Chapter Three
Autumn Equinox, the same day, the first few hours of the
Reign of Xyrath and Queen Satia
“Warriors of Xy, behold your King!”
The cheers rose around him as Xyrath greeted his bloody and exhausted warriors as they returned from the battlefield.
Finally, victory was his.
He stood tall and proud before his command tent, bathed in the light of the setting sun, certain that he could be seen by all in his gleaming armor despite the gathering clouds. The torches that surrounded him glowed in the light mist that was starting to fall. Overhead, his banner, red with the rampant gold wyvern, snapped in the breeze.
What a glorious day. What an image to burn into the hearts of his warriors.
Xyrath held his pose, hands on his hips, chest lifted proudly, and watched as Lord Marshal Tarwain walked toward him, covered in gore and dirt, his beard thick with filth. The man’s white teeth practically glowed as he grinned in triumph. In his hands was the crown of Xy, gleaming despite the mud and weeds that clung to it. Tarwain wiped at the metal with his bare hands as he drew closer, throwing clumps of muck to the ground.
Xyrath doffed his helmet and shook out his blond hair as the men around him cheered. Tarwain went to one knee before him and offered up the crown. “All hail King Xyrath, Son of the Blood, King of Xy!” Tarwain boomed.
Cheers rose as Xyrath took the crown, careful not to grimace at the feel of the chilly mess still clinging to the gold. He lifted the circlet high before placing it on his own glorious blond head. The cheers rang out again and continued as he pulled Tarwain to his feet. Xyrath put one hand on Tarwain’s neck and pulled his head close, as if in fond embrace. “Wellan?” he asked under his breath.
“Dead,” Tarwain said. “I pulled the crown from his head myself.”
“And the Ring?” Xyrath asked.
Tarwain shook his head. He drew from his belt the traditional red leather gloves also smeared with gore and mud, and dropped them at Xyrath’s feet. “Lost. I pulled these off his hands myself. The Ring wasn’t on him,” he murmured. Tarwain straightened up as he took a step back and took off his own helmet, running a hand through his dark, sweat-soaked hair. “Hail to King Xyrath,” he shouted.
Cheers washed over Xyrath, even as a wave of rage passed through him at the loss of the Ring. But he kept his face stern and solemn. There would be time for that later. He raised a hand for silence.
The bloodied and exhausted men around him all went to one knee, bowing their heads. Tarwain waited a breath, then he too knelt.
“My friends, my faithful brothers,” Xyrath half-shouted, “we have won this day. I give thanks to the Lord of the Sun for his aid and strength in ending this civil war. Once more, the Crown has been claimed by the Blood. Let us march upon the gates of Edenrich and restore the Throne of Xy!”
Cheers followed his words, but they seemed to be a bit less enthusiastic than moments before. Lord Marshal Tarwain rose to his feet stiffly, his armor rattling. “My King, perhaps you mean to march upon the morrow? I’ve a report on our losses and we must see to the wounded.”
Xyrath frowned at the man. “We must present ourselves to our people, Lord Marshal.”
“Aye,” Tarwain said, hesitating. “But Your Majesty needs to—”
“Wait,” finished a feminine voice.
The flap of the command tent opened as Xyrath turned to see Satia emerge, looking calm and cool in blood-red robes, her beautiful heart-shaped face bearing a slight smile. Her golden brown skin glowed in the torch light, her long black hair gathered in a single thick braid.
Two of her bondmaidens followed. Surprisingly, they were not dressed in their usual, matching finery. Satia had armed and armored them, so they stood in black leather and chainmail, swords and daggers at their sides. The pair framed Satia, in her lovely red dress, her dark eyes warm and filled with admiration for him.
Every inch his lovely queen.
She was going to stop him, he could tell, just as she had restricted him from the battlefield. A necessary precaution, but it had still stung.
Her alluring dark eyes focused on Xyrath as if she knew his thoughts. “His majesty needs to wait before his triumphal entry to Edenrich. The time is not yet right. There are tasks that need doing.”
Xyrath returned her smile, hiding a twinge of annoyance. She was right, and she had good reasons, but he disliked being denied. Still, there were tasks that only he could do. He held out his hand.
Satia stepped lightly to his side and took it.
“Warriors of Xy,” Tarwain bellowed. “Behold her Majesty, Satia, Queen of Xy.”
Cheers rose again. Xyrath was pleased they were not as loud as his had been.
Satia smiled as she emerged from the tent, focused on her glorious golden god of a man, now king. King.
Finally.
But even as she stepped forward and took his hand, turning her gaze on the cheering warriors gathered before them, she knew this wasn’t the end, it was just the beginning. They had seized the crown, now they had to secure it.
“My King,” she said placing extra emphasis on the title. “We must needs see to our injured and our honored dead.” She tilted her head to the northern sky and lowering clouds. “The winds will bring rain this night. A sorry sight to stagger into the city, bedraggled and muddy.” He flinched at muddy, as she knew he would. She pressed her point. “We will make a glorious procession of victory in the bright light of the morning, with all the fanfare you can imagine, if the people are given time to prepare.”
Xyrath hesitated ever-so-slightly, then smiled and nodded. “You are right, my fair Queen,” he said. “In the morning light, I’ll ride at the head of my warriors with the trumpets sounding, banners flying, and all the people cheering.”
“Besides,” Satia leaned into him to whisper, making sure that he caught the scent of her perfume as her breath tickled his ear. “All know that a warrior is most potent after a battle.” She half-closed her eyes, letting her dark lashes mask them. “We must celebrate, you and I. After you have seen to the…business. Upon your return.”
That caught his interest, as she knew it would. She could see the pulse in his neck beat faster at that invitation.
“What better way to celebrate than with your rich, sweet body,” he whispered back. “And perhaps, finally, an heir in the making.” He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Let it be so,” he whispered.
Satia dropped her eyes demurely. “Walk among your warriors, then run your errand,” she murmured. “I will make the preparations.” She pulled back and raised her voice. “Escort the King to walk among our ranks. All Hail the King of Xy!”
“Hail, Hail, Hail,” came the chant.
King Xyrath lifted his hand and basked in their admiration, heading into their midst.
Satia watched Xyrath go with silent amusement. For everything that Xyrath lacked, he did make an impressive sight.
Lord Marshal Tarwain stepped to her side, gesturing to his own escort. “Go with him. Keep him out of trouble.”
The guards hurried off, leaving him alone with the Queen.
“What word?” she asked quietly.
“I’ve no numbers yet, but their dead outnumber ours. Once Kara fell, it was a rout.”
“Kara is dead?” Satia asked sharply. “You are certain?”
“Aye,” Tarwain nodded. “I saw her body with my own eyes.”
“Had she given birth?” Satia pressed, keeping her voice low. Her Bondmaidens had moved to shelter them, making sure there were no prying ears and eyes.
Tarwain seemed taken aback. “My Queen, I don’t know. She was wearing armor—”
“You didn’t strip it off?” Satia asked.
“No, of course not,” Tarwain stared at her.
Satia managed not to roll her eyes. Men. Useless. Instead she gave him nod of understanding. “Of course not,” she echoed. “But we need to know.”
Tarwain nodded and glanced behind her. “Perhaps your handmaidens—”
“Bondmaidens,” Satia corrected him. The nervousness in his eyes pleased her.
“Perhaps they could, er,” Tarwain said.
“We will see to it,” Satia said. She smiled at him again, offering reassurance. “Are you securing the enemy camp? How many noble prisoners do we have?”
“Not many,” Tarwain said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Most died on the field. I will order the rest executed.”
“No, no,” Satia shook her head, making sure to keep her voice gentle. “We will show mercy and imprison them instead. We can hold them for ransom, seize their estates. There’s time. And some things are worse than death.”
“As you command,” Tarwain gave her a bow. “I’ve given orders that there is to be no looting,” He assured her. “I don’t have a full count of our dead yet, but we lost quite a few. Lord Asyith is dead, as is Lord Eijer.”
“Leaving a trail of broken hearts and promises, no doubt.” Satia looked again at the clouds building in the sky, thinking of next steps. “We need to secure the city and the treasury. If there is one left.”
Tarwain nodded. “I will send Lord Roredge and his men. If the gates open to them, they will secure the castle.”
“The gates will open,” Satia assured him. “We have enough agents within to see that done.” Satia folded her hands over her stomach. “Does Roredge have the list of those of the Blood?”
“He does, and Captain Ussin was assigned the task.” Tarwain glanced up as the winds rose. The wyvern banners snapped on their poles. “Is that really necessary?”
“Those of the Blood must be found and secured,” Satia said firmly. “We need to ensure their…safety. Make certain of them. Be sure to find Orval especially.”
“The cripple?” Tarwain snorted his disbelief. “When I knew him, he was always lost in his books.”
“Xyrath has given me to understand he is clever. Dangerous in his own way,” Satia said firmly.
“I’d worry more about Tithanna, the Dowager Queen.” Tarwain glanced toward the city.
“We will see to her. You will arrange an escort?” At his nod, Satia smiled at him. “We have won the Crown, Tarwain. Now we must secure it. We must be seen to be gracious and merciful in public. Retribution will come later.”
Tarwain glanced around, then moved closer and bent his head toward hers. “Perhaps we could discuss the details of our plans in your tent this night?”
Satia gave him a warm smile, then did her trick: half-closed eyes above a slow, sensual smile. She shook her head ever so slightly. “I must celebrate with the King this night, Lord Marshal.” She extended her hand for him to kiss. “Later, perhaps?” She put a promise into her voice.
Tarwain bowed over her hand, letting his lips linger on her skin. “Majesty.” He strode off as the first drops of rain began to fall.
She watched him leave as her Bondmaidens, Mira and Avice, stepped to her side. “The Lord Marshal doesn’t know,” Mira stated. It wasn’t a question.
Avice retrieved the red leather gloves from the ground.
Satia still watched her departing lover. “I see no reason why he should,” she said softly. “In a few weeks, I will proclaim I am with child. Xyrath will puff with pride, and the people will rejoice that I have finally produced an heir. Who will question then?”
Mira smiled, her dark eyes warm as her reddish-brown skin and dark hair caught the last rays of the sun. Such a contrast to Avice, tall, ivory-skinned, and golden-haired, but with a face as cold as it was lovely.
Satia turned and went back into the tent, followed by her Bondmaidens. Where there should have been tables with maps and battle plans, there were only thick carpets and a large, luxurious bed. Xyrath’s command tent was for his personal comfort.
The maps and plans were in her chamber.
The new Queen stepped into one of the smaller sections, where her three other Bondmaidens waited.
Caris and Iris made an odd picture, wearing their black leathers and chain while seated and working at their tatting and knitting. They too were opposites. Caris, with her auburn hair and brown eyes, tawny and tanned. Iris, dark as obsidian, black eyes, black hair, as deadly as she was dark.
No needlework for Nora, she of the sharp cheek bones, her skin like a lustrous pearl, her hair black as night. She merely sat and waiting, poised for action. Now she looked up, eager to be unleashed.
Satia stood for a moment, thinking. Who best for the tasks at hand?
“Avice,” Satia decided. Regal and commanding, one look from those blue-eyes would cut through any who challenged her. “Take some of Tarwain’s men and go secure Wellan’s and Kara’s bodies.”
“She is dead?” Nora asked.
“Yes,” Satia said.
“The babe?” Caris asked.
“Unknown,” Satia sniffed. “And the men did not think to check her body. Avice will make sure,” Satia turned to her and the young woman gave a firm nod. “Make clear our regrets that the babe died within her. Claim her body and Wellan’s on my behalf. Say it is so they are not dishonored, so we might tend to their burial with all due respect.” She made a face, looking at the disgusting wet leather in her hands. “I don’t suppose these gloves will burn.”
Avice shrugged. “Eventually.”
“Bury them with him,” Satia said, then paused. “No. With Kara. She should have worn them.”
Avice bowed her obedience and Satia dropped the gloves into the Bondmaiden’s hands.
“Caris, Iris, Nora, ride to the enemy camp and secure the command tents. I want any documents preserved, as well as any valuables.” Satia narrowed her eyes in thought. “But first seek out Kara’s tent and report what you find. If she gave birth, and the child is there, kill it and any witnesses.”
Caris flinched ever so slightly. “Majesty—”
Satia narrowed her eyes and swiftly sent a pulse of pain through the bond to all of them. Caris stiffened and clenched her right hand about her left wrist.
“You are bound, you are all bound, to me, to my House, to my command.” Satia concentrated harder to drive the point home and now they all flexed their left hands. Nora pulled back her sleeve to expose the bond mark on the pulse point of her inner wrist.
Its red hot glow contented Satia and she eased up on her focus. “That babe, that Airion bloodline, is a threat,” Satia said firmly. “Babes die, from fever, from colic, in their cradles asleep. Smother the get, conceal the body, and bring it here. I would see it with my own eyes.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Caris bowed her head.
“If you find that the child was born yet find no trace of the babe, hunt it down.” Satia turned to Iris. “Pursue any information, any hint. Do not stop until it is dead in your hands.”
“We could gather some warriors,” Iris said. “The more eyes—”
“No,” Satia said. “I want no whispers, no gossip. You will hunt, and you alone.”
“We will see it done.” They gathered up their needles and thread and bowed while Nora rose smoothly to her feet, then bowed as well.
“Go then.” Satia smiled as her poison darts left swiftly. She sighed and stretched as the tent flap closed behind them.
“Mira, we must prepare for the King’s return. He will be some time, but we should be ready.” Satia lifted a hand and started to take down her braids. “Stoke the braziers and warm some towels.” Satia looked up at a new sound: a hard rain had begun to strike the tent. “Bring my oils and perfumes. We should prepare hot food and drink as well. His Majesty will be wet and chilled.”
“I’ll mull some wine,” Mira said. “And lace it perhaps? A touch of herbs to aid his Majesty?”
“Yes,” Satia nodded absently. “He will return to bury himself in my arms even as his men work in the rain to clear the field and bury the dead. He will think only on his victory, not on the cost.”
“Or what must be done to keep you safe on the throne.” Mira said.
“Our throne,” Satia said, dropping one hand to her belly. “Our throne.”