s led the Arbinji armies since his early twenties. His war strategies have resulted in thousands of Tundrayni deaths over the years.

I should know—I’ve been healing the survivors since adolescence.

Taking deep breaths, I focus on my next patient. This one faced an earthwielder. His skin is littered with painful holes where thorny branches and snaking roots emerge. The skin around them is jagged, putrid, and the smell of scorched wood lingers in the air. I press my hands to the warrior’s neck, assessing his internal damage.

“By the Tides,” I swear under my breath. There isn’t much I can do for him. I’m not sure how he’s still breathing. I share a worried glance with Jennah. Her ice-blue eyes are sharp but undercut with sorrow. She may also think of nonwielders as less-than, but she isn’t coldhearted. My eyes flutter shut as I focus on numbing his pain.

“Can you summon a heartwielder for him?” I whisper hoarsely. We only have two heartwielders in all of Tundrayn. Though, sometimes, I wonder how many have managed to keep their powers concealed. “I can’t do much more for him. He should feel peace in his final moments.”

“I will,” Jennah promises, finishing up with her patient. She reaches for a small loaf of rootbread from the table beside her and takes a large bite. Her shrewd eyes watch me carefully as she chews. “When did you last eat?”

“Just before I came,” I lie.

Jennah narrows her eyes at me. I give her my most convincing smile. She harrumphs. “Don’t burn through your reserves. Princess or not, you need to eat just the same as any other wielder. You’ll be of no use to these warriors if you can’t heal.”

Such simple words: You need to eat.

But unlike verdant, fertile Arbinj, Tundrayn is the land of ice and snow and scarcity. I don’t want to eat more than my fair share. That just means someone else will go hungry—most likely a nonwielder.

I keep going, treating another two men with horrific injuries, ignoring the drain in my chest. Nonwielders are often placed on the front lines during battle. The injustice grates at my nerves.

Were Sura and Tumaas often on the front lines? Before—

My throat tightens, and I shove the intrusive thought away.

By the time I’m treating my fourth patient, tell-tale fatigue weighs down my limbs—a sign that I’m close to overusing my powers. I should stop, but there are still so many untreated nonwielders. Still in pain. Still suffering.

Jennah works tirelessly alongside me. She’s not as strong as I am, but she’s been eating between every patient. Jennah is older—she needs the nourishment more than me.

I can keep going.

Luckily, the warrior I’m currently treating only has mild burns. I finish with her quickly, ready to move to the next patient when the carved ice doors swing open and three hulking men stride inside. One of them has a black eye, and the others sport bloody noses. All of them wear blue and white furs—waterwielders, unmistakably. But even without the obvious attire, I’d know. It’s in their gait, the arrogant ease of those raised to believe the world is theirs by birthright.

“We need a healer!” calls the man in front, a towering warrior with tanned skin. The sides of his head are shaved down, the rest of his long hair twisted into intricate braids adorned with bone and beads. He spots me and drops into a deep bow. A satchel is strapped across his chest, brimming with loaves of rootbread and dried seal jerky. I purse my lips, returning my attention to the injured woman before me.

When I don’t respond, respect bleeds into the warrior’s tone as he adds, “Princess, it would be an honor if you healed us. We’re heading out to investigate a Rebellion attack—we need to be at our best.”

Jennah levels her sharp, disapproving gaze upon them. I’ve often cowed beneath it, but the arrogant men don’t even flinch. She asks, “How did you sustain the injuries?”

The waterwielder has the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were sparring, and it became … heated.”

My lips press into a thin line as I eye his overflowing satchel again. A nonwielder child will sleep hungry tonight so these daft idiots can go on an expedition.

“These warriors just returned from the front lines,” I say woodenly, still focused on the pale nonwielder in the cot before me. “Their injuries are more severe. I’ll heal them first.”

A beat passes.

“But Princess … they look to be commons.” The pompous waterwielder doesn’t say anything else, but I understand what he leaves unspoken.

Under Tundrayni law, wielders must receive preference in every instance.

“Nonwielders they may be, but they were gravely injured. In battle.”

The waterwielder just stares at me. Jennah clears her throat, casting me a meaningful look.

I grit my teeth and heal the idiots’ minor injuries.

After I finish, I head back toward the nonwielders, but Jennah stops me with a firm hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough, Princess. You need to rest. And to eat.”

“I can keep going,” I protest, lips twisting as I look at the remaining nonwielders. There are still so many of them.

They need my help.

“Don’t make me bother King Tormik. Pauli will be here soon. Go.” Her stern gaze brokers no argument. She isn’t bluffing about calling Father—she’s done it before. Reluctantly, I rinse my hands in a stone basin and step into the corridor.

Jennah’s voice chases me down the hall. “Eat something, Princess! I mean it!”

Fatigue weighs down my limbs as I trudge to my quarters as if trekking through knee-deep snow. The heavy door swings open.

My exhaustion melts away when I spot Daak waiting on the large sofa in the center of my chambers.

He appraises me, gaze lingering on my face, his lips pursed with disapproval. “You’ve worn yourself out,” he mutters, crossing the room and guiding me to sit. “Again.”

“I’m fine,” I reassure, but his brow remains creased with worry. “I wish I could do more. I wish I could save everyone.”

Daak is silent as he grabs a bowl of dried seal jerky from a small table and places it in my lap, waiting until I finish two entire strips before speaking.

“Mayah, what happened to Sura and Tumaas wasn’t your fault.”

Tears prick my eyes, ones I’d held back since first gazing at the injured nonwielders. I let myself melt into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around me in a familiar embrace.

It’s been years, but my grief hasn’t lessened.

“Sometimes, their faces are blurry when I try to picture them,” I admit quietly, the words muffled in his tunic.

“Tell me what you remember.” He rubs my back, his touch soothing the ache in my chest but not quite erasing it.

“Sura’s eyes were the brightest shade of blue, like clear ocean water dappled with sunlight. Her face was perfect, heart-shaped with a dainty nose. Long, dark hair that she wore in twin braids. She never met a rule she didn’t want to break.”

Daak chuckles, and the sound sends a warm vibration through me. “You forgot her smile. Near permanent on her face. And lopsided, as if one side of her mouth couldn’t match the excitement of the other. What about Tumaas?”

“A giant polar bear of a man,” I laugh. “The same exact eyes as Sura, but somehow warmer? Less mischievous, for sure. Perpetually exasperated with his twin.”

Daak runs his large hand over my hair, smoothing the dark wisps that escaped my braid. “You know, I envied the three of you when I first arrived?” he murmurs. “You were so in tune, like extensions of the same person. And all determined to make my life miserable.”

“Well, we were intimidated by you. The much older—”

“Hey, I’m not much older—”

“—extremely powerful warrior come to train me. I know Sura didn’t make those early weeks easy on you.”

“She wanted you with Tumaas. I was competition.”

I poke his side. “She wasn’t wrong, was she?”

He puffs out his chest. “Not about me being extremely powerful. I’ve been likened to Faerataak the Mighty, I’ll have you know.”

“By who?” I snort. “I didn’t know you could wield blood.”

“I’ve never tried. It’s entirely possible I can.”

I chuckle. “I can’t wait to read the first children’s tale about you: Daak the Daring. Wielder of water, blood, and nonsense. Perpetually bested by Princess Mayah of Tundrayn.”

We share a quiet laugh. It tastes bittersweet in my mouth.

Daak has a way of making me feel seen. Accepted. Of making me forget. He’s been the only warmth in my life after Sura and Tumaas were sent to battle and never returned.

I snare his deep blue gaze with my own. He understands what I need because, ever so slowly, his full lips slant over mine.

He’s familiar. Comfortable.

But his kiss is soft. Too soft. And I don’t want gentle from him.

Not tonight.

I want to feel something—anything other than this yawning grief in my chest threatening to swallow me whole.

I straddle his lap, my hands skimming the shaved sides of his head before tangling in his braids. My lips crash against his with a desperation that numbs every gaping wound in my heart. His grip is tight around my hips, our mouths moving together in a passionate rhythm. I roll my hips against his, and a strangled groan rumbles through his chest.

I press closer, eager for more, and predictably, he pulls away.

He always pulls away.

“Mayah…” he whispers, voice laced with apology. “Your father will have me impaled.”

“He’d have you impaled just for kissing me,” I point out, scowling. “And I’d heal you.” But I know there’s no convincing him. I’ve been trying for years. So I crawl off his lap and plop down on the sofa, resting my head on his strong shoulder.

Daak looses a deep sigh. “Tundrayn’s future depends on you. You’ll be subjected to the purity test.”

Right. The purity test. An arcane practice observed by both Arbinj and Tundrayn to ensure princesses remain untouched before marriage.

And Father has just arranged my marriage to Faramir, the crown prince of Arbinj.