Текст книги "Between Tides & Thunder"

Автор книги: Lena Kazak

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DARK COMMANDER RISES, tugging me up with him, our joined hands held aloft.

“The new princess of Arbinj!” he announces.

The hall remains painfully silent.

Zevayr’s grip tightens around my hand, unyielding even as Father ascends the steps and embraces me. The touch is so unfamiliar that I remain stiff in his arms. When he draws back, his icy eyes soften—for once—as they rest on me.

The moment is fleeting, passing through my fingers like water as Father turns to Zevayr. “We’ve prepared a feast tonight, and a grand celebration tomorrow. The servants will show your party to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Zevayr cuts him off, waving a dismissive hand. “We return to Arbinj within the hour. Enough time for the princess to pack her belongings.”

I gape at him. He can’t be serious.

Father’s face reddens, fingers tightening around his staff. “We have spared no effort in preparing for this occasion. You insult both my daughter and Tundrayn,” he hisses, spittle flying from his mouth.

“That is not my intention,” Zevayr says easily. He still doesn’t release my hand. “I was tasked with delivering the princess immediately. Your efforts are appreciated and not unnoticed.”

Angry muttering erupts within the hall. Zevayr casts a narrowed gaze around the room. “I’ve also brought the first shipment of food stores. Plenty of meat and grains.” His words have their intended effect. The hall quiets, though Father remains scowling.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Daak stalking over, his icy gaze fixed on mine and Zevayr’s still-joined hands. He faces the Dark Commander, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You can’t expect the princess to be ready for travel in an hour,” Daak snarls.

Zevayr eyes Daak with unconcealed disdain. “You are?”

“The captain of the royal guard.”

Daak’s eyes flit to me.

A powerful thunderclap sounds out, louder than any I’ve ever heard. I flinch, my heart battering my ribcage. A distant ringing sounds in my ears.

Lightning flashes, bathing the room in blinding light for a heartbeat, and I inadvertently squeeze Zevayr’s hand. His attention cuts to me for a fleeting moment, brows furrowed, before he resumes his staring match with Daak.

Thunder rumbles like icebergs scraping together.

By the Tides.

I can’t pass out in the middle of the hall.

“It’s all right, Father,” I reassure. My voice is steady even as my stomach stumbles. “I’m ready to begin my new life.”

Before Father or Daak can object, Zevayr guides me down the aisle, his soldiers snapping into formation at our sides. Behind us, Daak’s voice cuts through the hall as he commands the royal guards to follow us to my chambers.

Zevayr halts so abruptly it throws me off-balance.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says without turning. “She is a princess of Arbinj now. She is under my protection.”

Cold fury rushes through my veins. The insufferable man sees me as property—goods to deliver. I may wear his brother’s ring now, but that doesn’t mean he owns me.

“She is still a princess of Tundrayn,” I snap heatedly, glaring up at him. Amused gray eyes meet my own. I want to claw them out with my nails. “Your guards may accompany me, but so will my Father’s.”

Zevayr studies me, eyes narrowed, but I refuse to flinch beneath his scrutiny. I brace for a boom of thunder to threaten me into obedience, but surprisingly, it never comes.

He finally nods, and we exit the hall, Zevayr and Daak flanking me, trailed by both Tundrayni and Arbinji guards. When we reach my chambers, Zevayr insists on inspecting my room before I’m permitted inside. Not to be outdone, Daak checks it again after him.

Both men wait outside my door while I change into warm leggings and a thick tunic suited for travel. My handmaids pack a few bags of my belongings, but just clothing for the journey. I won’t need my furs and wools in Arbinj’s warmer climate.

There’s only one thing I refuse to leave behind. From my dresser, I lift a silver chain, its teardrop pendant glimmering softly—the only piece of my mother I have left. After she died, Father burned all her belongings, too overcome with grief to bear the sight of them. The necklace survived only because it was in my pocket. Even now, he can’t stand to look at it, which is why I never wear it.

I clasp it around my neck with trembling fingers.

I’m dressed and ready, but I still don’t open the doors. Not yet. My footsteps stall, frozen to the floor. I cast another lingering glance around my chambers—I don’t know when I’ll return.

If ever.

Slow, unsteady steps carry me back to my dresser. Numbly, I slide open the top drawer and lift out a small wooden box. My fingers are reverent as I ease off the lid, revealing a stack of letters, their envelopes creased and worn. Mayah-bear is written across each one in a looping script I know as well as my own name. Gently, I trace the faded handwriting with the tip of my finger.

My throat is tight as I replace the box, then cast one final gaze around the room. My heart constricts painfully at the fate awaiting me in Arbinj.

In a new set of chambers. In a new bed.

But I knew this day would come. I expected it. I waited for it.

So I move.

I walk.

I obey.

When I open the doors, Zevayr and Daak are glaring at each other, likely seconds from unsheathing their weapons. I ignore the Dark Commander, addressing only Daak with a dip of my chin before gliding down the hall. The men trail behind me.

My heart beats in my throat as I cross the threshold of the palace’s towering doors. A host of nobles and advisers are lined up in neat rows in the snowground. Every balcony is filled—servants, guards, warriors, nobility. Everyone come to bid their princess farewell.

Perhaps, forever.

I nod at each of them but don’t let my gaze linger on any face for long. I’m afraid of what I’ll see.

Disdain? Pity? Approval?

Father waits at the end of the line. Behind him are four Arbinji carriages. Three are large and regal, crafted from gleaming polished wood. The carriage at the end of the procession is smaller, the wood faded and scarred. At least four dozen men on horseback flank the carriages—the soldiers wear dark leathers and armor, a stark contrast against the white snow, like soot stains on our pristine landscape.

Father envelops me in another stiff embrace while the servants load my bags into the largest carriage. I stand awkwardly in the circle of his arms, willing my body to relax. It refuses.

“Don’t disappoint me,” he murmurs in my ear. Sharp words whispered so softly. “I will see you at the Equinox Festival. Tides protect you.” I nod stiffly against his shoulder. When he pulls back, his gaze snags on my mother’s necklace. His lips tighten, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Father,” I whisper. “The feast tonight … divide the food amongst the people. All the people. Please.”

His eyes sharpen into a blade, cutting through me.

He doesn’t deign a response.

Daak stands beside him, mournful blue eyes fixed on me. I wish I could say goodbye to him properly. He bows his head, but his fierce gaze says so much more.

I’ll always love you. I’ll find you. Tides protect you.

With one last nod to Father, Zevayr helps me into the carriage.

I leave my home behind.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CARRIAGE JOLTS TO a stop.

We’ve only been traveling for thirty minutes. In absolute silence. I throw a questioning glance at Zevayr that he ignores. Instead, he dismounts from the carriage, turning to extend his hand.

What is going on?

Still seated, I stare blankly at him. “Why did we stop?”

“A precautionary measure.” His deep voice rumbles over me, and somehow he makes those few words sound like a command.

I don’t move.

A beat of silence. Another staring match.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The action irks me—what right does he have to be annoyed? I haven’t done anything.

“If we’re attacked,” he explains slowly, as if I’m incapable of intelligent thought, “they’d expect us to ride in one of the royal carriages. So we’ll ride in the smaller one.”

“Attacked by who?”

The Dark Commander doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at me with his unyielding gray gaze.

“Why didn’t we just ride in the smaller one to begin with?”

Zevayr grinds his teeth. “I wanted to avoid explaining to Tormik why I was delivering his daughter in the … other carriage.” He jerks his hand, the sharp movement dripping with impatience. “Dismount. Please.” He grits out the last word like it pains him.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Stop saying you’re ‘delivering’ me. I’m not goods that you’ve bartered.”

Though that’s exactly what I am.

A flash of amusement flickers through his eyes, there and gone. When he doesn’t say anything else, I stomp down, ignoring his proffered hand, and tread through ankle-deep snow toward the smaller carriage at the back of the procession.

He reaches around me—too tidesdamned close—and opens the door. The back of my neck prickles at his proximity, his heat seeping into me. I dart up the rickety stairs to escape him.

I freeze on the top step, his presence a suffocating weight at my back.

Calling it the other carriage was misleading. My heart beats faster, thudding angrily against my ribcage. Inside the small carriage, thick iron shackles are nailed into the back walls on one side. The interior is cramped—barely enough space for one normal-sized person, let alone me and the massive stormwielder I’m wedged against.

I whirl, gripping the sides of the carriage for balance. My breath hitches—he’s closer than I thought. He stands two steps below me but still towers. I have to crane my neck to glare at him.

“This is to transport prisoners,” I seethe.

“Very observant, Princess,” Zevayr drawls, his mouth twitching. “Now, get in.”

“Absolutely not. You’re out of your tidesdamned mind if you think I’m going to let you shackle me—”

“I’m not planning to shackle you. Unless you give me a reason.” He smirks, like this is some sick joke.

I jab my finger into his chest. His eyes flare in surprise. “You will not parade me through Arbinj like a prisoner. This is humiliating. Insulting. Improper. I can’t fathom—”

“Mayah.” The casual sound of my name on his tongue makes me flinch. “Take a breath.” His voice is low, steady—infuriatingly calm. “I’m only insisting on this carriage—this disgracefully obvious, painfully unworthy contraption—for your safety. And I won’t let you endure it alone. I’ll be right there with you, crammed into this pathetic excuse for transport, which, as you’ve noted, is better suited for convicts instead of princesses.” He holds my gaze, then gestures behind me. “Once we reach Arbinj, we’ll switch back into the royal carriage. You’ll enter the capital with all the pomp and respect you deserve. But for now…”

A beat.

“Get. In.”

I can’t think of a sharp retort, so I pivot quickly, my hair whipping his face, and perch onto the wooden bench with all the dignity I can muster after being subjected to that condescending speech. Zevayr follows me inside, his knees bumping mine as he folds his massive body down onto the opposite bench.

I narrow my eyes at him in a scorching glare, but the tidesdamned man just tidesdamned smirks at me.

A disgusted scoff claws its way through my lips. I cross my arms and stare outside the smudged window, determined not to let him goad me further.

By my estimate, we’ve been traveling for over an hour in absolute silence. My knees ache—I’ve kept my legs pressed close against the bench. Otherwise, they’d bump against the Dark Commander’s knees with every turn of the wheels.

The tidescursed man takes up so much tidescursed space.

I scowl at him, but he doesn’t notice. He hasn’t spared me a glance since we resumed the journey—his gaze fixed firmly outside the window. I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see. The landscape hasn’t changed since we left—leagues and leagues of white terrain and large, snowcapped trees.

“Why did you refuse to stay at the palace?” I ask. “It was just one night.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. He finally looks at me, then, an unreadable expression on his face.

“The ceasefire is relatively new. I didn’t want to risk staying in … hostile territory for longer than necessary.”

“A ceasefire that only you have broken.”

“So far.” He’s annoyingly calm, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “And I told you, it was an accident.”

An accident that killed dozens of Tundrayni warriors and injured at least one hundred more. The phantom stench of their burnt flesh still lingers in my nostrils.

“During the betrothal ceremony … the thunder. Was that you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t offer anything else. Irritation simmers inside me.

“Why?” I press, leaning forward.

“I was angry.”

“You can’t control your power when you’re angry?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?” he grits out, exasperated.

“Maybe.” I smirk. I’ve managed to shake his stoic attitude—annoyed him, even—and it pleases me more than it should.

“Why do you want to marry my brother?” he asks, his gray eyes unnervingly pinned on me.

The question takes me by surprise.

“I don’t. But I’ll do anything to protect my people.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes still riveted to me. I open my mouth, poised to ask what he finds so fascinating about my face, but the words never leave my throat.

A bone-rattling explosion rocks the carriage. I’m thrown against the wall as the carriage tips onto its side, my head slamming against the window. I’ve barely caught my breath when something massive crashes into me—Zevayr—forcing all the air from my lungs.

A muttered shit is all I hear through the pounding in my skull.

“Stay here,” he commands, his face barely an inch from my own. And then his weight on me is gone. I watch, still gasping for breath as he punches the carriage door open and climbs out. It slams shut behind him, muffling the mayhem outside.

The panicked shouts of soldiers, the frantic whinnying of horses, the dull clanging of steel. The carriage is dark and cramped, and the walls close in, a heavy weight pressing over my lungs.

I can’t stay in here.

Another explosion rings out, so powerful that my teeth clatter in my skull. More screaming, but fainter this time. I can’t tell if it’s because men have died in the second blast or because the shrill ringing in my ears drowns everything out.

But the next sound is bone-jarringly clear.

The deafening crash of thunder.

It’s so loud, so close, as if a storm cloud hovers directly above the carriage. Another boom rattles the air, and any thoughts of leaving the carriage vanish. My heart thrashes, desperate to tear free from my chest, while my breath stumbles in short, useless gasps.

Rain pelts the carriage, sudden and angry, its harsh staccato mocking me. I’m frozen in place, back pressed against the side.

Tides take me, I’m useless.

It’s just a storm. It’s just a storm. It’s just a—

The carriage jolts upwards before landing back down with a heavy crash, and my head knocks against the wall a second time. The world spins, and I swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

My power thrums inside me, familiar and welcome, surfacing unbidden to my palms. Before I can soothe the throbbing in my skull, sharp thuds echo across the exterior of the carriage, each one cracking higher.

As if someone is climbing it.

The door is flung open, letting in light and rain and something else, before it swings back shut with a slam. A soft sizzling echoes from somewhere near my head. Outside, another explosion tears through the chaos.

By the Tides.

The hissing sizzle grows louder, and with sudden clarity, I realize what the something else is.

Forcing the door open, I all but hurl myself out. I’m immediately soaked in the downpour, barely able to see through sheets of freezing rain. Soldiers swarm around me, slipping on ice and water. I do, too, landing hard on my knees.

A blade nearly nicks me as I crawl away from the carriage with a bomb inside it. My hands glow, shaky but ready. I scan the clearing, ready to heal or hide, but I can’t make sense through the chaos. All of the men are clad in dark leathers.

Which ones are Zevayr’s men?

It must be the Rebellion that attacked us.

I squint, trying to make out the Arbinji crest, but there’s too much movement, too much rain.

“There’s a bomb!” I shout, but the storm swallows my warning.

The stench of smoke and burning flesh fills my nostrils.

The sounds of battle are deafening in my ears.

The clang of metal.

Shouted orders.

The final groans of the dying.

But loudest of all—thunder.

In the midst of the chaos, I see him.

He’s a blur of dark leather and steel, his sword flashing around him like lightning itself. He impales one man, his sword pushing clean through the rebel’s abdomen.

He lifts his other hand skyward.

Lightning answers.

The sky splits open, and a massive, blinding bolt shoots down before my eyes and incinerates three men headed for him. Even after the bolt vanishes, the terrifying shape of the lightning flickers before my eyes, like a haunting, violent phantom.

My heart pounds in my ears. My lungs can’t get enough air, useless pants sawing through my chest.

Father was wrong. I am a sniveling child.

Don’t come out, Mayah. No matter what you hear.

Another bolt crashes down, closer to me this time, and a strangled yelp tears loose.

Loud footsteps sound on wooden stairs.

Me. They want me.

My hands claw at the frozen ground, knuckles whiter than the snow. A fierce clap of thunder jolts my bones. The snow is cold and wet beneath my knees.

My face is wet with tears. Or is it rain? It can’t be rain. I’m in my closet. Where is Mama?

The carriage I escaped explodes into millions of tiny pieces, wood chips spraying out in a shower of jagged edges.

That gets Zevayr’s attention.

His head snaps toward the sound, then swivels frantically until his gaze lands on me. His brows furrow. Concern? Anger? Another bolt of lightning crashes down, barely a foot to my left, and I scream and scream and scream. A body collapses beside me.

I’m not a betrothed princess anymore. I’m six years old again.

The door is opening.

The thunder is angry.

The world is burning. And

I

can’t

breathe.

The thud of boots grows louder. Lightning flashes, silhouetting the shadows of their feet. Where is Mama?

“It’s the princess!” a voice calls out. “Don’t hurt her!”

That’s the last thing I hear before the world snuffs out.

CHAPTER SIX

COLD. THAT’S MY FIRST thought as consciousness trickles back into me. I’m freezing, teeth chattering, damp clothes sticking to my chilled skin like a death sentence.

Upside down. That’s my next groggy thought. I’m upside down and moving. Groaning, I shift slightly and realize my wrists are bound together with a thick coil of rope. What in the Tides—

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Awareness crashes into me at the sound of Zevayr’s gravelly voice. He has me thrown over his broad shoulder, a muscled arm bracketing my thighs in a vise.

Without warning, he stops and tosses me onto the ground. There’s enough fresh snow that I sink into it painlessly, but what the actual fuck?

“What—what is the meaning of this?” I sputter, teeth clacking together as I hold up my bound hands.

“You tell me,” he snarls. He crouches to my level, his face a mask of pure wrath. Fresh injuries mar his tanned skin—one eye nearly swollen shut, purpling bruises darkening his cheeks and jaw. “Who attacked us?”

“I don’t know? It looked like Rebellion.” Why is he so angry at me? “Untie me immediately.”

He ignores my command. “Did you know about the attack?”

Tides, the man has lost his mind.

And I’m not about to help him find it.

“This is ridiculous,” I grit out. Scorching fury burns through my veins, but it does nothing to ease the chill in my bones. “Untie me right now.”

“Not until you answer my questions. Did. You. Know. About. The. Attack?” His face is inches from mine, gray eyes swirling with unchecked rage, and for the first time since waking up on his shoulder, a flash of fear cascades through me.

This is the Dark Commander.

He’s responsible for the deaths of thousands of Tundraynis.

He could summon lightning and kill me where I sit.

So I do the only sane thing I can think of—I rear back and bash my forehead into his nose. There’s a satisfying crack, and he falls backward, his large hand stemming the flow of blood.

I jump to my feet and bolt.

My feet stumble, off balance with my hands bound. I barely make it a few steps before a fist twists in my loose hair and yanks me back. Sharp pain bursts across my scalp as I crash onto the ground—just before Zevayr throws himself over me.

“Get off me!” I shout, slamming my bound fists against his chest again and again, but the insufferable man is a solid mass of pure muscle. I don’t move him an inch. “I’m the princess of fucking Tundrayn!”

His large hands close around my wrists, forcing my arms over my head. Tides, the entire length of his body is pressed against mine.

“Out here,” he snarls, his hot breath fanning my face, “you are the princess of nothing. Answer my questions, and maybe I’ll let you go.”

For a moment, neither of us says a word. Our gazes lock in a stormy battle, his gray eyes still crackling with electric rage. I imagine mine look the same. He shifts slightly atop me, his grip tightening on my wrists, his other arm braced on the ground near my head.

Another lick of fear crawls up my spine as my brain registers our position.

His proximity. His strength. His anger.

I’m alone, in the middle of nowhere, with a large man mounting me. Who can hurt me in many different ways, if he so chooses.

I must have taken too long to answer, because he growls, “I lost every single man in my command today. And once the attackers realized you were the princess, they protected you. I’m not feeling very charitable. Do not test me.”

“Fine,” I bite out. “I’ll answer your questions.”

“Did you know about the attack?”

“No.”

“Who attacked us?”

“I don’t know. I think it was the Rebellion.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Probably because they’re actively engaged in a war against both our kingdoms?”

Daft idiot.

He searches my face intently but still seems unsatisfied.

“Why didn’t the rebels harm you?”

“I imagine they were preoccupied with your thunder tantrum.”

He growls. His fingers dig into my wrists, the rough rope burning my already chafed skin. The sky darkens, storm clouds gathering overhead.

“When you fainted, they shielded you. Why?”

Thunder rumbles, low and threatening.

“I—I don’t know!” I stammer, eyes glued to the ominous clouds. My heart pounds a frantic staccato against my ribcage, and I wonder if he feels it thrumming against his chest. “Maybe they wanted to ransom me.”

My breath cleaves through me like a blade. With his heavy weight pinning me down, I can barely suck in a lungful of air. A flash of lightning briefly illuminates one of the dark clouds. My pulse thunders in my ears.

“Why did you faint?” he asks. My eyes snap to his—he looks less angry but makes no move to climb off me.

I tear my gaze away. I can’t tell a tidesdamned stormwielder that I’m terrified of storms. Especially not one convinced I was somehow involved in the attack.

“What princess wouldn’t faint in the midst of battle? They had tidesdamned bombs!”

“That’s not what I asked. Why did you faint?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

Another rumble of thunder, and a pathetic whimper escapes me.

I hate this. I hate him.

I cut my eyes away, cheeks flaming. He’s not going to let this go.

“I’m afraid of thunderstorms.” The words are quiet, whispered.

Damning.

“Why?” His brows are furrowed, his firm grip loosening marginally on my aching wrists.

“It’s none of your business!” I snap, embarrassment and anger and sheer exhaustion warring in my chest. “I’m not answering any more questions. Kill me if you must.”

His grip loosens further, and I wince as circulation returns to my tingling fingers. He tracks the motion and jerks his hands away as if the rope burned him.

When he finally climbs off me, I take a full, deep breath of cold air. He helps me sit, hands jarringly gentle, and I twist out of his grasp as soon as I’m upright.

Zevayr unsheathes a dagger from his belt, the sharp blade glinting in the waning light like a warning. Tides, I didn’t convince him.

He’s going to kill me.

I try to scoot away, but he grabs my arms with a grunt. The blade is cold, but it glides smoothly between my wrists as he slices through the rope. A soft gasp slips out as blood rushes through my pinched skin, sensation flowing back in a painful rush. My wrists are raw and chafed and bloody—admittedly because I struggled so much, not because he tied them too tightly.

My fingers fly to my neck, and relief swells within me when the sharp tip of the teardrop pendant presses into my skin. I flex my hand, and the large betrothal ring scrapes against my fingers. I didn’t lose that either, though its presence brings me no comfort.

Zevayr’s eyes are rooted to the reddened skin of my wrists. He parts his lips, but then his mouth snaps shut. Instead, he rises and offers a hand. I ignore it and stand on unsteady legs.

“We need to decide what to do next,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t tied me up and forcibly pinned me to the ground mere minutes ago.

My answer is a glare. He opens his mouth—

A loud crack echoes in the silent forest behind him, sharp and sudden. He pivots on his heel, sword already halfway unsheathed, knees bent.

A minute passes, then another.

When nothing happens, he sheathes his sword and turns around.

Just in time for my hand to connect soundly with his cheek.

His head swings sideways, and a resounding, satisfying, crack resonates through the frigid air. My palm stings, but the shock in his eyes sends a warm rush of gratification through me.

I jab a finger into his chest.

“You will not touch me again,” I hiss.

For a moment, he’s frozen, wide gray eyes scanning my face, flickering with a searing emotion I can’t name. His gaze drops to the finger pressed against his chest. His eyes darken.

He dips his chin in the barest of nods and takes a half step back.

“After you,” he rumbles, gesturing to the snowcapped trees behind him.

“Where?”

“To investigate that sound.”