CHAPTER 5
YVENNE
Anger and hurt had lived together within Yvenne for so many years that she no longer knew the difference between them. Rage was the bite of the bindings around her wrists as Maddek dragged her to the horse her soldiers had unharnessed from the carriage. Fury was the pain shooting through her knee as she stumbled after him.
Now the hurt was all the sharper because, for a short time, the anger had gone. For a short time, she hadn’t felt hunger gnawing at her belly. She hadn’t felt the phantoms of her severed fingers or the itch of healing scars upon her back. Even the agony of her once-shattered knee had been nothing, though the stiffened joint had collapsed when Cezan pulled her from the carriage.
All the pain and anger had vanished when she’d looked upon the man who would be her husband. When she’d seen that his dark gaze did not falter as he met her eyes. When she’d seen the arrogance and confidence of that bared chest and the strength of steely muscle. When she’d seen the leather guards over his shoulders and arms, the black-painted brow, and the silver claws that declared war upon her father without speaking a word.
He was everything his mother had claimed he was—fierce and proud and strong, savagery contained through sheer will.
His mother had also said he would be a great king. Ran Ashev had not spoken false, but Yvenne had not listened closely enough to her words. Now she cleaved to them. He would be a great king.
But now he was only a warrior. A warrior who had not come to marry her but to kill her.
So pain and anger returned—though deeper than before. There was a new hurt to add, because her own heart had betrayed her. She had hoped for too much.
By this age, one would have thought she knew better.
But she would not yield to despair. For although her heart had betrayed her, it was still beating within her chest. And she would be married. She would be free of her father. She would have her vengeance.
And she would make a king of Maddek.
Abruptly he released her wrists and she almost staggered into his broad back—though if she had, her slight form would have scarcely made an impact against his. Her eyes were barely on level with the tips of the black braids that were gathered in a thong at his nape and fell in a thick rope to the points of his shoulder blades. Bronze skin flowed over rugged plains of muscle that hugged the valley of his spine. Silver-fingered Rani’s winged dragon decorated the carved ivory face of the scabbard that sheathed the curved sword slung across his back from shoulder to opposite hip.
The horse whinnied, shying nervously away at his approach. His big hands were gentle as he calmed the animal, his silver claws gleaming against the horse’s russet coat.
Hoofbeats pounded up the road—a mounted Parsathean warrior, perhaps one that had been scouting within the forest and was now joining the others. Two wolves ran at the heels of his horse, which was so tall and muscular it could have carried upon its back the horse Maddek soothed now. The rumored size and strength of a Parsathean steed had apparently not been exaggerated. Nor were the size and strength of the warriors who rode them.
There were six warriors in all, four men and two women. All wore armor similar to Maddek’s, with spaulders and vambraces bound in pebbled drepa skin to guard their shoulders and arms, and their chests bare—except for one of the women, who wore a binding around her breasts. But aside from their armor and their dark coloring, they appeared not much alike in features or in age. And if they had different temperaments, Yvenne could not tell, for at the moment they all regarded her with the same expression. Each one studied her as curiously as she did them—though perhaps for a different reason. Yvenne wondered what sort of warriors had been chosen to serve as his Dragon.
They likely wondered why she was not bleeding and screaming.
But although they all seemed filled with questions, they deferred to the barrel-chested warrior whose broad axe hung heavily from his wide leather belt. A ragged white scar cut across his left eye and cheek.
Allowing him to be the first to question Maddek. He must be the head of the Dragon—the one who led the others.
“Are we bringing her with us, then?”
“We are.” Maddek didn’t turn away from the horse. His deep voice was pitched low, as if not to startle the creature. “She claims the message to our queen and king was sent in hopes of forming an alliance through marriage. She claims that she was not part of a plot to murder them.”
She claims. He could not have stated his doubt more clearly.
And Yvenne could not fully explain, because he’d vowed to rip out her tongue if she spoke of his mother.
She did not doubt that vow, and she dared not lose her tongue. It was the only shield she had, and the only weapon—though now she had to wield her words more carefully than in the past.
She had not known how difficult it would be to always speak the truth. Nor had she known that truth could seem to implicate her rather than prove her innocence.
Ran Ashev had warned Yvenne that Maddek would come to her in anger. But the queen had assured her that as soon as Yvenne spoke her truth, Maddek would hear her.
But she never had a chance to speak it. Nor could she now.
So she would say what truth was allowed. “I would not have sent my handmaid to the commander if I believed he would have reason to kill me rather than marry me.”
The scarred warrior shared a quick glance with the woman mounted beside him. “You sent the Syssian woman to our camp?”
“I did, after my brother Tyzen informed me of the council’s meeting with the commander. My handmaid pretended an illness so that she could remain behind in Ephorn and seek an audience with you.”
Now the woman beside him spoke. Unlike the other female warrior, whose square face was undecorated, silver rings pierced her eyebrows and the upper curves of her ears. “She said you lured our queen and king.”
“I only sought an alliance. I confess it was your commander I lured with those words. I believed anger might bestir him more quickly than an unsubstantiated claim of my existence.”
They looked to Maddek then, but his back was still turned to them, his focus on the horse though it had finally calmed under his hands. Perhaps listening to her words—or waiting to hear those of his fellow warriors.
Yvenne pressed on before he silenced her again. “These many years my father has kept me hidden away. You have seen that even my soldiers had no real knowledge of my existence. I had hoped for rescue by your queen and king—but it is you who have rescued me, instead, from my father and from an unwanted marriage. For that, you have my endless gratitude.”
And saying, she bowed her head—and was overwhelmed by a rush of gratefulness. For these warriors had saved her.
They looked at each other uneasily. Perhaps because they were unused to a queen bowing to them. Perhaps because they’d only saved her with the intention of watching her die. Perhaps because of what was yet unspoken.