DEVERSORIA
Kersei strangled a cry and pushed herself forward, falling into an embrace she never thought to feel again. “How . . .?”
Arms came around her in a brief, consoling hug. “Seek peace, Kersei.”
Hearing Father’s words on Ma’ma’s lips shoved out the tears, hard and fast, a torrent born of the storm that had engulfed her these many months.
“Gather yourself, child,” Ma’ma instructed.
Kersei eased up and searched the memorized face, the one frozen in terror on the walls of that vile room on the Macedon. “Truly? You are here?” She blinked away tears but then once more collapsed against the bosom that had offered comfort during her childhood. “How is this possible? You were dead! Father—”
“I am here.” Ma’ma cupped the back of her head, and years of anguish seemed to fall from Kersei’s shoulders and heart. “Oh, you foolish girl.” Firm hands guided her upright.
Heart and mind racing, Kersei allowed herself to be distanced from her ma’ma. She gazed on a face so familiar yet somehow . . . different. “How are you here?” Why had she not recognized her ma’ma’s voice?
“Kersei—”
“Is Adara alive as well?” She looked to Myles. “You said their bodies were not recovered. Adara!” She found herself again scanning the shadows of the room. When that did not produce her little sister, she spun back to Ma’ma, hope surging as it had not in a very long while. “Is she alive? I would even be glad for Lexina,” she conceded with a laugh, “though we rarely shared a kind word. But what is that when we are sisters—”
“Kersei!” Ma’ma sounded more strident, more familiar this time. “Listen to me, child. We have much to cover, and I beg your mercy for the sudden revelation thrust upon you. I had not meant to do this so.”
“Revelation do you call it? Aye, I would say so. But how, Ma’ma? How are you here?”
As always, Ma’ma kept her spine straight, shoulders back, chin up . . .
“Oh, I care not how,” Kersei decided. “You are my mother—and you are alive!” Laughing again, she embraced her. “Oh, I have missed your imperious ways, Ma’ma. Yell at me if you must, but I will be glad for it. Never have I been more glad for anything!”
Her touch light, Ma’ma held her peace. Her eyes—
“Your eyes!” Kersei exclaimed. “They are much changed! How is this—”
“There is plenty we will discuss, but later, Kersei.” Ma’ma’s irritation was not foreign. Many a day Nicea Dragoumis had chastised and been annoyed by one or another of Kersei’s adventures.
“Later?”
Easing from the embrace, Ma’ma glanced at Myles. “See that she eats. The time draws near, and she will need her strength.”
“Time? What time?” Panic edged out elation as her mother moved toward the shadows again. “Ma’ma, no! Do not leave. Please.” Kersei lunged toward the dark corner where the air yet stirred. Cold stone stopped her short. “Ma’ma!” She touched it, disbelieving. “Where . . .?” She traced the wall. “A secret passage?” Glancing at Myles startled her, worried her. Was it a dream?
Nay, it could not be. This . . . this must be—“Like Stratios Hall—secret passages. There must be a groove or catch . . .” She shifted back, tracing the cold surface with her fingers.
“There is none,” Myles said heavily.
“Of course there is.” Must be. She pushed on different sections. Grunting, she tried harder. Kicked. Slapped it. Desperate to be with her mother once more. “Ma’ma!”
Hands caught her shoulders.
“Leave off!” She whirled and smacked Myles’s cheek. “What is this? Why do you play the fool when you know where she is?”
“Please, Princessa.”
“Where is she?” Kersei snatched a touchstone from an iron brace and returned to the corner.
Slowly, her rational mind caught up with her emotions. It was impossible, of course, for Ma’ma to be alive. The enormous stone walls of the mighty Stratios Hall had crushed her body. Kersei had viewed that segment of the footage on the Macedon thousands of times. Survival was impossible.
I have been sick. This . . . this must all be a dream—a nightmare. “Nay, it cannot be . . .” She turned to the aerios. “Did I . . .” Her voice cracked. “Tell me true—did I dream that?” She held her breath as he stared at her without response.
Myles, with his burly build and scraggly red beard, had never looked so aggrieved. “No, Princessa.”
Kersei shuddered a breath. “Thank the Ladies.” Again, she eyed the now-lit corner. “Then . . . how?” Once more, she traced the stone.
It reminded her too much of the fateful night. The stones that fell. Her family’s deaths. Her head ached from trying to sort the pieces and figure out what had transpired. She wanted to rail, but . . . there was no fight left in her. She had lost her father and sisters.
All this time she believed them dead. Ma’ma as well. Then Marco.
There was a great emptying of her adunatos, of her will to continue. To play at this game. Ma’ma had come and then left so coolly. As if . . .
She does not want me.
Nobody wants me. Marco has Isaura now.
This child she carried . . . this existence she lived . . . she had wanted neither. The images from the reminding chamber plagued and tormented. “I wish I had died with them. It would have been less painful.”
“Do not speak such evil, my lady.”
“It would have solved everything.”
“The coward’s way!” Myles pressed closer, deep furrows digging into his brow. “You have the iron of the machitis. You are Xylander’s daughter. Lady Nicea’s daughter.”
Lady . . . Baric’s words on the Macedon . . . Kersei frowned at Myles and cocked her head. “You were not surprised by her presence.” Her mind wrestled with the truths peppering it. “Have you seen her before—since the attack, I mean?”
He stared back, neither denying nor acknowledging.
She made her way to the cot and lowered herself to the edge. “But . . . before you brought me here.” That strange tight band over her belly constricted again. She drew in a quiet breath and rubbed the spot, then realized Myles had yet to answer. In fact, that was the second question he ignored. “You have seen her, have you not?”
He once more looked at the stone floor. “Aye,” he answered gravely. “It is because of her that you are healed and provided for.”
“And you never told me.” Betrayal seemed the only reality she would know these days. “All this time you knew what I mourned, what broke my heart, yet did nothing to ease my suffering.”
“There is a world hanging in the balance,” he said with little of the sorrow that hung in his eyes, “but your grief and concern is—selfishly—for yourself alone.”
The chastisement stung but was no less true. “You are cruel, Myles.”
“I am direct, honest, Princessa. Always have you known this.”
“I trusted you. Brought you to Kardia, made you my personal regia—you had ample opportunity to speak this . . . beautiful truth.” Again, she eyed the corner in which Ma’ma had vanished. “But no, you would not apply a salve to the wound my heart suffered.”
“It is true I came to Kardia.”
Wondering at the way he said that, Kersei snapped her gaze to his, ready to protest. Recalled him at the tavern the day she and Darius visited Stratios and the market. Thought of how he slipped out the side door . . . Though she had given chase and lost him, he returned to save her from the brigands. Then gone from sight again, only to appear while she sobbed just beyond the ruin of the hall.
“All those encounters . . . they were . . . planned.” Coming and going just as . . . Ma’ma. “Who are you?”
He held her gaze, unflinching.
“Who are you?”
“I do not matter. Who sent me does.”
Kersei waited, her breath struggling between the demand to know the truth and what might lie in his answer. Ma’ma . . . a Lady. Was it true, like Baric said? If so, how had the Symmachian known, yet Kersei was ignorant of it? It meant her mother was . . . “Faa’Cris.”
His stern expression softened. “It is a miracle you did not know before now.”
FORGELIGHT, JHERAKO, DROSERO
“I hold fast to my belief that this is a bad idea. Too dangerous.”
“Measures were taken to protect the location and timing of the event—all are arriving at different times in varying manner of delivery. It is the best that could be managed. The sovereigns of Drosero must meet.” Bracing as the scout descended into the capital city of their southern neighbor, Isaura willed the meal that had broken her fast not to make a reappearance—and she saw much the same pallor on Mavridis. For certain, Dusan may love flying, but she did not.
“This is too dangerous,” he grumbled, his grip on the seat turning his knuckles white.
“As you have already said.” She sighed. “Is it that, or that I am not the only Kalonican who prefers dirt beneath her boots to air?” She gave him a weary smile as the five-strap harness held her tight, squeezing her stomach and pushing a groan up her throat. She had no recollection of being so nauseated when she made this trip with Dusan. Then again, neither had she been with child.
“You should have stayed in Kardia.” His silvered brows drew into a knot.
“This was not a trip I could avoid. Since Kalonica is without its medora and prince, it is my duty to represent our realm at the Conclave of Sovereigns. Not doing so would be perceived as a slight and strain already troubled diplomatic relations.”
“And what of your life?”
“It is guarded by you, as well as the Stalkers, regia, and Kynigos.” She laughed. “I will be mightily impressed if anyone can get near enough for simple conversation with so many brooding men clustered around me.” Straightening and stretching her neck so the strap did not cut into her flesh, she smiled. “Besides, I look forward to seeing Queen Aliria and the ships.”
“But Jherako!”
“Father.” The name was yet odd on her tongue. “It is imperative we transform our opinion of the southern nation.” Between the two of them, her having lived in Moidia and him having been assigned the protectorship of the same, they had seen plenty of maliciousness along the border between Kalonica and Jherako.
“On approach.” Roman’s voice carried through the communications of the scout as it dipped hard right, making her stomach roll again.
“At least we can be glad,” Mavridis grumbled, “Hirakys was refused admittance to the Conclave this time.”
Isaura wilted a bit at the memory of the attacks on the caravan that delivered her out of a burning Moidia and into Dusan’s life. “I would not have done well seeing those beasts up close again.”
“Aye, though the raiders would not have come, the rex is just as befouled,” Mavridis growled. “After the attack against you in Kardia, I would be inclined to take a head or two.”
Warmed by the sentiment, she looked away, lest he see her appreciation and stiffen, as he so often did. He had been deeply wounded over the injury to her person, and she fought even now not to touch the still-sensitive scar on her neck. The entire event had awakened them all to the vigilance and ferocity of those determined to do her harm.
The scout landed on the south side of Forgelight in a protective swath of the palace gardens and Furymark. With her entourage of guardians, Isaura descended from the ship. Even as sunlight struck her hem, she searched for Aliria and Vorn.
A deafening roar made her falter.
“It is well, my kyria.” Kita indicated a bridge from which rained a shower of flowers, ribbons, and cheers thrown by the hundreds gathered there.
Surprised and awed, she smiled and awkwardly lifted a hand in greeting.
The cacophony rose.
“You are clearly loved, but we should keep moving. Not all are friend.” Mavridis guided her across the lawn to the castle. “I am still of the mind this is a bad idea—too obvious.”
She stepped inside, and when the doors closed, her ears still rang.
“I thought to fear Jherakans,” Kita said with a laugh as they moved farther into the lavish room adorned in deep reds and blues. “They cheered as if you were one of their own nobles.”
“Rightly so!” King Vorn rounded a corner with a very pregnant Queen Aliria. A broad grin filled the king’s handsome bearded face. “You are a treat to our hearts, Queen Isaura. Welcome back to Forgelight.”
The Jherakan sovereign had a distinct flair to his attire and wore his long hair slicked back from a neatly trimmed beard. His queen was no less a statement, unhindered by her large belly.
Isaura inclined her head. “I thank you, King Vorn and Queen Aliria,” she said, remembering the decorum demanded upon first introductions. “It is an honor, and I do beg your mercy that—”
“No.” Vorn shook a meaty finger at her. “No formality between our houses, especially not in private. Here, you are among friends. We are allies, yes—but more importantly, friends.”
A weight lifted from Isaura’s chest. “My heart is in agreement, and Dusan felt the same.” She tripped over her casual use of the pet name and hoped she would not be corrected or taunted.
Vorn clasped her arms, a gesture that made the regia tense and Vorn grin. “Our enemy has stolen my friend, your love, and I vow they will regret it.” He pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. When he straightened, he lifted his eyebrow at her womb. “Perhaps in a couple of decades, if we have a son—as Aliria insists—and you a daughter, our houses will have a greater celebration by joining our lines. Eh?”
Isaura laughed.
“He teases—mostly.” Aliria glided forward and kissed Isaura’s cheeks. “I am glad you are returned to us. It is a pleasure.”
“For me as well.” This time, Isaura was prepared for the hug and welcomed it.
“Ba’moori will see you to your apartments,” Vorn said. “Unfortunately, we must quickly attend other guests. The strategic and secretive arrival schedule has greatly complicated our efforts to ensure all feel welcomed, though they are in the lower reaches of the keep. Even now, the Emperor of Avrolis docks after a tumultuous journey. He would be rather put out if I made him wait long to be received.”
“As you already have for the last hour,” Aliria noted.
“That long?” Vorn gave a mischievous grin. “Hm, well, yes—we had more important friends to attend, did we not?”
Isaura smiled at his implication. “You honor me.”
He barked a laugh. “Do not flatter yourself, Marco’s beauty. I only do it to annoy the emperor and to give my ears a rest—their manner of speech is painful to decipher. Enough of that—we will see you soon.” He gave her a curt nod, then motioned them toward Ba’moori, who waited patiently to the side.
Once the two were gone, Ba’moori led Isaura and her entourage to their apartments. Though Kita went about the rooms, investigating, Isaura could not move. She had . . . this room . . . it was . . . the same room she had shared with Dusan. The same bedchamber in which they had first experienced each other’s passion. She swallowed as she approached the bedchamber and stared at the coverlet. In her memory—the near tangibility of it—he was there, whispering sweet words. The scruff of his stubble against her cheek. His ardor. She recalled how, at first, when he’d intended to make her his own but got called away, he had been so furious.
“Bleeding fires of Hieropolis! If someone is not dying, I will change that!”
She covered her mouth to hide the smile. He had not returned that night to resume what had been interrupted, but the next night . . . And the next.
Oh Dusan . . . The ache bloomed stronger in her breast as she touched the settee he’d sat upon while telling her about the ships. Her gaze rose to the windows, and she moved there to look out upon Ironesse, which he had said hid the entrance to the underground facility that gave safe harbor to the scouts. Nigh on two weeks since the first machitis arrived to begin training. She wondered how they fared beneath the instruction of Roman and Rico. How Dusan would have loved to have been a part of that.
Somehow, the ache of his absence felt especially raw here. Will he ever return?
“You are well, my lady?”
Isaura started. Turned to a frowning Kita. “I am.”
After a skeptical look, Kita motioned to the dressing chamber. “Come. We must ready you for the opening dinner.”
Oras later, Isaura was summoned to the antechamber outside a lower ballroom for a private pre-dinner reception with the other dignitaries—largely the rulers of the various countries on Drosero.
“Mercies,” she whispered as she stood, feeling the weight of the Kalonican crown on her head and the order pinned to her breast that marked her of House Tyrannous. Dusan’s family. Escorted by her guardians, she made her way to the gallery on the second level.
“Just smile and look pretty.” Grand Duke Rhayld lifted his nose at her. “It is all they expect from you.”
Affronted, Isaura bristled. “Where would I be without you to guide me, Duke Rhayld?” She chided herself for again using the wrong title for him, but could she claim nerves?
His mouth tightened. “Yes, well, that is why I am here. After all, if you cannot get my title right, how will you manage theirs?”
“I have no idea why I cannot seem to remember that.” Catty, Isa.
He grunted something and moved toward a man in a suit that struggled to restrain his wide girth.
“You take much pleasure in mocking him,” came Roman’s deep, resonant voice.
A giggle burst free of her restraint. “Too much I fear.” The smile she did not want to hide vanished as she surveyed the nobility mingling in this gallery and floundered under a powerful sense of not belonging. These were not her people. They were rich. Soft fingers, perfect coils, refined manners. “Perhaps, I should let him lead. These are, after all, his peers. He knows—”
“How to grease pockets and egos. You speak truth and sincerity. That’s what is needed in this hour, Isaura. The Ancient did not put you in Marco’s path to be a rug beneath their feet but a beacon to guide them.”
“Would that I were merely Delirious Deliontress’s daughter again,” she mumbled just as she saw a young, handsome man striding toward her. His black hair and dark skin were more of those from the far south, mayhap farther than Hirakys.
“Kyria Isaura, I believe?”
She inclined her head, recalling what Ypiretis had taught her of greeting other sovereigns. Never bow, but show them respect. “Indeed.”
Kaveh was there to do the introductions. “Majesty, this is Prince Rezik.”
The young nobleman seemed to wait for her to make the connection, but when she didn’t, he angled his head. “Of Waterflame.”
“Of course.” A principality, if she remembered correctly. “It is an honor, Prince Rezik.”
“No, the honor is mine,” he said, his youthfulness—he could not yet be twenty cycles—charming and full of promise. “Word of how you won over Medora Marco swept Waterflame.” His gaze slid to the side for a moment, then returned. “In fact, my sister, Princess Sheyli, could speak of nothing else for weeks. She was furious when she learned I would get to meet you.”
Heat rose into Isaura’s cheeks. Truly, why would anyone want to meet her? “How very sweet.”
“I would like to express my condolences regarding Medora Marco.”
“Your words are kind but unwarranted.” She stifled the trill of anger at the assumption. “He will return, and we shall be the better for it.”
“Rightly so.” His expression was earnest, yet his gaze again strayed, and this time, Isaura caught the object of his distraction.
A lovely young woman stood alone in a corner, a crystal glass cupped genteelly in gloved hands. She looked of the same age as the prince. Was he enamored with her?
“Prince Rezik,” she began softly, “do you know who that young woman is?”
His face flushed. “Princess Lirra of Giessen.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “She is here to stand for King Mamoru, who is ill.”
“Have you an acquaintance with her? I would be grateful for an introduction.”
“I am afraid . . .” He stiffened. “I should not—”
“Oh come. I must meet her.” She did not know why he hesitated, since he had clear interest in the princess. “You would not deny me this favor, would you?”
“I . . .” He straightened. “Of course not.” Offering his arm, he walked her to the other side of the ballroom, her guards never more than a few steps away.
When she saw them approaching, the princess jolted and went white as milk. In fact, she looked as if she might be sick.
“Princess Lirra, it is my great honor to introduce Kyria Isaura.” Prince Rezik’s tone was suddenly haughty and cold.
What was this?
The princess cocked her head and gave the slightest of bows but stopped halfway, as if realizing her error. “My qu—I mean . . . I did not—”
“Princess.” Wanting to allay the girl’s nerves, Isaura shifted around to stand beside Lirra. “I am so glad to make your acquaintance. The prince was very kind to accommodate my request for an introduction.”
The young man inclined his head. “If you will excuse me.” His stony façade hardened as he left.
Curious. “I had thought him quite nice until this moment. Perhaps I gave offense,” Isaura thought aloud.
“The offense is mine,” Lirra said, tucking her chin. “Of late, Giessen has fallen out of favor with most empires. Many do not believe my father-king is truly ill but that he shuns them.”
“What an insult to suggest you speak falsehoods.” Isaura studied her for a moment. “It would seem there is more to that than what is spoken.”
Lirra started, wide eyes darting away.
Had she pushed too hard? “I—”
“Isaura!”
At the cold snap of Rhayld’s voice, Isaura felt a dart of irritation slash her spine. Deliberately, she focused on Lirra. “Forgive me if I trod where I am not welcome, but I feel we should put rumors to rest. Speak clearly and openly. We will show them, shall we not, that women are made of stronger mettle than—”
“Isaura,” Rhayld gruffed, “did you not—”
A large shape manifested beside her just as Rhayld reached her. “The kyria is occupied at present, Grand Duke,” Kaveh said evenly, his posture and tone brooking no objection.
Grateful for her regia, Isaura kept her back to the men. “Do you know the sovereigns here, Princess?”
After skating the two men a wary look, Lirra returned her attention to Isaura. “I am afraid not.” She shifted, hugging herself nervously. “This . . . my bro—the crown prince typically carried out these duties. But he . . . he died last winter.” It seemed to take a great bit of courage to mention that. She drew in a breath and let out an addendum. “A hunting accident. In the wilds. Which made no sense. Rotrick was an excellent sportsman.”
“I am sorry for your loss and for your father’s poor health,” Isaura said. “What of Giessen’s queen?”
“It is a wonder you are queen when you have so little knowledge of other Droseran realms and rulers,” Lirra snipped but then faltered. Looked away.
Though the words pierced Isaura, they fell short of their mark—and revealed what she had seen so often in the wastelands: a person who felt threatened or lesser striking first to avoid being struck. A love lost, the crown prince dead, and the king ill . . . Those events conspired to leave Giessen with an uncertain, unconfident princess. A scared one. It would be easy to take offense at the girl’s brackish manners.
She refused to let one more person become an enemy. “You speak truth, Princess Lirra. This night, I could use a friend to aid me in bettering that knowledge. What say you? Shall we show these men the combined strength of two women in power?”
Lirra released her pent-up breath and smile all at once. “I would be most grateful.”