Firebrand

Three men who had simply wanted what was best for their country, a continuity of leadership, gone because they had not trusted that he would provide for succession in the event of his own premature death.

He raised his hand, trembling with suppressed fury, to slam the game pieces off the board, but he drew back, reined in his anger, reined it in as he always must. The fire sizzled and flared as though a manifestation of how he felt inside. As king, he could not afford the luxury of venting his fury. He must always show himself to be in control. It was almost laughable for his outward calm was a sham. Inside, he burned as hot as the fire, and there was little release.

Thank the gods, he thought, that he still had Laren, the one person who had stood by him and opposed the schemers. If she had been complicit in the conspiracy, he didn’t know what he would have done. If only he could tell her all that raged in him, but admitting such vulnerability, he feared, would lessen his standing in even her estimation.

As for his wife, she was the last one he would tell, for she’d been a player in the entire debacle. There was only one person who he thought would hear him out without judgment, but she was beyond his reach. She was not his that he could tell her his innermost thoughts and feelings.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm the anger, and soon relaxed, breathing deeply.

• • •

The pop of the fire startled him, and he realized he’d drifted off. He’d been dreaming, something about rushing through the woods and pursuing someone or . . . something. A deer, he thought. An image came back to him of a doe bounding through the woods, her tail flagged in alert. Graceful, wild and free, she was, and he could not catch up. He—

“Zachary?” asked a quiet voice.

He started again, silently cursing himself for failing so spectacularly at guard duty.

Estora came round the sofa and looked down at him. She was dressed in only her sleeping gown, its drape accenting the roundness of her belly.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Enjoying the fire,” he said.

“Is that all?” She gazed at his sword. “No, I see that it is not. You are keeping watch. Have you been doing this since . . . ?”

“Yes.” He glanced at the terriers who snoozed soundly by the fire. They hadn’t alerted him to Estora’s presence, but by now they knew she was not a threat, but one of their own. “You should be in bed resting.”

“If you must know, I am weary of rest.”

“Vanlynn says—”

“I am most tired of hearing what Vanlynn says.”

She was so emphatic he almost smiled, but he knew better than to do so.

“Perhaps,” she said more evenly, “you should come to my bed and keep me company.”

“It would be difficult to keep watch if I am . . . keeping you company.”

“That is actually what I am counting on. Oh, Zachary, I am pregnant, not sick or dying. I simply wish . . . I wish to be with my husband.” Then she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “And I have been having the strangest craving for fermented cabbage and maple cream. Together.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I send for some?”

She shook her head, her long, loosely braided gold hair shimmering. “No, my love. I would prefer you, with me.” She extended her hand to him.

He hesitated.

Through no fault of her own, Estora was a constant reminder to him of the betrayal he’d suffered, of how he’d been used. Of how they’d both been used, by those who should have known better. The conspirators had led her to believe that a deathbed wedding was the only way to preserve the realm, should he die from his wound.

As if the wedding had not been enough, one of the conspirators, Estora’s cousin, had insisted the rite of consummation, an ancient tradition that sealed the contract of marriage, be performed and witnessed. It usually took place on the wedding night, but Zachary had been near death and unable to take part, so the push for it to happen came later.

Estora had protested he was still in no condition to participate, but her cousin overruled her with threats to ruin her and her family. She could not refuse. Zachary, fevered and bereft of his senses, and unaware of the machinations going on around him, was dosed with an aphrodisiac to enhance his responsiveness. Apparently he’d been strong enough to successfully complete the rite, but he remembered little of it, just the shadow of a dream.

With another surge of anger, he thought of how they’d both been violated that night.

“Zachary?” Estora said. “Is something wrong?”

She was blameless, and she was his wife, no matter how it had all come to pass.

“No,” he said, “nothing is wrong.” He took her hand and kissed it. He could not let her see his anger. He would save it for the battlefield. He would show her only the kindness, the tenderness, she deserved.

He stood, pushing the blanket aside, and collected his sword to take with him.

“I hope that is not the only sword you are bringing with you,” she said, and she squeezed his hand.

“I would not be concerned on that account.” When Finder and Jasper stood to follow, he ordered them to stay.

Estora led him steadily through the dark and into her bed chamber.

GHOSTS

The spirits came as they always did, even when she was too sound asleep to sense them. They crowded around her bed, their whispery babble like the rustling of curtains in air currents. The tomb cat glared at them from the foot of the bed, his ears flat and whiskers erect.