Page 69 of Golden Queen (Idrigard #1)

Twenty-Five

Everyone in Cosdam was talking about a stag that had been killed the day before by a hunter out in the godsgrass.

The hunter felled the deer with a single well-placed shot in the head, but when he tracked it through the grass and found the carcass, he nearly ran away in fright.

"I heard from Tomas himself," we overheard a man say as we ate breakfast in the taproom. "The deer weren't right, he said. Its fur were black as pitch. It had a mouth full of sharp teeth and a tail, long and spiky like a lizard, it were."

I almost dismissed it as some kind of tall tale until I heard the lizard tail part. When he said it smelled like rot and lay in a circle of slimy, blackened godsgrass, I knew it had to be more of the falciferum.

Io paid the man an entire gold coin to take us to the hunter. Before long, we stood in front of a little white stone cottage set atop a rise on the other side of the Long Fork River.

The hunter, Tomas, pulled back the edge of a stiff canvas tarp stretched over a wooden hand cart. The falciferum's huge, oversized mouth was revealed, purple tongue hanging from the side of its jaws.

It looked like a normal deer in every respect except for that terrible big mouth, the dark color of its fur, and the sharp-looking, long, black tail.

"Do you know what it is, sir?" Tomas asked Io hopefully as we stared in silent dread at the carcass.

"Demon," Io said simply, reaching down to shift its head by grasping one of the antlers. The points looked needle sharp, and parts of them were covered by a sickly green-brown velvet. It made it look as though it had been lying somewhere moldering for a long while.

Tomas made the sign to ward off evil over his heart and shook his head gravely. "I hope you are wrong, sir. For all our sakes and by the will of the blessed Golden Queen upon the throne."

His words stunned me. I wondered if that was what they were calling me—after the events in the throne room. The way he said it, though, like a benediction—as though he was invoking some deity—made me extremely uncomfortable.

I felt an unexpected pressure in my chest. I was no deity. I was barely even a Queen, having been exiled from my own city.

“Burn the body,” Io said, ignoring the fact that Tomas and I shared almost identical looks of horror on our faces. “And don’t hunt alone for a while.”

Tomas nodded rapidly, his hand still fisted against his chest.

As we crossed back over the bridge that spanned the river, I glanced behind us to the cottage perched on its hill. Tomas stood, hand still on his chest, at the corner of his neat little house, staring warily out at the godsgrass plains.

Aben and Britaxia were in the sky, flying around the city in larger and larger circles looking for signs of ruined godsgrass. I could see the faint silhouette of their dragons against a bank of low-lying clouds in the distance.

Late season storms had been marching across the plains all morning. A streak of lightning could sometimes be seen under their bases, and I heard thunder faintly rumble a time or two, but the rain never managed to reach Cosdam.

Io and I spent the rest of the day shopping or strolling companionably along the streets of the dingy city, occasionally inquiring after anyone named Castille.

In the end, we learned that the only person named Castille anyone we asked had ever heard of, was a steamboat captain named Rizer Castille.

He did a monthly trip between Cosdam and the western shores on the Thyella Sea.

Once every six months, he took his boat up the river to Darrow, where he currently was.

He wasn’t expected back for another two weeks.

Rizer Castille was a likely match for the infamous people-smuggler of Windemere.

His trips to the Thyella lined up perfectly with him meeting a ship from Nightfall, and his trip to Darrow made sense in terms of his other lucrative trade.

Castille was also known as one of the best sources for Mellitrium out of the Vildsphers.

A name was better than nothing, even if there was little we could do about it while he was away on his steamboat trip. I knew Io would eventually return to Cosdam, though. Some bloodthirsty part of me hoped I might somehow be there when he extracted the information he needed from Rizer Castille.

When we returned to the inn, we found that Aben and Britaxia were still out flying over the godsgrass.

The sun was edging toward the horizon, so Io left me in my room to bathe and change.

When he re-entered, looking refreshed and gorgeous with his wet hair pushed back across his head, he found me standing in the middle of the room, admiring my new sword. It was a lovely blade with a finely worked silver crosspiece.

"How does it feel?" he asked, leaving his pack on the table by the door. It made me glad to see that he was apparently planning to spend the night with me again.

I held the sword up, testing its weight, and then swung it easily. I flicked my wrist around to let it make a sweeping arc in front of me. It was a lightweight short sword, well-balanced and well-made.

"It feels good. It's not my sword, of course, but I'm not sure anything could ever replace my Obeskan blade."

“Did it have a name?” he asked.

I looked up at him, lips rising in an unwilling smile. I did not want to admit what a sixteen-year-old version of me had named her first sword. “No,” I lied.

He raised a brow, grinning back at me. “What was it, Sera?” he coaxed.

I shook my head, biting my cheek to obliterate the telling smile.

He laughed, shrugging. "Fine, coward. I'll find it for you when I go south to take your city back." He spoke as though it was such a simple act—one that might take an afternoon.

He stalked across the room, stopping in front of me. "Show me what you can do with it," he commanded.

I gave him a puzzled look.

"Go ahead, Sera. I won't let you hit me. Show me how good you are."

"I'm not good," I insisted.

"I can see the lie in that just by the way you hold the blade. Now show me," he said again.

Something in his tone needled me into action. I swung quickly, bringing my blade around and across.

He leaned back so that it passed harmlessly in front of his chest.

"Again," he coaxed.

I moved, this time stepping to the side, using one of the moves Arkadian had taught me. Io looked surprised when my sword sliced through the sleeve of his coat.

“Nice,” he admitted. I couldn't stop my triumphant smile at the earnestness on his face. “But actually try to hit me this time. I can tell you’re holding back.”

I was…a little, and it pleased me that he recognized it. I knew I was good at swordplay. But I was also capable of convincing myself that I was completely delusional about it.

I struck again, holding nothing back. His hand came up, catching the blade in midair just before it crashed down onto his head. The impact was so jarring I was surprised to find he wasn't cut. He must have used his magic to shield his hand from the blade.

His smile widened after that one, and he nodded for me to continue.

So, I did. Again and again, I struck out with my sword. Each time I nearly landed the blow.

He was taking it easy on me, of course. I had seen him move enough times to know he was deadly fast. He could have avoided each of my strikes and disarmed me in just the time it took me to adjust my grip.

But if he had been a human opponent, even a skilled one, I knew he would have been cut to ribbons by my blade.

He was still smiling proudly as I lowered my blade after a move that would have impaled him if he didn't throw up a shield between us at the last second.

I finally felt the ache of sore muscles as the adrenaline of training began to give way to fatigue.

It felt good, though—being tired from work rather than from mental exhaustion.

"Tomorrow when we stop, we’ll find a spot where you can train against my sword," he told me after I said I'd had enough. "You'll be strong enough to wield Sektus before you know it." He spoke like we had all the time in the world for training, like my wedding and the war didn't loom over our heads.

"Sektus?" I asked.

He gave me a crooked half smile. "It's the old tongue," he admitted. "It means vengeance."

At my look, he laughed. "I was young when my father gave me the sword—young and full of righteous indignation."

"Who inspired the vengeance, though?" I asked flippantly.

His face changed, growing slightly taut. I thought he might not answer, but then he did. "My father," he admitted.

I was surprised. King Aris had been known as a good and fair ruler before his death. I had never heard that he was cruel.

Before I could ask more, he added, "That's a tale for another time."

His expression was pained in a way that made my chest ache. It only lasted for a heartbeat though, and then his features cleared.

He reached for my sword and tested the edge. "This could use some work. I'll take care of it for you."

I sat cross-legged on the bed and watched him as he shed his coat and began sharpening the edge of the blade propped on his knees. The high, clear sound was almost musical as he ran a smooth stone down the metal.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in that wild, perfect way of his and his brows moved slightly as he concentrated—or perhaps they moved with his thoughts.

I wished suddenly that I could ask Rae what she saw in there. I might have given my kingdom for one moment inside his beautiful mind.

He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms stood out sharply as he worked.

I watched his big shoulders move, arms stretching as he slid the stone down the length of the sword.

It reminded me of the way his body moved on me.

The way his muscles flexed and bunched as he held my hips and slid himself in and out of me.

The swift bolt of desire that ran through me shocked me, even as chills ran from the nape of my neck all the way down my back.

I looked down, heart racing. When I raised my eyes again, his were trained on me as if he had somehow known.

He stared at me wordlessly for several dark, tempting heartbeats. I wondered if he might get up and come to me. I desperately wanted him to—to rise and close the distance between us and…

The thought sent a wave of anxiety through me as I considered him learning what they had done to me—finding me somehow broken inside. What if it had not been a simple healing? What if I was...changed?

The thought of my mangled body clouded my brain so completely that I didn't notice when he slid his eyes back down to the sword and resumed his work in silence.

I realized, too late, that I had not even considered my betrothal in those moments. I had only considered my own feelings and emotions. And perhaps that showed how very little honor I truly had—what a horrible person I was inside.

The sound of stone on metal chased away my rapid heartbeat. My breathing slowed, and I watched him until he finished, using a cloth to wipe the blade. He tested the edge again. "Perfect," he said, shooting me a crooked grin—as though the moment had never happened.

He rose and handed me the sword. I slid it into the scabbard.

My Obeskan sword’s name was Fury. I had named it in a fit of rage after Markus took it away to the armory for safe keeping.

I decided that my new blade’s name was Hunger, because that was exactly what I felt whenever I was with Io.

Even in the absence of the deep desire for him, there was always hunger. Hunger to have him, to stay with him, to be close to him, to touch him, to smell him, to somehow own him, and be the only one with the privilege in all the world.

The hunger was pervasive. It was enough so that it crowded my waking thoughts with the knowledge that circumstances would never allow it.

It made me constantly feel like I was missing out on the life I should have had, setting my teeth on edge, and making my jaw ache with tension bred from the injustice of it all.

I should have had a life filled with the fresh, fiery scent of him, the feel of his warm, smooth skin beneath my fingertips.

I should have had thousands of nights feeling his solid body behind me, strong arms wrapped around me.

I was starved of the taste of him and burned by the knowledge that I could have no more.

"Let's go down and find our dinner," he said, reaching a hand out to me.

"Yes," I said. "I'm hungry."

We slept just as we had the night before, but the awareness of him behind me was wholly different than the chaste night cradled against him that passed before.

I felt him—all along my body, the heat and pressure of his rigid chest behind me and the legs running along the length of mine. I wanted to move, to slide myself along him like that cat I once imagined myself as, rubbing against him and purring.

But I held myself still after what felt like a feat of indomitable strength and slept.

I dreamed, but they were wicked dreams of him. I woke in the night, my body shuddering and my heart racing.

He didn't wake, or if he did, he didn't stir, and I fell back to sleep quickly.

When I woke again that morning, it was with a feeling that some part of me had healed in the night.