“Against what threat?”
“The barbarian raiders from the north, of course,” she said dryly, and felt another laugh tousle her unbound hair. “My father claims the alliance will not long keep the Parsatheans at bay.”
“I will only come for him and his guards,” said Maddek.
“My people will be glad to hear it. Though, in truth, even if there was no alliance, the greatest threat to Syssia would come from Rugus.”
“From your brother Aezil?” There was no surprise in his voice.
Yvenne nodded.
“Does your father not recognize the threat?”
Her father was not so blind. Only arrogant. “He does, though he would never admit to it.”
“Then why place Aezil on the Rugusian throne? Lazen was next in line. Why did he name the second son—and the greater threat—king of another nation?”
“Lazen cannot be king,” Yvenne reminded him happily. “He’s dead.”
Slain by the only arrow she’d ever drawn with the intent to kill. But Yvenne could not risk saying that without also risking her tongue. Maddek still doubted her part in her brother’s death, for the alliance council had been told that Ran Ashev had slain Lazen, instead—and that was why his mother had been beheaded.
But if he was thinking of that failed escape now, Yvenne could not tell. Maddek only said, “He was not yet dead when your father gave Aezil the Rugusian throne.”
“My father convinced Lazen that Syssia was the greater prize.” Which was truth, but it was not Zhalen’s true purpose in giving Rugus to his second son. “And if he had named Aezil the successor to the Syssian throne, my brother would not have waited for my father to vacate it.”
“Zhalen fears his own son?”
“With good reason. In the alliance council meeting, you heard of the contract between Syssia and Rugus, in which every available Rugusian soldier was sent to protect my father?”
“I did.”
“I suspect that Aezil agreed to send Rugusian soldiers to Syssia not to protect my father but so that, when the time is right, my brother might more easily take the Syssian throne.”
“Is your father such a fool?”
“No. But he must weigh that risk against the risk of allowing Syssian soldiers near the tower—and the risk of my people discovering that Nyset’s heir is alive and nearly a queen’s age, and rising up against him. And my brother has only been king a few seasons; most likely he’ll wait to secure his power in Rugus before trying to conquer Syssia. No doubt my father believed he would have time to allay that danger.” Yvenne shrugged. “It matters little. When Zhalen is dead, I will purge the Rugusians from the ranks of the palace guard—and purge Syssia of my father’s legacy.”
Maddek only offered another indecipherable grunt. Probably thinking that she needed to be purged from memory, too. Perhaps it was best, then, to turn his mind away from how much he distrusted her, and toward something every Parsathean appreciated: their horses.
Particularly since, if Yvenne was to be riding her own mount tomorrow, she needed to learn more about them, too. He had mocked her because she could not ride. That didn’t mean she never would.
Trying to find the horse’s rhythm, she studied the bobbing of its big head. Its long ears were turned forward but flicked back as if to catch the sound of her voice when she said, “What is his name?”
“Whose name?”
“Your horse.”
Sudden humor lifted his voice. “It is a mare. And she has no name. We do not name our horses as we do not name our swords.”
Because they were only tools. But the horses did not lack for care. From what Yvenne had seen, the Parsathean warriors tended to their mounts better than they tended to themselves.
“Fassad named his wolves,” Yvenne said.
Maddek grunted, a disapproving sound. “They are but dogs.”
“Fassad says they are wolves.”
“They are tamed.”
So were the horses. “And named.”
“And he will mourn them all the deeper for it when they are lost—and a warrior’s hounds and horses will always be lost on the battlefield.”
“Or in the forest.” As Yvenne’s had been.
“Yes.”
“You have said you will treat me as a dog,” she reminded him. “I hope you treat me as Fassad treats his, for it is better than any queen could hope for.”
His laugh was a deep quake against her back. “That is true enough. Though I vow it will not be the same. For Fassad does not do to his dogs what I will do to you.”
Upon her moon night. No, she supposed it would not be the same at all.
And her would-be husband must be thinking of what he would do. His hardness rose behind her—but although he could not be comfortable with his cock pressed between them and her bottom rocking against his arousal with the horse’s every step, this time he did not demand that Yvenne ease his need.
Nor did she wish him to. Not here, in front of the others.
Yet she liked knowing that he hardened against her for no other reason than the thought of having her in his bed. Yesterday his arousal had been fired by his anger and his desire to punish her. He did not seem angry or inclined to punish her now, however.
And despite her own rage the previous day, she had known unexpected pleasure while touching him. She would like to know it again—but she had little hope Maddek would give it while he believed her responsible for his parents’ murders. Any pleasure she would have to take for herself.
As long as he did not hurt her when he took his.
Her breath shuddered as his broad hand suddenly pressed against her stomach. But not to hurt her—or to please her. In a low, rough voice, he said, “Tomorrow when you ride, you must tighten these muscles. Straighten your back. Do not be as a sack of meat sitting upon your mount. Instead move as one with her.”
Yvenne tried but didn’t feel as one with the horse. Instead she felt as one with Maddek, for it seemed there was nowhere he did not touch: her back pressed to his chest, her hips cradled between his thighs, her legs dangling against his.
He must have approved her new posture, because he gave no instructions to adjust it. Instead he said, “Do not rely upon your hands for balance. The steadiness of your seat is all you need to stay mounted. You should be able to ride with a sword in one hand and a crossbow in the other, yet still command your mount’s speed and direction.”
A laugh shook through her as she imagined herself doing anything of the sort by tomorrow. “Perhaps within a few more days.”