Page 25 of Winds of Destiny

Kai

The days that follow the attack at the Gate are fragmented. I struggle to fit them together to get a sense of what happened, why it happened, and how to get Camrael back. But even more difficult than getting answers is making sure Turo doesn’t do anything reckless and focuses on healing first.

It’s easy to see how absolutely galled Turo is by the fact that he can’t ride as swiftly on his ram as he wants to. Despite his high tolerance for pain, anything faster than a walk puts these creatures, godly though they are, into a bouncy pace that almost made him fall off the first time he tried it. One more try was enough to convince him, reluctantly, that we were stuck at a walk for the time being.

“Don’t worry, though,” I try to reassure him as I tie my long hair back. It’s a warm day already, and I hate the feeling of hair sticking to my neck. “The next settlement is a trading post just to the east.”

“Fremont’s Height. I know it,” he says from between gritted teeth as he holds desperately onto the saddlebow to keep himself upright. His tunic is dark with sweat around the collar, but he refuses to take any sort of break. I want to drag him—carefully—over to sit with me so that I can take some of his weight and ease his pain, maybe tie up his own hair for comfort, but I know that would go over about as well as me pointing out that he’s in pain at all. In other words, I’d be lucky not to get stabbed clear through the rib cage .

So I ignore his discomfort and keep talking like nothing is wrong. “Then you know the terrain is rougher, and uphill. Walking is smartest. We should spare the rams for a run once we head after Cam.”

“If we ever discover where he is.”

“We will.” I’m absolutely sure of that much. With Carnuatu’s aid, we’re sure to find him. My god prefers not to interfere in our affairs, but the fact that he came when I called is a rock-solid sign of his favor.

If only that favor had extended to my men.

But it did, I have to remind myself. Death comes to us all, but they died honorably, protecting their princes. After their deaths, Carnuatu himself took them up to the Mausoleum to be interred. No matter what happens next, their souls are at peace. If only all of us are so lucky.

My father certainly won’t be.

…

Over the next few slow, careful days of our trip, the topic of my father comes up. Turo has never met Anarx personally, but his questions are insightful and get me to give up more than I should.

“If your people are matrilineal, why did your father take control after her death? Why not one of her sisters?” he asks, keeping his fingers busy by twisting the ram’s shaggy hair into tiny plaits. If I didn’t think he’d stop if I mentioned it, I’d tell him how cute it was.

“None of my aunts survived the plague that took her, either,” I say. “Or the monarchy could very well have shifted to one of my female cousins. Even now, if my mother had had a daughter, even if she was younger than me, she would be the next in line for the throne. As she only had boys and I’m eldest, I’ll become king.”

“Huridell has only had a few other kings that I know of.”

I nod and take a moment to eye how he’s doing in the saddle this morning. “And all during times of great uncertainty. We seem to be intended for times of war. Whoever my heir ends up being, I hope that her reign is a peaceful one.”

Turo casts a curious look at me. “How are you expected to come up with an heir?”

“Technically, I’ve already got one,” I reply. “My younger brother by my mother has been married for two years. His wife is pregnant right now. If they have a girl, she’ll become my heir presumptive unless I have a child of my own.”

“And do you want one?” Now his curiosity is piercing. “A child of your own?”

Do you intend to fuck around on Camrael? That’s what he’s really asking.

“Before I met my husband, my answer might have been yes,” I say. “If he had no interest in me, I would have reserved the right to seek another spouse. Like I’ve said, it’s—”

“Common in Huridell, I know.”

“My father currently has four wives,” I say drily . And that’s four more wives than I’d ever want. “But now that I know how well we get along together”—which was an understatement if I’d ever uttered one—“I’m more than happy to restrict myself to one spouse, as long as my brother can provide a girl to be my heir.”

Although I might consider another lover if you’re interested.

The night the three of us shared together is still seared into my brain. Sex with Camrael is incredible—sex with the two of them was so much more. It was intimate and full of trust to a level I’d never known before, not to mention incredibly hot.

I want to experience it again. I want to watch my husband come apart for Turo, and I want to see Turo finally stop holding himself back and give in to the love and lust he feels for Camrael. I want to watch them touch each other, kiss, fuck. I want to be there for it and be in the middle of it. Just dreaming about it is enough to have me waking up with a raging hard-on every morning so far.

It doesn’t help that Turo sleeps on top of me.

It’s the only way he can sleep. He tried to get comfortable by himself the first night, but between the hard ground and the wound in his side, he wasn’t able to find a position that let him drift off. I listened to him huff and curse under his breath for a full hour before saying, “Get over here.”

“No.”

“I’m serious, get over here.”

“I don’t need your help.”

The only way to convince Turo to do what you want—if you’re not Camrael—is to appeal to his sense of responsibility. “Well, I don’t want to have to pick you up off the ground when you fall asleep in the saddle tomorrow. All that will do is slow us down, so get your ass over here.”

He grumbled but agreed in the end. It took some maneuvering and a few false starts, but eventually, I was able to prop his body against mine in such a way that the pressure was off his back and his neck was in a comfortable enough position to let him fall asleep. With his face nestled against my shoulder, he finally found his rest.

I followed him soon after, barely feeling the weight of him, yet comfortable in his closeness nonetheless.

Once Turo woke up well rested and in visibly less pain the next morning, he stopped fighting me on it. Night after night we bunk up, using each other for comfort and warmth and little else.

…

A full week after that first morning, though, things are a little different. Turo must really be feeling better, because I definitely feel the press of his cock against my hip as I wake up. I also notice how strongly my own body is reciprocating. It’s a natural reaction, but I doubt he’s going to want to debate that right now.

The key, I decide, is not to mention it at all. Instead, once he wakes up, I just remove my arm from around his shoulders and stretch. “Let’s clean up and make a bit of breakfast, hmm?”

“Sure,” Turo says at last, lifting himself off me and grabbing a waterskin. He drains half of it in one go, then gingerly gets to his feet, slides on his boots, and heads off to relieve himself. That means breakfast is on me, which I honestly prefer.

Turo is good at taking care of himself, but it’s clear he’s never had to see to the comfort of a group before. He would eat a handful of dried fruit and raw oats every morning and not bat an eye. If I’d tried that with my people, prince or not, I’d probably have been challenged to an honor duel.

A quarter of an hour later, Turo eats the hotcake I hand over with clear enjoyment. Finally, his appetite is coming back. I was concerned for a while—he barely ate anything the first three days after the attack—but now he’s clearing his plate again.

My awareness of my tendency to nurture my people is acute enough that I must be blushing. I eat quickly, then clean the pan, put out the fire, and saddle up the rams.

“Do you think you’ll get to keep them?”

It’s a good thing the saddle is so damn heavy, or I might have jumped at the abrupt sound of Turo’s voice. “What, the saddles?”

“The rams.”

I laugh. “I doubt it. This isn’t the first time Carnuatu has loaned out from his personal herd, but we’re always very aware of the fact that they belong to him first and foremost. When we’ve completed the task they’ve been sent to help us accomplish, I’m sure they’ll return to him.”

“Hmm.” Turo nods, his dark eyes fixed on his ram. I think he’s a little sad at the thought of saying goodbye. “I hope he lets us keep them long enough to get to Kamor.”

“You think that’s where Embros is headed?”

“It makes sense,” Turo says. “It’s his stronghold, after all. King Perael might not seem like the most affectionate father, but once he learns that Cam is missing, he’ll muster every troop he’s got to find out what happened to him. The road, at least around Zephyth, won’t be safe for Embros’s raiders. If he retreats to Kamor, he’ll be in a strong position to bargain.”

“Make demands, more like.” I frown and tighten the girth, thinking.

After a moment, Turo says, “You have another theory?”

“Yours is a solid one,” I admit. “But Embros has gone to a hell of a lot of work if that’s his goal. His alliance with Antasa means he’s accumulated almost half the power on the continent already. If he gets hungry for more, Lutha is the next easy target, as they’ll show no resistance against his army. He didn’t need to take Camrael to gain the upper hand in negotiations with Zephyth, not given the alliance he’s made with my father.

“It especially doesn’t make sense for him to be leading the charge in all this. Embros is a king, and he’s probably the most powerful man in his entire city when it comes to using their poison magic. So… Why risk himself, why the need to be at the front line, unless there’s something driving him that we don’t know about?”

I load up the packs as Turo considers my half-baked theory. He sucks one cheek in as he muses, a habit I’ve noticed whenever he’s lost in his thoughts. It’s endearing.

Not that I would ever tell him that.

“His chariot tracks disappeared at the marsh’s edge outside Zephyth,” he says at last. “I don’t know how he managed that, but I do agree that there’s something more to this if Embros is so involved. What, though…”

“Maybe we’ll find out more when we get to the next settlement,” I reply, then hold out my hands for him to step into as he gets up onto the ram. It’s probably his least favorite part of the morning, but I’m not about to let him pull a stitch by jumping up by himself. To his credit, he doesn’t complain about it, just accepts my help with a blank face.

“Fremont’s Height is an interesting place,” I continue. “Independent, despite my father’s best efforts. There’s a lake there, and the people make curious, flat-bottomed boats and pole out into the middle of it to fish every day. I haven’t visited for two years now, but I remember how surprised I was when they served me a dish of jellied lake eel.”

“I’ve been there before,” Turo says.

Ah, of course he has. He’s been farther than I ever have.

“But I was never served jellied lake eel,” he goes on, giving me a little smile. “I’ve heard it’s quite the delicacy. They must like you.” He clicks his tongue, and the ram begins walking at a brisk pace. I have to rush to catch up.

…

The approach to Fremont’s Height is a laborious one, straight up the side of the mountain until we reach the plateau that contains the lake and the settlement. There’s a deep crevice beside the trail, carved from centuries of the everwinds whipping up water, where the river that feeds the lake flows down to the Plains and the inland sea. It’s not a big river—I could probably jump from one shore to the other if I got a running start—but as we climb, I can see that it’s teeming with glossy, black-bodied fish that shine purple and blue in the sunlight.

The founders of Fremont’s Height chose their position well when they established themselves here half a century ago. Their place is much better defended than Traveler’s Ease, but I’m not able to relax until the walls come into view and no ransacking is evident. The guards in the watchtower recognize me on sight—or maybe it’s the rams that do it—and let us in without a fuss.

The headman of the village rushes over to meet us before we even have a chance to dismount. “Prince Eleas!” he chimes. He’s heavyset and broad-chested, but his voice is surprisingly high and light.

Beyond the welcoming party, I can make out boats on the water, where men and women alike are plying their fishing trade. The air downright stinks with their success.

“Welcome, welcome! I don’t know if you remember me, your highness. I am Misha Doreth, headman of Fremont’s Height. I would be honored if you and your friend would come to my home and share a drink with me.”

“I do indeed remember you,” I say politely. Although not your name before you said it. I dismount from my ram, then help Turo down as well. He rolls his eyes, but he lets me take his weight as he slides off. I take both our packs, then tell the rams, “Go graze.” The clever creatures walk off toward the town park in the distance, followed by several curious children.

Once Turo’s beside me, I turn to the headman and accept his bow with a brief one of my own. “Master of the Height, thank you for your hospitality,” I say as he leads us into the nearest house, a squat, single-level building designed to resist winds that no longer batter it.

It’s lighter in here than I expected. One of the walls is actually a window filled with small, square frames holding thin-stretched hide that lets in considerable sunshine. Master Doreth leads us over to a table where plenty of sturdy chairs and a pitcher of sharp-smelling beer await us. Judging from the cup already half empty, he’s been indulging on his own for a bit already.

He pours us each a glass, and we raise them in a brief salute, then drink. Only then does the headman begin speaking again. “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing at all! We’re happy to help our neighbors to the west, of course, especially after such a grand commission!”

Wait, commission? What?

“I take it you received word that the boats were picked up,” he goes on, blithely unaware of my growing confusion. “Excellent, excellent, although I do wish the men you sent to retrieve them were a bit more talkative. Our boatwrights strive to complete orders to perfection, after all. Will you be taking the rest of your men with you when you leave?” He sounds hopeful. “Only the king did promise, yet it’s been weeks and—”

“What boats?” Turo asks before I can. I’m grateful—I need a moment to process what’s going on here, and I’d rather not do it under close scrutiny.

“Why, the twenty boats the king ordered at the beginning of the year,” the headman says, his brow wrinkling a bit. “When the fruits just began ripening.” He refocuses on me. “Don’t you recall him coming to our fish festival? It’s an unparalleled event. You should come to the next one; we serve up over a dozen different types of—”

“I remember the trip,” I say. It was notable because my father rarely travels outside Huridell, but he said he was making a special effort to bring Fremont’s Height under Huridell’s banner. He returned without securing their loyalty to our city, but… Perhaps that was never what he was after at all. “What need did he say he had for boats?”

“Why, for the trip to the inland sea, of course.” The headman looks from my face to Turo’s, his face slowly growing fearful. “He didn’t tell you he planned an expedition to the inland sea? Something about, about, oh—expanding trade routes? He sent men to check on the order monthly! They just took possession of the boats five weeks ago!”

Possession of…boats.

Boats for the inland sea.

Boats with wide, flat bottoms that could carry loads of men, or even chariots. Commissioned for that snake Embros by my own fucking father.

“I appreciate knowing this,” I say stiffly, aware that I’m probably scaring the poor man in front of me but unable to do anything about it. “Please, if another representative of Huridell comes here, don’t mention that you saw me. It’s…complicated at home at the moment.”

“Of course, of course.” The headman is wringing his hands, but his voice is clear enough. “Whatever I can do. I’ve no desire to cause trouble for you or your king.”

Damn straight he doesn’t—the last thing this poor guy wants is to be drawn into a great city’s civil war. I drain the cup, incline my head, then stand. “Thank you for your time. My companion and I will take our leave now.” I had planned for us to spend the night here, give Turo a chance to sleep in a soft bed and get some real food into us, but now…

Now I fear that every second’s delay plays right into my father’s plans.

I turn toward the door, step outside—

And immediately block a blow from a pike meant to take my damn head off. I would strike back, but three more attempts on my life come in rapid succession— stab, thrust, slash . One of them gouges a chunk out of my forearm, but I evade the others, cursing at myself the whole time. I left my fucking shield on my fucking mount and now I’m going to be fucking assassinated by my own—

“Hrkk.” That’s the last word of the first man who tried to kill me as he chokes to death on a knife. Turo is with me, on the attack almost faster than I can see, and he’s better than any shield. He gets another man down before I get my head back into the fight, and then… Well, I would never call killing my own people a joyful task, but in this case, it’s a satisfying one.

The key to defeating someone with a long weapon is fighting inside their range. These are pikemen, which tells me they’re members of my father’s personal guard. He trained as a pikeman himself, and prefers the weapon to all others. His people are strong and skilled, but they’re specialists and they’re trying not to hurt each other. Two decent blows with my axe and I’m inside their circle, and then it’s a matter of staying close enough to one to cut him out of his armor, like cleaving limbs from a tree, while the others are too afraid of hitting him to strike me.

Then on to the next one.

Then the next.

There are too many of them, though, and too many people around who could become casualties, especially the headman, who’s doing an excellent job of getting in the way as he entreats us not to fight. He’s going to get impaled by one of the guards if Turo and I can’t get out of here, fast. I don’t see the rams. Maybe I can call them, or—

Turo knocks my shoulder with his and points at a different means of salvation. Oh, of course. I nod, and he dives back into the fray, knocking pikes aside with frenetic determination as I grab the packs I abandoned when I was first attacked. I run through the path he’s cleared, leap onto the boat that’s tethered at the mouth of the lake where the water becomes a river, then point my blade at the boy tending to the lock the boat is sitting in.

“Drop the barrier!” I shout, and he, open-mouthed and trembling, nevertheless does as I ask. I turn just in time to see Turo’s thigh spray blood from a pikeman’s lucky strike as he runs toward me. The urge to go to him is strong, but I make myself wait until he’s close enough for me to grab, then haul him aboard the boat a second before it starts to move. One of the Dellians gets desperate enough to throw his pike—I grab it out of the air, spin it, and throw it back at him as hard as I can.

The last thing I see before our boat tumbles down the river is the tip exiting the back of the guard’s head.