Kingsbane

Gilduin wept for her and tore at his chest,

that he might rend the terrible angry ache from his veins, and return home to her

and take up his sword alongside her.”

—“The Ballad of Gilduin and Morgaine,” ancient Celdarian epic, author unknown

That night, as the rain grew to another storm, Eliana lay awake in her bed, unable to shut off the wild whirl of her mind.

Then a crack of thunder shook her, and before she could think better of it, she climbed out of bed, heart pounding. The air was chill, the wooden floor cold against her bare feet, and the sleep shirt Dani had given her provided little warmth.

But when she opened the door to her room, all thoughts of cold fled from her mind.

Simon was there, his hair rumpled as if he had spent the night running his hands through it, his fist raised to knock.

For an instant they simply stared at each other, and then a stubborn wall inside Eliana gave way at last. Her restless night, the tension of the day, and the awful weight of what lay ahead combined to fell her. Horrified to feel her face crumpling, she leaned in to him, hiding her sharp sob in his sleeve.

His arms came around her at once, and he held her there for a moment in the open doorway. She felt his cheek against hers; he kissed her hair. Then he gently moved her inside the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Is this all right?” he said. “Or should I leave?”

She shook her head against his chest. “Please don’t leave me alone. God, I can hardly breathe. I can’t sleep, I can’t think.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re frightened.”

“Yes, and I hate myself for it.”

“I’m familiar with the temptation for self-loathing, but in this case it’s unnecessary. You have every right to be frightened.”

“Are you? Please tell me you are.”

“And that will make you feel better?”

“Marginally.”

“Well, then. I’ll say truthfully that I’ve been frightened every day, for as long as I can remember.”

She pulled away, looking up at his tired face. The room was dark, save for a stub of candle near her bed and the occasional flash of lightning. She wished suddenly for more light, so she could better see the familiar lines of his nose, the map of his scars, his sharp, strong jaw.

“How did you do it?” she whispered. “All the years of fighting, of seeing and dealing awful cruelties. Being trained by the Prophet. The horrors you’ve endured, things you haven’t yet told me about.” She touched his chest, over the spot where the scar she’d healed had once lived. She stared at her fingers, suddenly nervous. “How did you live through it all?”

A pause, and then his hands were in her hair, gently guiding her to look up at him. The small smile he gave her was so tender that it filled her body with light.

“I lived through it,” he said, wiping her cheeks, “by thinking of you.”

His words spread slowly across her skin, trailing a tingling warmth behind them. “But you didn’t know me until a few months ago.”

“No, but the hope of you…that I knew for years. The hope that I would find you, that I hadn’t lost you after all.” And then a darkness fell over his face. He released her, his expression closing. “Sometimes I can hardly bear to look at you.”

“Because I remind you of my mother?”

“Because every day I wake fearing I’ll fail you, and every night I fall asleep wishing…” He dragged a hand across his face, turned toward the window. “Forgive me, Eliana.”

Cautiously, she moved closer to him and took his hands in hers. He raised them to his lips and kissed them—her fingers, her wrists, the metal lines of her castings. Her body thrummed to match his every movement, his every breath.

“Forgive you for what?” she asked. And when he didn’t answer, she brought his hands to her lips. “What do you fall asleep wishing?”

He murmured her name, and she gently gripped his collar, stretching up to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“Will you properly kiss me at last?” she whispered against his skin. “I’ve only wanted you to for months.”

“When you didn’t want to fight me, that is,” he said, a smile in his voice.

She tugged at his shirt, her blood blazing with need. “Simon. Either kiss me or leave me here to hate you.”

At once he bent to kiss the drying tears from her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, her brow, her temples, and then, when she made a soft, angry noise and tightened her fists in his shirt, he slid his hands into her hair and found her mouth with his own.

His kiss sent heat firing through her body, and she rose swiftly to meet it, hooking her arms around his neck. His kisses were long and slow, his arms strong around her, and then, cradling her head in one large hand, he opened her mouth with his tongue. She whimpered, the heat between her legs aching with such sudden desperation that she feared her knees would buckle. She had lain with many men and women—both in her work as the Dread and simply because she loved it—and had spent countless nights in Harkan’s bed. This was not new to her.

And yet in Simon’s arms she felt as shaky and wild as if she had never been touched in her life.

“Is this all right?” he murmured against her throat, stamping her neck with his tongue.

She laughed, breathless. “If you stop, I really will hate you forever.”

“I need you to say it, Eliana.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Tell me to stay.”

“Stay,” she whispered. She could not bear the intensity of his gaze. She ducked away, nuzzling his stubbled cheek. “Stay, and take me to bed.”

He laughed quietly into her hair—a shredded sound, so raw that she had to squeeze her eyes shut against a fresh rush of tears. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. She understood his relief, and felt it herself—a rightness at his touch, a sense of coming home at last. It was as if all the layers of protection she had constructed within herself—against the world, against her power, against the horrible truth of her family—had folded under and vanished.

He hoisted her up easily against him, and when their hips met, she cried out, tightening her arms around his neck. He carried her to her bed and sat on the edge of it. She settled in his lap, cupping his face in her hands. She kissed him until she had to pull away, both of them breathing hard, for her head was buzzing with want, and even with Simon’s hands firm on her hips, holding her against him, she wondered if she might float away.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered against his mouth before kissing his bottom lip, tugging it gently between her teeth. She couldn’t stay away from him for long; with each kiss she felt more frantic for him, as if at any moment he might disappear.