Page 104 of Golden Queen (Idrigard #1)

Thirty-Four

When my courses came the following day, a little later than they normally would have, they came with a dull ache of loss that I couldn’t account for.

I felt unreasonably like someone had taken something from me, and when Io found me in the bathing chamber with tears in my eyes, I told him I was simply emotional. Everyone knew how unreasonably emotional women could get during their monthly cycle.

I wasn't sure he believed the lie as we once again flew to the Citadel, but he went out of his way to be thoughtful, asking me if I was in pain or any discomfort.

"I can relieve any pain you have, Sera," he whispered as we once again sat in the forge while Pettal wrapped a braided strand of what looked like horse hair around my now bare-gray mellitrium cuffs. The gold had melted away entirely. Little puddles of it still stuck to the anvil under my hands.

"I'm fine," I told him, and it was true. I was not experiencing any of the dull, knife-like cramps that usually came with my courses. I leaned back into his solid chest behind me and tried to force away some of the irritation I felt.

Of course, I knew much of my ire came directly from my cycle. I was always maudlin and morose, on the verge of hostility for those couple of days of the month, but I would rarely admit that out loud when so much of a woman's righteous indignation had always been blamed on her hysterical womb.

When the master armorer was ready to begin, Io laid his hands on my forearms. A faint glow emanated from his palms as he allowed his golden fire to seep through my skin with the shield he placed around me. It had the effect of unwinding all the twisted parts until I was nearly sighing with relief.

That relief of tension was short lived, though, as everything the armorer tried failed again and again.

The horse hair had looked promising as the master armorer once again uttered the conflagrium spell. It burned away spectacularly bright, leaving long score marks in the mellitrium. But the marks had done nothing to compromise the integrity of the metal.

After several more attempts only left successive marks in the surface, Pettal called it another failure and gave up.

"Do not fear, Your Majesty," she told me brightly as we once again made to leave the forge, defeated.

"Atlas is already flying here from Morgus Grund.

He will have them off you in a heartbeat. "

At my look of confusion, the sweet-faced armorer explained that Atlas was the most talented smith mage in the world. They had sent a dragon to fetch him from the Vildsphers the moment their first spell failed.

"He will get them off, I have no doubt!" One of the other smiths or armorers put in.

"Indeed, indeed, even if the necromancer bound the cuffs with his own life force, as we suspect, Atlas will be able to sever it with half a thought."

I pasted on my most appreciative smile and clasped Pettal's hands warmly before we left. She was kind and absolutely beside herself with disappointment at her failure. I hated to make her feel even worse with my ill-temper. "Thank you, Pettal. I know you are doing everything you can."

When we reached the mountain palace, Jhol and a tall, severe looking dragon rider were waiting for us on the ridge.

They went into Io's study, and my irritation ratcheted up several notches at the way they blatantly excluded me from whatever information they had that made their faces look so gods damned serious.

I paced our room for several long minutes, and then since I still had very few clothes to choose from and didn't want to get them sweaty, I irritably dressed in my old ones—now freshly laundered—and took Sangui to the training yard.

I was already stretching, letting my muscles lengthen as I moved through the long series of chambers.

When I reached the spacious training room, I found it empty. I checked the ridge to be sure I was completely alone, and then I kicked my boots off. They were heavy and nothing like the thin boots I usually favored for training.

I pulled my sword from her scabbard. The metal ringing that filled my ears as she slid free of her sheath was electrifying.

I tested the blade's weight again in my hand. It was perfectly balanced and fit in my hand in a way that I didn't think even a master smith could have done without some input from me—and several trials.

I wondered at what magic Vulcan must have used in the forging of such a weapon—to make something so perfect for me sight unseen.

I swung Sangui, letting my wrist arc around as the blade cut through the air. I turned, my arm following the strike through as I imagined a foe in front of me, my sword slicing his head off.

I turned and parried, then danced across the floor striking invisible foes in all directions.

Once or twice, I glanced up at the doorway or the windows, expecting to see someone there laughing at me.

Look at the princess, playing at fighting, I imagined them saying.

I had almost no real fighting experience outside of training with Arkadian and sparring with Io—and punching the occasional drunken lordling in the nose…or stabbing the random fae in the heart, I added with an inward chuckle.

The humor didn’t hide the dart of pride that went through me that I had managed to sink a blade into the heart of a warrior like him.

I instinctively knew I was good. I saw it in Io's face when he watched me. It had been a surprise in the beginning, but that had quickly turned into a look of admiration.

I felt like I’d earned some of that admiration. I had worked hard at it—for years. The gods knew how much time I’d spent in the Albiyn training yard with my sword in my hand trying to make myself stronger.

I had always believed if my body was stronger, I would someday be able to get myself out of the cage I lived in—perhaps earn the respect of my future husband so that I might just be taken seriously as a queen.

Sweat had begun to gather on my head, plastering my curls to my temples and sticking my shirt to my chest.

Wishing I had thought to bring some of the water from the pitcher beside our bed, I used one of the folded towels by the door to dry the sweat from my head.

I looked again to be sure I wasn't observed before I ran the towel under my shirt, drying the sweat running down my chest and between my breasts. I had skipped wearing underclothes since I had even fewer of those to spare.

When I finished drying myself, I pushed one of the burlap sword dummies out into the middle of the room and moved in position to strike it.

I lifted Sangui, and as I did so, the world around me narrowed to a knife point.

Time slowed to a crawl. My muscles contracted powerfully, lending me a strength that shuddered through me with wild fury. My lungs filled with so much air that my mind grew calmer, refreshed, and ready—vitalized.

My vision sharpened. I surveyed the swing and the arc, knowing with absolute certainty where it would land—what the result of the strike would be—the force, the speed. I adjusted it, choosing a better hold, a better arc, adding more power to the blow—all within the span of a single heartbeat.

And then I followed through as time resumed again. My blade sailed through the dummy like it was made of nothing but air.

I nearly cried out triumphantly as I saw the evidence of what I had done.

My body was already preparing for the next move as I swung Sangui up, around, and down. My senses became like clear water, flowing through me so that my body and mind were some extension of my blade, telling each other how to react. The sword struck again, slicing the dummy in half once more.

I struck over and over, feeling not a single strain of exertion or fatigue. Every blow landed perfectly.

The sword gave me the ability to move with inhuman precision and speed, to strike with furious power, and the stamina to keep moving long after my breath should have been lost to exhaustion.

I eventually stopped—not because I had to, but because I had destroyed the training dummy. It lay on the floor in a thousand bits of canvas, sawdust, and splintered wood.

"Holy fucking shit that was amazing," came a voice on my right.

Damn it!

I reluctantly turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice.

"You must be Aelia," said another. The voices were so similar I wouldn’t have realized there were two of them if I hadn’t been looking at them.

I smiled, sketching a ridiculous little bow. "At your service," I said to a set of twins. They were identical tall, lithe fae men with dark-brown hair falling around their shoulders.

“Ash and Ever, I presume,” I said.

Io had mentioned them a few times. They were part of his Vanguard.

“At your service,” they both said in unison, bowing.

They wore identical black leather armor—straps and braces running across their shoulders and down their arms and legs.

Their faces were twin visages of heartbreaking beauty. Full, wide lips under a thin, graceful nose, slightly upturned at the tip. Huge, gray-blue eyes alight with what could only be described as mischief.

“Manners, children!” A large, broad-shouldered man with intense dark eyes and a face covered by a well-trimmed gray beard, pushed around the twins.

The almost predatory smile on his gorgeous face would've had me backing away if not for his eyes. They were full of a friendly sort of appeal.

"Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you," he said, bowing his head and shoulders respectfully. "I am Edris Cenarion, and these two mannerless fools are indeed Ashdarrow and Everard Belyikan. The one lurking in the back is Ectr of Raintree."

I looked to the doorway to see a tall blonde with striking features. The face, at once masculine and feminine with wide-set eyes and solid grey sclera, was blank and expressionless.

They wore a long dove-gray cloak that shimmered silvery when they moved.

A Wyllan, I realized, recalling the ethereal Nefr, also of Raintree, that I’d met in the Darkwatch camp outside Albiyn.