He curled toward me and kissed my temple. “Love, I'm so grateful you're here. Help me do this?”
Tears scorched my eyes. The most profound pyre I'd attended was Kinart's. There was nothing worse than lighting the flames that would claim the remains of someone you loved.
“I’m here for you. Always,” I whispered.
With a jerk of a nod, he snapped an arm out, and his magic tightened the air until the first lick of fire sprang to life at the tips of his fingers. He flung his hand toward the pyre, and a blaze surged out. It caught at the base and raced up, greedily consuming the dry, oil-soaked wood. The fire grew fast, the warm hues of orange and gold painting the faces of the sobbing crowd. The sound of crackling wood and smoke scorched through the garden.
Faces glistened with tears. Some people knelt, their heads bowed, while others simply watched, their expressions molded with grief. Every now and then, a choked cry broke through.
I remained with my husband, wondering if anything could patch the jagged tear Prager had made in his heart.
Lore’s eyes reflecting the fire’s hunger. The flames climbed higher, swallowing his mother whole in a heat so intense I tugged him back to avoid being burned.
“My king,” someone whispered in the crowd, but Lore didn’t turn or seem to hear.
Erisandra’s body burned along with the sweet-smelling herbs and dry tinder, the fire roaring for what felt like an eternity. Lore didn’t look away. If this was a reckoning, he was enduring it to the very last ember.
The heat from the pyre waned as the flames died down to an enormous, rippling mound of coals. People began to leave, tears streaking down their faces, until only a handful of lords and ladies remained, their heads tilted toward the ground.
Finally, Lore moved. His hand shifted to take mine, and he wove our fingers together. He looked down at me. Stroked the fingertips of his other hand across my face.
“It’s done,” he said.
I swallowed, nodding, ash and pain coating the back of my throat. His arm slid around me, and he tugged me into his side.
He only turned back once before we stepped inside the castle.
The smoldering embers of the pyre flickered faintly in the center of Erisandra’s favorite garden, a death watch of the night.
51
Reyla
“Will you return to your suite, my king?” Talvon asked from behind us as we entered the hall.
“I'll call for a light meal,” Lord Briscalar added.
“No,” Lore barked before lowering his voice. “No. We… My queen and I have something we must do. You're all dismissed.”
Lord Briscalar shuddered. “But?—”
“I said you're dismissed.” There was no denying Lore when he spoke in that tone of voice. “Leave us.”
They filed away, only Briscalar and Talvon shooting us concerned looks.
“I don't think they should be with us now,” Loresaid in a low voice.
“You want to go back to the throne room,” I said equally softly.
Prager had killed Erisandra to keep her from saying anything more, and I assumed we hadn't seen the last of the wizard yet.
His mother had died for sharing clues.
“I need to discover what Mother meant,” he growled through clenched teeth, taking my hand and urging me down the halls and to our suite, where we quickly changed into leathers and fully armed ourselves. I’d collect my daggers in the throne room. I felt naked without them.
As we dressed, there was no teasing. No touching. Only warm looks that held endless promise.
Farris paced beside us, small growls ripping up his throat.
