Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER TWO

MY HEART BATTERS MY ribcage as I race through the frigid halls of the palace. It’s not the first time I’ve been immersed in the Healing Chambers and was late for a council meeting. Hiking up my thick gown, I dart through the halls. Skidding around a corner, the heel of my boot carves an arc into the packed snow floor. Oops. A palace waterwielder will need to smooth that over.

A loud thud, and the door swings open. Light streams in through large windows, illuminating each weathered face as it swivels toward me. At the head of the long table sits Father, his lips pressed into a line so thin it disappears into his white beard.

“Daughter,” he drawls, eyes flashing with disapproval. “Wonderful of you to join us.” Father waves his hand, and a whip of water shoots out from the carved fountain, pulling back the chair directly to his right. A snarling wolf’s head is carved into this particular fountain—I’ve always thought its cold, icy eyes resembled Father’s.

Daak stands behind Father’s chair, back straight and dressed in his white captain’s armor. His face remains stoic, but his eyes twinkle with mirth as I hurry to my chair.

I’m barely seated when Father resumes speaking.

“As I was saying”—he cuts me a sharp glare—“along with the ceasefire, Arbinj will send food stores—meats, grains, and vegetables—as part of the alliance.”

I stare at my lap. Tundrayn will send me.

“Is there anything else we’ve learned about Crown Prince Faramir?” one of Father’s advisers asks, a wiry man in faded blue furs. “I … worry for Princess Mayah.”

At least someone does.

No, no. I can’t think like that. I’ve known my duty since I was a young girl. This is what I want—a better world, a safer world for my people. But still … I wish Father cared more about my safety. About what it means to send me into the arms of his enemy.

“Nothing new,” Father replies. “We only know that he’s a powerful earthwielder. Varad keeps him removed from the spotlight.”

Anger churns in my belly, hot and ever-present, at the thought of King Varad. Father may be cold and distant, but Varad is ruthless.

A monster. A murderer.

I was surprised when I learned the Arbinji king had accepted Father’s proposal—there are years and years of bad blood and broken marriages stacked between us. But it’s a fool’s dream to think Varad wants unity after decades of war. The alliance has more to do with the Rebellion and little to do with peace.

“Sorka, update me on the warfront,” Father rumbles, stroking his long, white beard.

My gaze lands on the lean, middle-aged man directly across from me, Father’s top general and Daak’s father. Sorka’s familiar blue eyes find mine, and he dips his chin in greeting.

Sorka has always been kind to me.

“With the exception of the attack a few days ago, Arbinj seems to be honoring the ceasefire,” Sorka announces to the council. Sunlight streams through the large windows, highlighting the white streaks in his tightly braided hair. “I’ll leave for the border tonight. Make sure they keep to the agreement.”

Father frowns. “Stay for a few more days, Sorka. Spend time with your son. You’re always desperate to return to camp. With a ceasefire in place, surely the warriors can survive without you for that long.”

My gaze flicks to Daak—he rolls his eyes dramatically, and I’m forced to bite my lip to contain my smile. Ironic of Father to insist Sorka spend time with Daak, when he can’t spare more than a few minutes for me at a time.

Sorka waves Father off with a laugh. His face is lined with age—but he’s still handsome. It’s how I imagine Daak will look in his fifties.

“I wouldn’t be a very good general if I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously,” Sorka says. “Besides, you keep my Daak busy enough as it is.”

Father grumbles but carries on with the meeting. “Any news of the Rebellion?”

A different adviser stands. “No new attacks, Your Majesty. The alliance with Arbinj must have them scared. The alliance, especially at this juncture, was a fine idea, Majesty.” He clears his throat, hands wringing together. “Though … I’ve heard whispers that even more wielders have joined their cause.”

Father scoffs. “Filthy traitors. Turning on their people and aligning themselves with commons.” My nails dig so hard into my palms, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

I understand why the Rebellion exists. It rose up within the last two decades, attacking both Tundrayn and Arbinj alike. At first, they were a minor inconvenience—fires set to supply carriages and stolen food stores. But the rebels have grown stronger within the last ten years, fighting for equality for nonwielders.

And nonwielders are treated abhorrently by both kingdoms. The matter is personal to me.

Sura and Tumaas had been nonwielders.

My mother had been a nonwielder.

And all of them are dead.

Daak clears his throat, pulling my attention. He looks pointedly at my lap, lips pursed. I relax my fists, inhaling deeply.

“Don’t let them fool you,” Father continues, either oblivious or uncaring of the anguish roiling inside me. “If we’re not careful, the Rebellion will lay claim to even more land. Has there been any progress with the captured rebel?” Father’s stern, ice-blue gaze sweeps the room.

A large man rises, and I recognize him as the pompous waterwielder who insisted I heal his scraped-up team before the injured nonwielders.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” he says, chest puffed out. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “The captain’s men are still working on him.”

Father runs a hand over his long beard. “Have the truthwielder brought in. We’ll get our answers sooner.” Truthwielders are heavily monitored, just like heartwielders. We only have one in Tundrayn—and Father still hasn’t learned her name. “Any other matters?”

Another adviser rises and gestures to the door. It opens, and three guards drag in two prisoners—a young man and woman, dressed in faded blue and white furs. Thick iron collars wrap around their necks, their wrists bound with rope.

I recognize them as lower-level waterwielders that work within the palace—they help control the flow of water through the structure. And smooth out scuffed paths. The iron collars suppress their wielding abilities.

“These two were caught power sharing,” the adviser announces, his lip curled with disgust.

Father’s mouth curves into a cold smile. “Planning an attack, were you? Consolidating your powers?”

“No!” the young man protests, blue eyes wide with fear. There’s a large, purpling bruise on his cheek. My hands glow faintly in my lap before I clench my fists. “No, we were—”

“Enough,” Father cuts him off. “Send them to the front lines.”

“Your Majesty,” Sorka protests, the lines tightening around his mouth. “They’re young. I’m certain they meant no harm. Perhaps, let them—”

“Are you questioning my ruling? Our law?” Father snaps, fixing Sorka with an icy glare. The room grows quiet and still. Most of the advisers stare at their laps. None look at me.

“Of course not,” Sorka says placatingly. His voice drops to a low whisper. “You know they were—”

“I will hear no more,” Father says sharply, his gaze flitting to me.

With a wave of his hand, the prisoners are dragged away, the door slamming shut.

Father’s sharp eyes cut to me again. I resist the urge to shrink into myself. “As for the other pressing matter … the Arbinji crown prince arrives tomorrow.”

My heart stops.

“Tomorrow?” I manage. My knuckles bloom white as snow. “We weren’t expecting him for another two weeks.”

Father shrugs. “Scouts spotted their carriages. They will reach the palace tomorrow. I’ve already instructed the servants to prepare for the betrothal ceremony. You will be ready, Daughter?”

I wish I could turn and look at Daak, but Father’s cold gaze pins me in place. My heart hammers in my chest, and a shrill ringing sounds in my ears.

Tomorrow? I thought I had more time.

“Mayah,” Father snaps, and I flinch. “You will be ready.”

“Yes, Father.” It’s a battle to keep my voice firm.

After the meeting adjourns, the council shuffles out of the room, but I linger behind. Daak shoots me a questioning glance, but I just shake my head. The doors close behind him with a heavy thud, and silence stretches across the council chamber.

I don’t move. I remain seated beside Father, hands clasped in my lap.

He rises, walking away, but I speak before I lose my nerve.

“Father.”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn.

“The betrothal means I leave Tundrayn tomorrow.”

“Yes.” He still doesn’t face me.

“I—I’m afraid.”

That’s what finally makes him turn.

“You are a woman of twenty-five. Not a frightened, sniveling child.” Something inside me shrivels. Father’s mouth opens and shuts, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mayah,” he sighs, shoulders dropping slightly. “You are giving Tundrayn a new future. The one it deserves.”

I flinch beneath the weight of his heavy gaze.

“I know. I’m ready. And I’ll—”

He steps closer, then slowly, almost reluctantly, removes one of his fur-lined gloves. With bare fingers, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear—an unfamiliar gesture, awkward and uncertain.

My throat tightens.

“I didn’t want this for you, Daughter. But there is no other way.” He doesn’t wait for my response, just turns away again as if he can’t bear to be in my presence alone.

“Father, please.” I freeze him in place with my words once more. “Before I leave, I—the nonwielders. Their treatment is—”

“Not this again, Mayah.”

“They wouldn’t join the Rebellion in droves if we didn’t—”

“Enough.”

“Look at Volca! A land of formidable firewielders, yet they treat nonwielders with dignity and—”

“I said enough!” His angry shout cracks through the room like a whip. “They are beneath us, Mayah.” His tone is flat. Final. “It’s well past time you learned that.”

My voice is quiet, defeated. “But, Mama…”

“Your mother is dead.”

Without another word, he sweeps from the room, leaving the weight of his words—and his silence—behind.

The door shuts.

I don’t move.

The chill in the room has nothing to do with the ice walls.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions as servants put the finishing touches on my ceremonial dress—an ice blue gown studded with crystals and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves.

“Would you like to see the Grand Hall, Princess?” one of the servants asks me, a middle-aged woman with streaks of white in her dark hair.

The Grand Hall is where Crown Prince Faramir will accept me as his betrothed, sealing both my fate and my kingdom’s.

I shake my head.

The woman’s hands still, lingering on the fabric of my gown.

“I’m sorry, Princess.” A lump forms in my throat as her pitying gaze meets mine in the mirror. She squeezes my hand, her eyes glistening. “When … when he comes to your bed, just do as he says, Princess. It will be easier.”

I nod numbly, but inside I’m screaming.

How many women before me were told the same thing?

How many will come after?

She says nothing more as she hems a few threads that had unraveled.

When she finishes, I undress in silence.

I try not to let it suffocate me.

I’ve barely settled into my bed, heavy fur blanket tugged up to my chin, when the door creaks open.

I don’t need light to know it’s him.

Daak slips in like he always does, a quiet presence in the dark. His silhouette crosses the room, and the mattress dips beneath his weight. I shift, making space, and he gathers me against his chest like he always has.

His scent washes over me—fresh snow and spruce—and for a moment, I let myself forget what tomorrow holds.

“I’m so sorry, Mayah,” he whispers into my hair, his voice cracked and raw. It fissures something in my chest.

“I know,” I breathe. My heart aches. It hurts how much I find comfort in him. In this. In pretending, just for tonight, that nothing will change.

But everything will.

“I wish things were different,” he murmurs, stroking soothing patterns down my spine. “That I’d met you in another life. One where you weren’t a princess. One where I wasn’t bound to your father.”

My throat tightens.

“One where I wasn’t promised to the enemy,” I say softly.

He doesn’t respond for a long time.

Then—“You’re more than just a promise to me, Mayah. My heart is yours.”

A beat. And then he pulls back, just enough to see my face in the dim light. His blue eyes are aching with all the words we never dared say.

“I love you,” he whispers, finally letting them crystallize.

I blink. The words land somewhere deep inside me, like a drop of warm water in an endless, frozen sea.

“I love you, too, Daak.” My voice is soft, as if saying the words too loud will shatter the precious moment around us.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I’ve always known.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’ll always love you, Mayah. And I’ll find you.”

The words linger between us—fragile, final.

Fleeting.

A sudden boom of thunder rattles the icy walls of my chambers, and I gasp, instinctively burying my face in his chest.

There hadn’t been a storm in weeks.

Daak tightens his hold. “It’s just noise,” he says, but he knows it’s more than that. He’s seen what it does to me.

Thunderstorms used to be rare in Tundrayn, but they’ve grown more frequent in the last two decades. And every single one steals the air from my lungs. They reduce me to a child again—small, sniveling, helpless.

What will I do in Arbinj, the land of brutal stormwielders and their violent thunderstorms?

“Mayah,” Daak says, gently tilting my chin. His forehead presses against mine. “You’re going to survive this. You’re going to do what you’ve always done. You’ll create a better future for all of Tundrayn. And you’ll do it with that stubborn fire in your chest that terrifies half the palace. And me, if I’m being honest.”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “You make me sound like a force of nature.”

“You are.”

Another rumble shakes the windows. I flinch, and Daak holds me tighter.

“I’ll see you again,” he says, voice fierce in the dark.

He holds me until I fall asleep, the storm raging around us.

CHAPTER THREE

DAAK IS GONE WHEN I wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony.

By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face. Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face. My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin. Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.

Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.

Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.

I steel myself with a deep breath.

The door thuds shut behind me.

Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hang from the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.

“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.

Turmah. My grandmother.

I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father.

Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers.

I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.

I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.

Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand.

Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring. After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father. According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.

The war with Arbinj has escalated since then, claiming more lives on both sides with every passing season.

I swallow around the lump in my throat and pray my marriage yields better results for my kingdom than Turmah’s, even as icy dread chills my heart.

With one final look, I briefly greet the remaining sculptures, then leave the Hall of Ancestors behind.

There is no statue of Mama.

The ice throne is freezing beneath me. My delicate betrothal gown is beautiful, but Tides, what I wouldn’t give to be wearing something warmer. My pajamas, even.

The murmurs of the assembled Tundrayni nobility, all dressed in their finest blue and white furs, ripple through the Great Hall. Even with such short notice, the servants managed to ready the large, circular room for the ceremony.

In the center, where I sit shivering, is a large dais made of solid ice. Beside me is another ice throne, gleaming in the sunlight seeping in through the large windows. The twin seats were carved specifically for the ceremony and are smaller than Father’s majestic seat that sits in the Throne Room.

Father enters shortly thereafter, dressed in formal sapphire furs, his white beard gathered together with a thin blue ribbon. On his head sits the ice crown, its sharp, translucent spears rising toward the heavens. The echoing stamp of boots rumbles through the hall as the nobility rises to greet their king as he sits beside me. Father appears at ease, raising a regal hand to the assembled guests, but tension lines the set of his jaw.

Does he regret his decision? Sending his only child into the arms of his enemy? Especially given what King Varad did—

No. No, I must stop thinking this way. Father is doing this for Tundrayn. For its safety and future. And I must do my part. I want to do my part.

Minutes pass, but it feels like time has stopped.

My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, knuckles flaring white. Father strikes his staff repeatedly against the floor of the dais, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap echoing the beat of my heart.

The door swings open.

The hall goes silent.

There’s no sound save for the thud of heavy boots in formation.

Arbinji soldiers, clad in dark leather and armored chest plates march into the Great Hall.

My breath catches.

I’ve never seen an Arbinji soldier before, but I’ve heard enough tales of their prowess—and their cruelty. And I’ve certainly treated enough wounds inflicted by storm– and earthwielders for dread to pool in my lungs at the sight of so many of them within my palace.

They march closer.

At the head of the line is a towering, muscular man. A metal helmet conceals the entirety of his face. Except his eyes. They’re gray—like thunderclouds just before the rain starts—and calculating as they sweep across the room, scanning every face before settling on me.

Our eyes meet.

My brow furrows as I study him. Metal helmet, dark leathers, a large sword strapped to his waist. My gaze sharpens on the Arbinji crest on his chest plate—a massive tree with a bolt of lightning struck through it. He’s not dressed like the crown prince I expected. No, he’s dressed like—

Realization washes over me in a frigid wave.

It steals my breath, frosting over my lungs like a sheet of ice.

The Dark Commander stops at the foot of the dais, his soldiers flanking him.

Life crashes back into the stunned hall with hushed whispers and muttered disapproval. The temperature in the room seems to drop once my people realize the Dark Commander stands amidst them.

There’s a good chance every person in this room mourns someone because of him.

Father eyes him with derision, lips curled with disdain.

“Prince Zevayr. We weren’t expecting you. Has Prince Faramir been delayed?”

“Faramir sends his regrets.” His deep, gravelly voice is quiet, yet somehow still booms like thunder. “I’ll perform the ceremony in his stead and deliver his betrothed to Arbinj for the wedding.”

Deliver? I bristle at being likened to goods.

Father’s scowl deepens. “It is beyond insulting that Varad expects me to betroth my heir via proxy.”

Zevayr gives a casual one-shouldered shrug. A wave of outraged murmurs sweeps the hall at his blatant disrespect.

“Prince Zevayr,” I say sharply before I can stop myself. His gray eyes snap to me. “Recently, several warriors returned severely injured from the border. After the ceasefire was negotiated.”

Father stiffens, and the hall falls silent once more, like the quieting of the wind before a catastrophic storm.

The Dark Commander studies me with that cool, unyielding gaze. His helmet hides most of his face, but I catch it—a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly smothered by anger. The sky darkens, dimming the light in the hall.

Tides drown me.

He’s a stormwielder—he literally holds my greatest fear in the palm of his hand.

I swallow, refusing to break his heavy gaze.

“My apologies, Princess,” he finally rumbles. I blink in surprise. “We had reason to believe that particular battalion was planning an attack. I only received notice of the ceasefire afterward.”

I regard him carefully, then give a small dip of my chin.

“Shall we begin the ceremony, King Tormik?” Zevayr asks.

Father doesn’t respond, just rises from the throne and descends the dais, gesturing for Zevayr to take his place. As the Dark Commander climbs the stairs, I realize how massive he is—when he finally looms before me, his broad, muscled torso blocks out everything else.

He sinks into the vacant, too-small throne without a word of complaint. Once again, those unreadable gray eyes study me. I hate that I can’t see his face.

But I don’t wonder long.

He unstraps his helmet. I brace for a monster—for the ugly face of the murderer I know him to be.

My lips part in surprise.

His cheekbones are sharp, jawline chiseled and darkened with stubble. Black hair, mussed and slightly matted. He rakes a hand through his dark locks like he has all the time in the world.

He’s handsome. Irritatingly so. And I hate that more than anything.

The Dark Commander is a ruthless killer. A murderer.

It’s only fair he look the part.

His eyes lock on mine, and a smirk tugs at his mouth—as if he can sense the reluctant shift of my thoughts. But I won’t cower before him, this man who thrives on terrorizing my people. I narrow my eyes, meeting his gaze with defiance. The smirk ebbs, but he doesn’t look angry. He seems curious.

Father clears his throat, and I tear my eyes away.

Zevayr addresses me directly, his deep voice impossibly low, as if meant only for my ears. “Before the ceremony, I need a demonstration of your powers.” Before I can respond, he pulls a dagger from his belt and slashes his palm. Bright red blood oozes from the deep wound, dripping onto the white floor.

I purse my lips at him, half-tempted to leave him bleeding.

He arches a brow in challenge.

With a loud sigh, I call to my power and quickly heal his cut, leaving his skin flawless and smooth. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are wide, as if awestruck. My lips tip up at the corners. It pleases me more than it should that I’ve impressed this formidable wielder.

Zevayr retrieves a small box from within his heavy, leather-lined cloak, opening it to reveal a sparkling ring with a massive dark stone—a black diamond, perhaps?

It’s flashy and ominous. I hate it.

“Princess Mayah of Tundrayn, on behalf of my brother, Crown Prince Faramir of Arbinj, I accept you as his betrothed. I vow to protect you from all harm and deliver you to him safely. Lightning strike me should I fail.”

Zevayr reaches for my hand when—

“It is customary in Tundrayn for the man to kneel before his intended when accepting her as his betrothed,” Father drawls, arms crossed over his chest, his staff dangling casually between his fingers.

It’s a bald-faced lie. There’s no such custom.

A hush falls over the audience. Every eye is pinned to the Dark Commander.

Zevayr glares at Father, his fingers curling into tight fists. A powerful rumble of thunder rattles the hall. My heartbeat ratchets up, palms growing damp.

“Would you dishonor my daughter?” Father demands when Zevayr doesn’t move.

A muscle jumps in the Dark Commander’s jaw. “I would never dishonor my brother’s intended,” he grits out. Then, he gracefully kneels before me and takes my hand in his larger one, his callouses scraping against my palm.

My mouth parts in surprise—I was certain he’d refuse. His eyes don’t leave mine. I want to look away, but I can’t.

A begrudging flicker of respect blossoms in my chest before I regain my senses.

He’s a murderer.

Zevayr slides the ring onto my finger and seals my fate.