He reached for her, but she held up a hand to ward him off. “Your people call for you, Your Majesty. May the gods bless yourunion.”
She peeked around him a second time before scampering down the steps of the temple to disappear among the overgrown hedgerow. Her scent—of sunshine and salt air—remained, teasing his nostrils and lingering in his memory even as he bound himself to a woman who despised him. Even as he sailed homeward the followingday.
* * *
Doranis stretchedout a hand to gently stroke his child’s dark hair. The baby lay against the wet nurse’s breast, nearly asleep. Marcilun shifted impatiently behind him, awaiting his next command. “See to it that her possessions are placed in one of the south chambers. There’s more light in thoserooms.”
He glided his fingers through Joris’s wispy hair once more before leaving the nursery for the icy corridors. His steps barely whispered on the flagstone floor. Cold wall torches lit with green witchfire, lighting his path to thesolar.
Kareena’s solar still held all her possessions. Servants had arrived earlier to light the fire in the hearth and deliver in a pot of tea and cups. The solitary occupant in the room had her back to him, and Doranis paused to enjoy the peaceful tableau of her warming her hands at the hearth fire. By custom, it fell to a lowly minister to greet guests and see to the their initial comfort. But he wanted to see her again, gaze upon her smiling face and discern whether or not the longing he had for her wasreturned.
She was even lovelier than he remembered, with the firelight playing across her flushed features and her dark hair tamed in a bun at her neck. He closed the door behind him, the snick of wood on wood alerting her to his presence. Hot blood rushed into his groin at her wide, welcoming smile. Her eyes revealed a hunger quickly smothered behind a more guarded gaze, but he had seen it, felt its caress before she bowed and greeted him a deceptively coolvoice.
“I am honored, YourMajesty.”
He closed the distance between them and clasped her warm hand in his. Her fingers twitched in his grasp when he brushed a delicate kiss across the back of her knuckles. She gently pulled her hand free, but not before he felt itstremble.
“Welcome to Helenrisia, Madam il Veras,” he said. “You honor us with yourpresence.”
She laughed. “I’m so glad to hear it, Sire.” Her next words, uttered with such heartfelt eagerness, were a harsh reminder for why she had traveled so far, and why they stood in this particular room. “I’m looking forward to this visit. When may I seeKareena?”
3
Even cut so deeplyinto the mountain, away from the hard biting wind and squalls of snow, the burial vault of the kings was frigid. As if pulled by an invisible lodestone, Castil walked past the line of marble effigies. Ancient Helenese kings and queens, immortalized in stone, lined the walls, their features captured in timeless repose. Among them, a delicate woman of the south rested in eternalsleep.
Castil halted at the line’s end, and a sob caught in her throat. Were it not for the size and color of the statue, she could almost believe she faced a living Kareena. The sculptor had performed magic with his chisel—the stone woman who faced her was the perfect avatar for the queen. Likel the other statues, Kareena’s wore the ceremonial burial robes, standing with her arms crooked, elbows against her chest. Her hands faced outward, cupped to hold a gold urn containing herashes.
Castil traced the hard edges of the statue’s robes with one finger. “My friend,” she whispered, “how I miss you.” A small draft, cold and sweetened with sea rose blossom, buffeted her gently, blowing strands of her hair across her face in a lightcaress.
She wasn’t a superstitious sort, though she did believe in spirits who lingered among the living for a short while until some task was completed or a grieving loved one comforted enough to resume the task of living. If asked, Castil would swear the companion of her youth hovered near her, glad for hercompany.
“Again you find me here, pestering your sleep with the dull details of my day.” A faint faraway laughter chimed like bells. “I visited your son moments ago. Joris is a beautiful child, Kareena. I see you and Doranis in his small features.” A mournful sigh replaced the laughter, and Castil grew ever more certain she was not alone among the monuments of the voicelessdead.
Such knowledge didn’t frighten her. She found comfort in knowing something of her friend lingered here, not yet beyond the reach of the living. That comfort was mixed with no small guilt, and Castil drew back from thestatue.
“I’ve been here two months now. The ships return in two more, bringing their goods to trade. I return home then.” Again, that ethereal sigh drifted to her ear, and she shivered. “’Tis a good thing, for I must confess my failure to you.” Remorse made it difficult to speak. “I have fallen in love with the king,Kareena.”
Somehow she expected a bitter howling, an angry blast of frigid air that would spin her off her feet. But her statement was met with silence, a deepening quiet that waited for her next words. “He is a…” She spread her hands, palms up. “…a man like no other.” She sensed amusement at her words and smiled in return. “Beyond the obvious, of course.” Her smile faded. “He consoled me when the news of your death nearly brought me to my knees, opened his library to me as a way to distract me from my grief, allowed me to hold your sweet son and visit youhere.”
Castil began to pace, the brush of her gown against the floor sounded loud in the vault. “I confessed to you my indiscretion at the temple. I did our friendship a disservice. But this is worse, far worse.” She faced the statue again. “I think of him constantly, look forward to his company when he joins me in the library. He’s a hard man, Kareena, but kind beneath that cold exterior. I’ve seen him with Joris, and he’s a proud, lovingfather.”
The scent of sea rose blossom teased her nostrils once more. “I will miss you when I return to Caskadan, but it’s been hard to resist his allure, and I long for the peace of my dull existence at home. You’re gone, and Joris is in good hands. I’m not neededhere.”
Silence gathered around her and Castil swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “I am so sorry, Kareena. I haven’t been much of a friend to you lately, dear one. He was yours.” She turned away from the effigy, her steps dragging as she made her way to the stairs, so lost within her thoughts that she didn’t hear the otherworldly whisper behindher.
“And now he is yours, my dearestfriend.”
Castil returned to the fortress’s upper levels, both relieved and troubled by her confession. It felt right to say aloud what had weighed heavily in her thoughts—an acknowledgement of her feelings for Doranis. Such feelings changed little. Not long from now she would board a trading vessel bound for Caskadan, and forget her time here with the pale magusking.
The corridors leading to her room were almost temperate compared to the temperatures of the vault. Her cheeks were numb with cold, and she hurried to her chambers, eager to change into heavier clothing and linger by a roaring fire. She passed one of the many closed doors lining the cloister and paused at the sound of familiar voices and the ring of metal onmetal.
“Come, old man. I could match you in my sleep.” Doranis’s deep tones reverberated through the wood, causing Castil’s hands to curl in reaction. Again the sound of steel striking steel echoed, and she could picture the scene, having once stumbled upon it when she first arrived inHelenrisia.
The king engaged in swordplay with his weapons master. Her mouth had fallen open the first time she witnessed Doranis sparring with Etane. Both were stripped to the waist, skin glistening with sweat as they circled each other like wary cats, the curving blades of their swords flashing in the torchlight as they came together in a mock dance ofdeath.
Castil had paid no attention to Etane, her eyes riveted to the arresting sight of a shirtless Doranis. Though tall and slim, he was a study in hard muscle and sinew, his chest and abdomen flexing as he dodged the swinging arc of his opponent’s blade or attacked with his own. Silvery lines of perspiration streamed off his skin, and his white hair lay tangled on hisshoulders.
She knew if she opened the door this time, a similar sight would again greet her, and Doranis would smile in that smug way when he caught her ogling him. An abrupt hiss of pain, followed by Etane’s gloating response of, “Old man, am I?,” made her lips twitch in amusement, and she continued on herway.
