A hatred toward their southern neighbor, Celdaria. A hatred that was beginning to change. Celdaria remained the enemy, its leaders still the likeliest suspect in Runa’s murder.

But the Celdarian Sun Queen, Lady Rielle Dardenne…well. She had saved the capital from destruction, after all. She, at least, deserved loyalty. Trust. Maybe even affection.

Corien glimpsed all of this in Bazrifel’s mind, and his spirits lifted. All was unfolding as he had engineered it to.

“Tell Bazrifel to return to his post,” Corien said unnecessarily, for he had already tossed a thought of dismissal Bazrifel’s way. But he enjoyed barking out commands. He relished the sensation of words sliding across his stolen tongue.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Alantiah, turning to leave.

“But you, stay.” Corien glanced at Alantiah’s reflection, noting how her face lit up with anticipation—and how her thoughts bloomed against his mind, deferent but delighted. “I require a bath and your company.”

He shrugged off his coat, then his vest and silk shirt, then his boots and trousers. He opened another bottle of wine and took it with him into the bathing room, Alantiah’s bright gaze following him, rapt and eager.

As Corien watched her prepare his bath, distantly admiring the plump lines of her body, he allowed himself to look once more toward Celdaria. Like cracking open a door to peek inside a room he knew he shouldn’t enter, he reached for Rielle, and though only an instant passed before her image manifested before him, it felt like an endless, unbearable age.

Through Rielle’s eyes, he saw the scene. She, Ludivine, and Audric were traveling home to Celdaria by horseback, accompanied by an entourage of Borsvall soldiers. The chavaile Rielle had named Atheria had not shown herself since the incident at the Gate. Corien sensed Rielle’s heartache, her longing to make amends with the godsbeast, and nearly sent her a feeling of comfort. A press of affection, a mere brush of his thoughts against hers.

But he refrained—barely. He clenched his fists and stepped back from the desire as if it were a physical entity too dangerous to approach.

He knew it was wise to limit his time with Rielle. Doing so enhanced her longing for him, her curiosity, her frustration.

It also prevented him from doing anything foolish that would turn her forever away from him—such as inspiring her to stab the sniveling traitor Ludivine while she slept or slip poison into the besotted Audric’s supper, or taking control of her mind entirely, forcing her to leave her home and come to him.

“Shall I leave you to bathe alone, Your Majesty?” came Alantiah’s gentle voice. “Or do you require company?”

He blinked, struggling to clear the fog of Rielle from his mind. Alantiah stood before him, loosening the laces of her dress. Her boldness pleased him; theirs was a practiced dance. One that would distract him for an hour or two, and then leave him feeling hollow once more.

Rielle’s party had stopped to rest in a sunlit woodland. The Borsvall guards formed a perimeter, their backs turned. Audric stretched out on the grass, yawning, and rubbed his hands over his face. Rielle curled up beside him, and when he cradled her head in his hand and kissed her brow, her subsequent happiness blossomed, tender and warm, until Corien could hardly see for his despair.

Alantiah’s mind was nearby, open and willing. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her against his body, kissing her with such force that she cried out into his mouth.

Before he lost himself in her desire, Corien sent Rielle a final thought, sly and thin, as she watched Ludivine examine her blightblade scar. Its ugly blue lines glittered in the sunlight, like the blade-strewn ruins of a battlefield.

The idea was already there, in Rielle’s mind. She had proclaimed her intentions before the Obex. She had spent many hours, as they traveled, quietly examining the possibilities. She simply needed encouragement, and that, Corien was only too happy to give.

Repair, he murmured to her.

Restoration.

And then, unable to resist touching her, he drew the trailing end of his thoughts down the soft length of her spine, and whispered, Resurrection.

14

   Rielle

“How did you bear the death of your father? How did you come to live with your grief? My own sends me violent dreams. Unlike Ingrid, I don’t have the command of an army to distract me. I have only the endless stack of petitions on my desk. The skeptical eyes of a kingdom upon me. Instructions for my impending coronation whispered to me by bitter magisters who loved my father and my late sister, Runa, and who have no affection for me. I would laugh, if I wasn’t afraid it would make me cry. In conclusion, did I mention that my capacity for self-hatred is limitless?”

—A letter written by Prince Ilmaire Lysleva to Prince Audric Courverie, dated October 25, Year 998 of the Second Age

Âme de la Terre buzzed like a sticky hive, every courtyard lining the central avenue packed to the brim with citizens eager for a glimpse of the Sun Queen’s return.

Rielle hardly noticed, her nerves singing in anticipation of seeing Tal, and Sloane, and Queen Genoveve. And Evyline, Dashiell, Maylis, the rest of her Sun Guard. Poor Evyline would have been absolutely beside herself since they fled Carduel.

You should wave at them, Ludivine suggested, and smile.

I’m rather busy at the moment, Rielle replied.

You can worry about Tal and Evyline, and wave and smile at the same time.

Rielle obeyed, begrudgingly. There, is that better?

Your smile looks rather like the painted-on smile of a ravenous doll, Ludivine observed, but, yes, that’s better. It’s important that they see you happy to return home. Many rumors have been circulating since we left Carduel.

Rielle glanced at Audric, who waved at the gathered crowds with a broad grin on his face. A child broke free of her father’s arms and rushed forward, a bouquet of wildflowers in her arms. The Celdarian royal guard, who had replaced their Borsvall escort at the city border, tried to intercept her, but Audric waved them aside.

He knelt to meet the girl’s gaze. When she thrust out her fistful of flowers, he accepted the offering with a smile. “These are lovely. Did you pick them yourself?”

The girl nodded, her brown cheeks dusted with gold powder. She bit her lip, as if considering her options, and then flung herself at him, hooking her arms around his neck. The force of her affection nearly knocked him off his feet, but he nevertheless returned her embrace before gently redirecting her back to her father, who watched, mortified, from a few paces away.

Pride bloomed in Rielle’s chest, clearing her thoughts of the erratic, faint visions of Corien she’d seen on their journey home. Since then, a word had sat coiled in the deepest hollow of her mind—eyes open, breathing steady. A watchful reptile.