Chapter 39
DIEM
The sky was raining ale.
Its earthy, malted aroma filled my nose as the amber liquid drizzled over my skin. “Not the hair,” I groaned, covering my head. “I’m going to smell like a tavern for a week.”
“Oh come on, D,” Henri shouted. He shoved a mug into my hands, then crashed his against it, sending a tidal wave sloshing into my face. He grinned at my dripping glare. “Celebrate with us.”
I handed the mug off to a nearby guard, who was all too glad to add it to the two already in her fists. She lifted them and shouted, “Victory for the Queen!”
Across the massive crowd of revelers that had gathered on the palace lawn, a handful of revelers echoed her cheer, though others exchanged looks.
I forced a smile. “Not for me,” I yelled. “For Emarion!” This time, everyone wholeheartedly joined in.
“Quit sulking,” Henri said. He threw his arm around my shoulder, losing more of his mug’s contents to the soil. “In case you haven’t noticed, we won.”
“They retreated,” I corrected, wiping the ale off my face. “Winning would be stopping them for good.”
“We stopped them before they took any lives, and we didn’t lose a single soldier. That’s worth celebrating.”
After weeks of chasing all over the continent, a clue from my mother’s source had finally led us to Vance and his men.
Once again, Ophiucae was not with them. When they saw how large my army had grown since our last clash, half of them turned and fled.
When I unleashed my magic, the other half followed suit.
Vance alone held the line from his horse, burning me alive with his glare until a warning arrow sent him riding away.
We’d dealt a massive strike to their morale, if not their numbers. The Guardians in my army were thrilled they didn’t have to kill their own, and the Descended were relieved that Ophiucae’s massacres had skidded to a halt.
Henri was right—it was a win.
I should be happy.
My hand tightened around my still-empty scabbard. “I’m going to check with the kitchens. It was a long march home, everyone could use a hot meal.”
I tried to shrug him off, but he grabbed my arm and tugged me back. “You’re still here, D. That’s a good thing.”
He pinned me with a loaded stare that had a lump forming in my throat. Henri knew the full truth of what the victory I sought might cost me.
“Go find Lana,” I urged him. “She’ll be happy to see you. But no forcing ale on her, alright?”
He grinned wide. Though I’d been skeptical at first, looming fatherhood had changed him.
His years of bottled anger were fermenting to a sweet, effervescent excitement for the future.
I’d even caught him trading friendly jokes with some Descended on the road back to Lumnos, a scene I never thought I’d see.
“Only if you go find that snooty Prince of yours, too,” he teased.
This smile, I didn’t have to force. “I will,” I promised.
He let me go and disappeared into the throng.
Despite my strange mood, I paused to savor the moment.
There were so many new faces. Word had spread of what I was doing here in Lumnos, and every day, more people arrived to join our fight.
The borders between the different factions of my army had grown almost too blurred to define, everyone mingling together in a beautiful weave.
Even the Ignios refugees had set aside their self-imposed isolation to join in, thanks in large part to Taran’s swiftness at dragging out the palace casks.
He was currently hanging halfway out a third-floor window, pouring a shower of ale as soldiers held their cups up from below.
I slipped through the jostling bodies into the palace and stopped by the kitchens, where I was met there by a mix of blue, brown, and orange eyes.
Eleanor had offered generous salaries to fill the gaps in palace staff, and I was pleased to see that she’d broken the long-standing House Corbois policy of only hiring its own.
After discussing arrangements to feed the crowd outside, I slipped into the staff passageways and snuck to the royal wing, eager to avoid the Corbois griping in the halls.
To them, my decision to spread the royal wealth was a theft of the coffers they felt entitled to by birthright.
It didn’t matter that House Corbois had more than enough gold left over to fund their lavish lifestyles—the prospect of a single coin being taken to help someone else was a reprehensible affront.
Our family earned that money, they said.
It’s their own fault those people are poor, they said.
They simply need to work harder, they said.
I would have told them their family’s wealth had come at those people’s expense, made possible by preferential laws enforced by a government run by and for their kind that spent exponentially more time preserving its power than protecting its people—if I thought they’d hear a word of it.
Gilded hearts were not easily changed.
I made it to my chambers and tore off my dirty leathers, then quickly washed the dirt and sticky ale from my skin.
As I stood in front of my wardrobe, I surprised even myself when I reached for a body-hugging gown in a bright vermillion knit.
Lately, I’d been finding excuses to show off the curves I’d worked so hard to gain back.
I couldn’t even blame it on Luther—ever since our night in the woods, keeping him from tearing off my clothes and revealing my mark had become a daily battle.
The more of my body I put on display, the more ardently he fought.
The truth was, I wanted to look beautiful.
Not for him, but for me. His reverent love was lethal against my self-doubt, as were the support of my friends and my small but cherished triumphs as Queen.
I was finally growing comfortable in my own skin.
I didn’t need to choose between warrior or healer or Crown, mortal or Descended, feminine or strong.
I was all of them at once, and I was better for it.
The door opened, and the flutter of the bond told me who it was. A smile tugged at my lips.
“Help me with these laces?” I asked, holding the dress to my chest and glancing at him over my bare shoulder.
Luther’s nostrils flared, his heated gaze traveling over my naked back as he came up behind me. “Only if you’re taking it off.”
“And miss all the fun outside?”
His eyes snapped back up at the sarcasm in my tone. “If you don’t feel like celebrating with the others, I can think of a few alternatives.” His knuckles grazed up my spine. “One in particular.”
I stretched up to steal a kiss, and he seized his chance. His fingers tangled in my hair to hold me at his will as his tongue moved in deep, possessive strokes. His other hand skimmed over my ribs, kneading his thumb against my breast.
I whimpered softly. “Luther.”
“You can drop that dress now.”
“Luther.”
A rumble rolled from his chest. “I love hearing you say my name.” He nipped at my jaw. “I love it more when you scream it.”
“I need to join the others. I’m—” I gasped as his fingers tightened and a thrilling tingle coursed across my scalp. “I’m their Queen.”
“Exactly. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Your Majesty.”
With a pathetic whine, I pressed a hand to his chest and eased him away. “You know better than anyone how not true that is, Your Highness.” His jaw ticked. I flashed a sweet smile and gave him my back. “Laces, please.”
He let out a frustrated grunt that was, frankly, adorable, then gave in and laced up the dress.
He sank onto my bed as I finished pinning up my hair and dabbing rouge on my lips.
Even though I was the furthest thing from healed and still getting reacquainted with happy, painting my body in colors and draping it in pretty things made me feel, for a night, like I was.
Perhaps I was simply putting diamonds on ash, but it sparkled all the same.
“What’s this?” Luther asked, picking up a journal on my nightstand.
I glanced at it, and my stomach clenched. “My mother’s notes on treating godstone wounds.”
“Your blood can heal godstone. Why do you need this?”
“I don’t anymore. It was from . . . before.”
He stilled, realizing my meaning. His eyes lifted, and I felt the strain of his heart over the bond as it ached with mine, remembering how close we’d come to saying goodbye right in the spot he now sat.
He rose and flipped through the journal’s pages as he strolled around the room, occasionally passing close enough that our arms would brush, as if he couldn’t bear more than a few seconds of being apart.
He stopped on a page. “Auralie wrote your name.”
I stared over his shoulder at a note scribbled in my mother’s handwriting in the margins:
Diem—Coeur?le
godstone=death
life=?
Luther and I exchanged a glance, wearing matching looks of confusion. I had seen the note before, but with my mother trapped in a Fortos prison, I’d had no way to ask her what it meant. Now, she was a few minutes’ walk away—not that that had brought us any closer.
“Maybe she knows something that could help you make godstone,” he said.
I avoided his eyes as I turned to slip on my shoes. “Don’t pretend you haven’t already told her that I’m trying to make it. If she could help, she would have told you.”
“Ask her anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because she loves you, and she wants to be part of your life. And I know that you miss her, even if you refuse to admit it.”
“I’m starting to regret forcing you two to get along.” I tried to pluck the journal from his hands, but he held it tight.
“And because she’s family,” he said. “And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Bellators never give up on their own.”
My insides tangled in an uncomfortable knot. “I’m not ready,” I said quietly.
He closed the book and set it down, then pressed a kiss to my cheek, and we spoke of it no more.