SEVEN YEARS AGO, ASTORA
COL HAD BEENthe duke of Astore since he was twelve years old, when his father died from a broken back during routine military exercises. It meant Col had been Astore a mere two years fewer than Lear had been king. He remembered the clear morning at the Summer Seat when the prophecy had been read, foretelling both the arrival and doom of Lear’s true queen. And Col remembered his first sight of Dalat, her gentle warmth and lovely joy seeming so alien to the harsh moors of Innis Lear. He remembered her swaying walk as she left the star chapel, a wife and queen, and Col remembered where he had stood when he heard that her first daughter had arrived.
Even at fifteen years old, he’d known the screaming firstborn Gaela was his best avenue toward more power. Astore only needed to be patient and wait for her, discover what sort of woman she’d be, how best to use her, and then how best to win her to his side. Prop or partner, vessel or queen, Col held all options open as she grew. He was always generous with Gaela and friendly, ushering her toward Astore, though never too overtly, lest some other (particularly her father the king) think him despicable.
Initially he did not want her for himself, outside his heated ambitions for the crown. That at least proved that, while his vices might be numerous, desiring a child in his bed was not among them. No, it was only when her mother died, when Gaela came to Astora as a furious young woman, that he very suddenly and violently recognized her carnal appeal. So for half a decade more he’d worked with the information he gathered on her likes and dislikes, biding his time, teaching Gaela as a mentor, welcoming her to his retainers, waiting for her to approach him.
Tonight, she’d asked to speak with him privately, coming up at the end of the morning’s training. Sweat had melted dust from the practice ground along the edges of her hairline, and she breathed hard from her sport. Her breasts heaved against the leather armor buckled across her front, and her eyes were wide and bright, a brown so deep and vivid Astore saw them in his dreams. When Gaela tilted her chin up and said, “I would have dinnerwith you tonight, alone, Col Astore, to discuss the future,” he’d kept his smile tame, despite the immediate desire and triumph, crackling up and down his spine.
“I’ll be honored,” he said, knowing what she wanted.
Gaela Lear had turned twenty-one that winter, and it was time for her to be married.
Astore expected to be her husband. They’d not explicitly agreed upon it when she came to his lands, but there had been an understanding that in return for allowing her full access to his warrior retainers, to live with them and learn what they had to teach her of battle and weaponry, Gaela would one day owe him in kind.
As he was the duke of the largest, strongest domain in all of Innis Lear, the only way to pay him back would be to make Col king alongside her—as befitted her stars, which destined her to be reliant on another’s strength.
So he met her as a king would, in his private dining room. Ready for her to submit to him, to repay his magnanimous patronage with a display of gratitude. Bold stone walls, decorated only with stately salmon banners; a warm, roaring fire in a hearth wide enough to roast a pig; long wooden table smoothly gleaming; two high-backed benches to either side of the single, narrow arched window that looked out over the lower yard and into the city of Astora beyond. This place was marked by symbols of his power, but not overwhelmingly so, not as the great hall would have been. Gaela was appreciated here, with room to weave in her own power and details. Col was vain enough to bathe carefully and dress even more so, despite usually bearing the trappings of fashion no mind at all. His best dark pink tunic that showed off the broadness of his chest and the strength in his arms, over black trousers that hugged his powerful thighs. He had his footman braid his hair in three furrows and trim his beard. Though he was not quite old enough to have fathered Gaela, it was a near thing, and he’d remind her of his might and virility wherever he could.
For several long minutes he debated bringing with him the duchess ring. In the end Col put it on his smallest finger; let her notice and be aware that he was just as ambitious as she. Then they could solidify any arrangements tonight: bargain and share drink, and she would take his ring, and he would take her to bed. Stars, but that would be glorious. Finally.
And in the small hours of the night, when he’d satisfied her and made her beg to have him, they would discuss the crown itself.
He allowed himself only a single short cup of his favorite Aremore wine while he waited.
Gaela arrived exactly as the sun set, entering on the tail of her name, ascalled through the door by the retainer on guard. Col did not usually keep one, being confident enough in his own ability to defend himself, but for this occasion, he’d thought it best to act as a king might.
She swept in wearing a bold, dark blue gown split at the sides so it appeared like a military tabard, and the arms quilted just as a gambeson would be. A belt of silver plates pulled all together at Gaela’s waist, and cuffs of beaten silver clutched her forearms, more like gauntlets than bracelets. Streaks of white clay hardened swirls of her short black curls into a crown.
Col did his best to moderate the lust and admiration in his face, though he did not want to hide it: let her see she impressed him, and that he desired her in her martial beauty.
“Gaela,” he said, standing and offering his hand. She gave hers, too, and he bowed over it, drawing her firmly toward him.
“Astore,” she replied, and allowed him to seat her on one of the hard benches beside the window. Before he could do aught else, she continued, “I assume you intend to be my husband.”
Taken aback, Col laughed. He did not let go of her hand. “I do, Gaela Lear. I assume you intend to allow it.”
“It would be in both our best interests. I will be queen after my father, and you are his closest ally. He does not question your strength, your loyalty, nor your faith in his stars.”
“All our stars,” Col said. “I have seen yours, Gaela, and heard the entire life chart read at your naming. It fits well with mine. I commissioned a joined chart two years ago: we will have a unique partnership, and successfully achieve our destinies.”
Gaela twisted her mouth and stood. It put her close to him, enough that he could smell the cool, earthy clay and a sharp soap lingering on her skin. He did not step back to make room between them. Her eyes were just beneath his. “One requirement for our partnership, Col: do not speak to me again of the stars.”
He frowned. “Stars speak themselves and so should not be ignored.”
“For men of Lear, those who would follow my father, perhaps, but I have never been served by stars, and neither was my mother.”
“Ah,” Col said, understanding. She was the daughter born to mark her mother’s death, by those same celestial bodies. An aversion to such things was inevitable; he minded not at all, so long as she did not swing so far as to worship the mud. “You can make your own destiny,” he said, to soothe her, and to prop her up.
A smile spread across her delicious, plump mouth. “I do, Col Astore, and I will make yours, too, if you join with me.”
“Yes,” he said, undeniably aflame at being told, instead of doing the telling. Discomfort rose in him, made rather delicious by the perversion. He put a hand on her waist, and she did not shy away, or even move. Instead, Gaela reached for his hand and lifted it so she could access the ring on his small finger. Still smiling, she tugged at it, and Col let her do the work, take this ring from him, and then slide it onto her own hand.
He ached for her, hot and ready, and he pulled her hips against his, pressing himself against her.
Gaela gasped softly, and Col nearly broke. He’d held himself in check so long, forced away these urges during the four years she’d been under his protection, while she trained with his men. Despite Gaela’s flaunting of her strength, her intensity and the way she walked, spoke, and carried herself, as if already she owned him and all his retainers. As if she tempted him on purpose, was made to be his challenge. Col expected her to be ferocious, expected her to resist giving herself to him, and this tiny breath of submission was almost too much.
He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her belly against him. Even that gentle pressure burned up into his face. His cheeks would be red, he knew, his eyes hot. But he did not care if she saw, if she realized how badly he wanted her. Would she taste all of Innis Lear, or some foreign flavors, too? Her mouth would be hot as his, and her depths like a well of the island—his island, his well.
