Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

GREGORAN AND FREYNK FLANK me as I head toward the infirmary. My footsteps are sluggish, shoulders slumped as if there’s a staggering musk-ox draped across them. I wanted nothing more than to lie in bed and smother myself in Zev’s lingering smoky scent, growing fainter each day. My nights are restless, constant tossing and turning. Agonizing. I wish I could’ve slept a bit longer this morning.

But princesses don’t get the luxury of sleeping in.

Or choices.

“Princess?” Gregoran says, clearing his throat. He looks at me expectantly as we turn a corner. Shit. I missed his question.

“Sorry, what was that?” I ask.

“I asked if you are all right?”

I bristle. What does he suspect? “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His face reddens, and he sneaks a glance above my head at Freynk.

“Apologies, Princess. We don’t wish to overstep. Prince Zevayr instructed us to keep a closer eye on you while he’s away. And you seem … sad.”

My lips purse, even as a fresh wave of guilt batters my heart like an unforgiving tide. Of course he asked my guards to make sure I’m happy. Of course he’s likely worrying about me right this second.

Even still, I’m not sad. I’m—I’m focused. And I need to sleep more.

“Thank you for your concern.”

I stifle a yawn as I step through the quiet infirmary, straightening pillows and smoothing sheets—Sauzon went home and the last patient left shortly thereafter.

My eyes drift to the cot where Zev spoon-fed me soup. Do other husbands fuss over their wives as much? Something tells me they don’t. His warm gray eyes flash through my mind, and another sobering wave of guilt crashes into me.

I can’t let Zev die.

I just can’t.

I won’t let him drink the wine.

He’ll forgive me for what I’ve done—and what I’ve yet to do. I’m certain of it. He hates his father and brother just as much, if not more, than me. I can convince him.

We could rule Arbinj and Tundrayn together.

But Father … could I convince him to let Zev live? To accept him as his son-in-law?

Father’s ice blue glare flits through my mind, and I physically flinch. I’ll paddle across that river when it’s raging before me.

For now, I need to focus on immediate concerns.

Keeping to the plan. And keeping Zev alive.

The cabinets click softly as I open and close them.

Where is it?

Multicolored vials, rolls of gauze, rows of sharp tools.

No, no, no.

A few jars over and—there.

Wormbark oil. An effective antidote for any poison.

If Zev does drink the zinfadelan, if I can’t explain myself in time, I’ll be ready. My fingers close around the cool glass bottle when—

A throat clears behind me.

My hands still. Shit. I’d been so focused, I hadn’t heard any footsteps.

Slowly, I turn, back braced against the counter.

It’s King Varad.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

COOL GREEN EYES APPRAISE me, flicking to my betrothal ring. Did he see the wormbark oil before I shut the cabinet?

“Your Majesty.” I fall into a deep curtsy. Acid churns in my stomach. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I keep hearing about your efforts here,” he says, waving a casual hand around the stark space. “Sauzon is quite pleased with you.” He frowns, as if the thought of someone being pleased with me is abhorrent. “And he’s a difficult man to please.”

I don’t know what response he expects, so I remain silent, trying to look demure and delicate.

Harmless.

“Join me for a walk.” A command, not a request.

He strides away, expecting me to follow blindly.

And I do. I play the part.

I catch up in the hallway, falling into step just behind him, my guards trailing me. With a flick of his hand, he waves away Gregoran and Freynk. The heavy thud of their booted feet fades away, and I resist the urge to crane my neck and glare at them for abandoning me.

Does Varad know? Am I marching to my death?

Anxiety ravages my nerves in a vicious tide, dragging away any semblance of peace. My heart hammers against my ribcage, hands wringing together. I wait for him to speak, but the bastard wields his silence like a weapon.

He takes me to a room I’ve never seen before, concealed by two stately wooden doors. Inside is a narrow hallway—a gallery of sorts. Large paintings encased in intricate gold frames line the walls, an ornate lantern embedded between each. Varad’s eyes bore into the side of my face as we walk down together.

They’re all portraits of the royal family over the centuries.

Arbinj’s version of the Hall of Ancestors.

“My great-grandfather Zeramaar and his wife Luna,” Varad says, stopping before a painting. The man looks eerily similar to Zev. “Stormwielder and earthwielder. A formidable union.”

He names each royal as we pass their painting. Some of the men stand alone—they took no wives, just bred children from powerful noble wielders, then discarded them afterward on a sizeable plot of land.

My steps falter.

The painting before me steals my breath.

The man is clearly Arbinji—tanned skin, slate-gray eyes, and a deep, green tunic. But the woman…

It’s my grandmother.

Turmah, with her icy blue gaze and pale skin. She wears the proud blue and white of Tundrayn.

My eyes drop. She has both hands.

“Ah, yes,” Varad says, hands clasped behind his back. “Turmah. Cousin Fareynz was never quite the same after she left.”

I whirl to face him, willing my tongue to behave.

It doesn’t.

“Neither was my grandmother. After he chopped off her hand.”

Varad gives me a strange look. “Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the lies they’ve fed you.”

He walks farther down the hall. My shoes clack against the floor as I keep up. “What do you mean?”

Varad gives me a sideways glance. “Turmah was happy here with Fareynz. In love. I witnessed it myself. But your great-grandfather changed his mind. Sent his warriors to bring her home. Against her wishes. They breached the palace, infiltrated their rooms. Fareynz tried to protect her—they sliced off his hand with an ice shard. Turmah agreed to return to spare his life. But she cut off her own hand first.” He sighs deeply, shaking his head. As if the false story grieves him. “It was the last time a waterwielder set foot in Arbinj.”

Anger coils inside me, tighter and tighter, with every word. I want to spit in his face. Does he truly expect me to believe my grandmother sliced off her own hand? Out of a twisted sense of love?

He must see the rage I can’t conceal, in my clenched fists and frightful grimace, but surprisingly, Varad doesn’t reprimand me. Instead, he waves his hand and continues down the hallway.

“I didn’t bring you here to debate Turmah’s fate. I wanted to show you”—he stops in front of a painting, concealed by dark velvet fabric—“this.”

I stare at him dumbly. With all the patience of a starving snow wolverine, he gestures for me to remove the fabric. It pools to the floor in a dark puddle.

My breath stutters.

It’s Zev and me. On our wedding day.

I vaguely remember this moment. We’d turned to face the crowd, ready to walk back down the aisle together. The painter perfectly captured the dark hair curling around my shoulders, the deep blue of my eyes, the detailing on my gown. I’m facing the viewer.

But Zev? He’s looking at me. His hand clasps mine, about to guide me down the petal-adorned aisle, his lips tilted up slightly. It was the moment right after he kissed me.

Something sharp and desperate pulls at my heart.

Varad says nothing, just watches me closely as I study the painting.

“It’s—it’s lovely.”

Varad only hums, then waves at me to follow as he exits the gallery.

Our little field trip isn’t over, apparently.

We arrive at the throne room. I haven’t set foot here since the first day I arrived in Arbinj. Since Varad chose Zev for me instead of Faramir and sealed my fate.

The last time I stood in this room, I was a bargaining chip.

Now, I’m something else.

I just haven’t decided what yet.

“Sit on the throne.”

“I—what?” Of all the things I thought he might say, it certainly wasn’t that.

“Sit.”

Is this a trap? Some kind of test?

My palms grow damp, but I climb the dais, hesitating for only a second before I perch on the throne, straight-backed and sure.

Like a queen.

Varad’s cool gaze rakes over me, green eyes narrowed, before he hums in satisfaction. With a wave of his hand, he gestures for me to follow as he heads out of the room. Again. I scramble off the dais. The hallways blur past me, but my skin prickles with icy dread. Where is he taking me? My instincts are screaming, but I don’t know at what.

He takes me to the gardens next, where I was wedded to his son. Sunlight dapples the grass, and the cool breeze rustles the golden leaves. Varad takes a seat on a nearby stone bench.

I join him, my body as stiff as the cold stone beneath me.

The silence between us stretches for minutes, tense and heavy.

What does he want? So far, I’d been successful in avoiding him, but I hadn’t counted on Varad seeking me himself.

“Mayah,” he says slowly, as if testing my name on his lips. “Queen Mayah of Arbinj.”

Have the Tides ravaged his mind?

Varad sighs deeply. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, his voice quiet. “I didn’t think you’d marry my son. It ruined my plans when you did.”

I bristle. Why is he telling me this?

“You wanted to keep me hostage. Or kill me.”

His lips twist. “A hostage, yes. I wouldn’t have killed you. I’d have lost my leverage.”

I scoff, violent anger roiling inside me. “What was your plan?”

“Force your father to help me fight the Rebellion. Take his land. Resources. Whatever he’d give me for his heir.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and the gesture reminds me so much of Zev that my heart stutters.

“My son is in love with you, Mayah,” Varad says matter-of-factly.

The air leaves my lungs.

I want to believe him.

I want it so badly, my bones ache for it.

“I didn’t plan for it. But it doesn’t make it any less true. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. And in his rage when anyone else looks at you.” He glances at me, finally. “I want my son to be happy.”

Why did you kill his mother, then?

“I am willing to set aside this decades-long war for him. If you care for Zevayr, which I suspect you do, then perhaps you can do the same. Imagine, a real union between our kingdoms? One based on trust? There’s nothing that could stop us.”

If he suspects the festival plan, this is a clever move. Offer mercy before I commit the sin. Entrap me into revealing myself.

He waits for a response, but I remain silent.

“Why did you call me Queen Mayah?” I ask instead, crossing my arms and bracing against the brisk wind. “Faramir will be king, not Zev.”

Varad rakes his incisors over his lower lip, and again, the gesture is so reminiscent of Zev that my heart misses a beat.

I hate him.

I hate this man who murdered my mother, yet bears so many similarities to my husband.

“Faramir is … unhinged, to put it mildly,” Varad says, brows knitting together. “It’s my fault. He didn’t receive the same maternal warmth that Zevayr did. My eldest is unnecessarily cruel. Malicious. He’s not the right king for Arbinj.”

Varad’s words turn my blood to ice.

“You want Zev to be king?” I whisper, eyes wide. He nods. “What about Faramir? He won’t just step aside.”

Varad scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “No. No, he won’t. If I can secure the alliance with Volca, he might be content to wed their princess and rule their island. If not…” He trails off, a grim look crossing his face.

My blood burns hot. “You’d ruin an innocent girl’s life by marrying her to him?”

Of course he would. He’d been perfectly happy for me to wed his deranged son. Until Zev ruined his plans.

Sharp green eyes cut to me, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I do what I must. You may think me a monster, Mayah, but I do love my sons. Both of them. And as I said—Zevayr loves you. Move on from past wrongs, and think about what you want. It could all be yours.”

I mull over his words. After a few minutes, he rises and returns to the palace.

I lose track of how long I sit there.

My son is in love with you.

I blink back tears. Unbidden, my gaze falls to my wedding ring, a mirror of my mother’s necklace.

With a shuddering gasp, I clutch the pendant tightly, the sharp point of the teardrop digging painfully into my skin. The storm that killed her is still inside me. Nothing can quiet the thunder in my chest.

He might be able to forget the past.

But I cannot.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

ZEV HAS BEEN GONE for a week.

There was a storm last night, and I spent the entirety of it curled into a ball beneath the sheets, hands clamped over my ears, face damp with tears. I either fell asleep or fainted, I’m not sure which—either way, I woke the next morning wrapped in self-loathing.

“Would you like to look at the seating chart?” she asks, breaking me out of my reverie.

“Uh, no, that’s all right. I’m sure it’s perfect.” Her smile widens, until the dimple in her left cheek winks at me.

“Anything else?” Farzina asks. “I’ll retrieve your gown from the seamstress. I can’t believe the Festival is only a week away! Guests should begin arriving soon.”

I can’t match Farzina’s enthusiasm, not when guilt and confusion and indecision are tearing me apart.

“I can’t wait.” I smile at her like everything’s fine, like I haven’t spent the night sobbing into Zev’s pillow. Like I haven’t kissed one man while thinking about another. The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it anyway.

I’ve become skilled at pretending I’m whole.

It was supposed to be simple.

Infiltrate. Poison. Rule.

So why does my heart twist every time I think of Zev’s smile? Why do my hands hesitate when I touch Daak? It’s like my body has already decided it belongs to someone else—it won’t betray him.

Even though I already have.

The day passes in a blur—I don’t remember what I ate for lunch, what wounds I healed, which guards shadowed me in the hallways. After the sun sets, I trudge through the tunnels. They’re familiar to me now. I don’t even need a torch.

Daak is already waiting for me. He’s quick to pull me into an embrace. It’s not entirely unwelcome—he’s warm and familiar. He cares for me. He loves me. And he’s my friend. It just doesn’t feel right because he thinks I still feel the same.

“Here, try this,” he says, pressing a flaky pastry into my hand. “Arbinjis may be vile assholes, but their food? Delicious.”

I shove the pastry into my mouth with one bite.

Daak chuckles. “Ah, your ladylike manners. One of the things I love most about you.”

I laugh too hard—like if I laugh enough, I won’t notice the cold freezing me from the inside. Does Daak notice my smile doesn’t reach my eyes? I chew and swallow, even as the walls close in.

Daak brushes away a crumb from the corner of my mouth.

“There was a storm last night,” he says softly. “Were you all right?”

“Yeah,” I lie. I don’t want to talk about it.

“You could’ve come down here. I was waiting for you. I thought you’d need me.” Melancholy bathes his words, lines the slump in his shoulders.

“I’ve gotten better at handling it alone.” Another lie. “What did you do during storms after I left? You must have so much free time without me to babysit.”

“You know I didn’t think of it as babysitting,” he says softly, brushing a strand of my hair back. He doesn’t notice the tension in my spine as he draws near. Daak blows a quick puff of air through his lips, contemplating. “Actually, I don’t think there’ve been any storms since you left.”

“Really?” I frown. “That seems … unfair.”

Daak only hums, his blue gaze darkening as he looks at me. He inches closer. “I miss spending nights in your bed.”

I draw back, arms rigid at my sides. “I was passed out for most of those nights.”

“I can’t miss holding you?” He’s looking at me so intently, it makes my stomach churn.

“Anything else you can think of for the Festival?” I ask.

Daak eyes me for a beat before responding, his mouth tightening. “I don’t think so. We’re ready. Just waiting now.”

I rise, brushing my palms against my thighs. “I’ll head back, then.”

“Mayah, wait,” Daak says, standing swiftly. He cups my cheek. “I—you know I love you, right? Even if you and the Commander … even if he’d made you—I’d still want you. I’ll always love you.” His blue eyes are earnest, vulnerable, but my heart feels numb, like it’s been pressed against unforgiving ice for days.

“I know,” I murmur. “I just—things feel different now.”

He presses closer, walking me backward until my back rests against the wall. Daak presses his forehead to mine. “It will get better. Things can go back to how they were. How we were.”

My heart aches in my chest. I want nothing more than to want that. Things would be much simpler.

But I don’t.

“Daak…”

He erases the distance between us, crashing his lips to mine in an urgent kiss. It tastes of desperation. He’s trying to hold onto me.

And I let him.

I let him pretend this is still real, that I’m still his. But part of me already belongs to someone else—and that’s the part I hate most.

I turn my head away, pushing gently at his chest.

“Daak,” I sigh. “Daak, wait.”

“Mayah, please,” he groans against my lips, leaning forward to capture them again. He grabs my leg, wrapping it around his waist. “Just … please.”

I don’t stop him. It’s easier than explaining the storm inside my chest.

So I let him kiss me. A quiet surrender. A parting gift.

He doesn’t know it’s goodbye—but I do.

I close my eyes and let him hold me. Not because I want him to, but because he’s loved me for so long. And I still love him back in my own way. Just not enough.

So this is my goodbye.

The last time he’ll kiss me.

With a sudden jerk, Daak draws back. Confusion clouds his blue eyes, then fear.

“Wh—”

He never gets to utter his question.

His body convulses, the air crackling around him. I can only watch in horror as his limbs contort.

The crackling growing louder. The stench of burning flesh permeates the air, undercut with a metallic tang.

The light fades from his blue eyes as he collapses to the floor.

My breath stalls.

My heart stops.

Behind where Daak stood is my husband—

–and I have never seen anything more terrifying.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

ZEV TOWERS BEFORE ME, fury crackling off his skin like lightning incarnate. The air sizzles around him, his face twisted into a mask of rage. A thick vein pulses in his forehead, tendons bulging in his neck.

I tear my gaze away, my heart battering my ribs with the force of a tempest. My eyes land on Daak’s lifeless body. Despair claws at my throat, my ribs, my heart, my soul.

Daak. He hadn’t deserved this.

Daak, who taught me how to fight and how to wield.

Daak, who held me through storms when my father turned his back on me.

Daak, who followed me into enemy territory as I sought my revenge.

Daak, who died knowing I no longer felt the same.

A strangled cry tears from my lips. The sound leaves me before I realize it’s mine. My knees hit stone, but I don’t feel the pain. All I can see is Daak—his body curled like he’s sleeping.

He can’t be gone. He can’t be.

I fall to my knees, cradling his head. My face is wet with tears as I trace a hand over his face. His skin is still warm, but Tides—his eyes.

They’re still open. Lifeless.

What will I tell his father?

Grief crawls out of the fractured hollow of my heart, flooding my veins with poisoned agony. This is my fault. This is all my fault.

Slowly, I raise my eyes to Zev.

He hasn’t moved. He’s a statue, stock still, a strange look on his face. His chest is heaving, hands clenching and unclenching. He opens his mouth—but it’s not a roar that escapes. It’s a breath. A falter. And then his face hardens into stone.

Violent power writhes inside me—not my gentle, healing power, but the feral tide of water. It rages inside me, desperate to be unleashed after months of suppression. He killed Daak.

I bare my teeth.

The water calls—

–and I respond.

With a sharp jab of my arm, water rises from the stream, jagged and swift, and for one blinding second, I revel in the water’s strength. In its fury.

Zev’s eyes widen with shock.

My hand shoots forward. Water slams into his chest, knocking him clear across the room. A loud thud resonates as his back collides with the stone wall.

My advantage is short-lived. He staggers to his feet, and the vengeful wrath in his steel gray eyes sucks the air from my lungs. Hate contorts his face, lips peeled back in a feral snarl, a vein throbbing across his forehead.

This isn’t Zev—it’s the Dark Commander.

And I’ve made myself his enemy.

He raises his hand—and I just know. This is no warning.

The Dark Commander means to kill me.

My arm arcs in the air in a graceful twirl. Just like Daak taught me. Water rises again, thin streams converging into thicker cords. It shoots at his chest, but he’s expecting it this time, easily rolling out of the way.

I didn’t freeze the water before launching it at his heart. I don’t know why.

I should have.

Because the room darkens. My mouth parts in disbelief—stone weeps above me where ominous storm clouds gather.

Tides drown me.

My husband has summoned a storm underground.

A shaky, trembling step back.

My eyes are glued to the rumbling clouds. A sharp crack of thunder, and I flinch. My back hits the wall just as a flash of lightning rips through the room.

A vise grips my lungs. I can’t breathe.

The clouds grow thicker, darker, closer.

Thunder booms louder, but the deafening shrill in my ears drowns it out. My knees buckle. The cavern walls shrink in around me—darker, then darker still. The shadows will swallow me whole.

Lightning flashes again, its electric heat brushing my face.

I try to scream, but there’s not enough air—a muffled whimper is all that slips free. My ragged gasps echo in my ears. Tides, there’s not enough air. My husband’s wrath has sucked it all from the cavern. Thunder keeps rumbling, closer and closer, and dark spots dot my vision.

Water shouldn’t drip from stone.

Thunder shouldn’t rattle a ceiling.

I shouldn’t feel lightning on my skin.

Through the darkness, I catch sight of black boots approaching me, each measured footstep echoing with lethal promise.

The storm in his gray eyes is more terrifying than the one he’s conjured.

“So many lies you’ve managed to tell me, wife,” the Dark Commander spits, halting before me. “At least your fear was one truth.”

Darkness surges—and then there’s nothing.