The Queens of Merab 3 Temair’s Aire Page 7

  His mother hissed in outrage and lunged around him, aiming not for escape, but for Temair. Zevan didn’t think, just acted. Perhaps he’d meant to pin her to the wall, as she’d done to Temair, Nuriel and Sorcha. He’d like to think that was the case. But then, perhaps not. Regardless of intention, what he did was catch her up in a whirlwind, rip the aire from her lungs with one fisted hand. What he did was fling her like the piece of vile filth she was, so that her body shattered the glazed surface of the wide window that took up most of one wall. What he did was push, push with every bit of power he had, until she was plummeting through the aire with a shriek.

  When he came back to himself, the room was silent except for Nabal’s nearly silent sobs, and the rustle of fabric. He was on his knees, swaying with exhaustion, feeling more completely empty and numb than he’d ever felt before.

  Then warm, strong arms were around him. Slender fingers speared through his hair, careful of the bruises he couldn’t quite feel, and his face was tugged down to press against a soft, fragrant neck. Rich brown hair, tangled with wind and struggle, fell against his cheek, shrouding him from the room, shrouding him from everything but the softness of the body pressed against his.

  Then there was more, the murmur of voices, Nabal’s sharp cry and sudden silence. Another body, cool and light, pressed against him, against them, he realized. Dathan. Holding Temair, but holding Zevan, too. And a hot hand on his nape, squeezing lightly, sending soothing warmth into his icy, numb skin. Miach. Surrounded by the people he’d only begun to hope would make him theirs, despair flooded him, and Zevan slid into darkness with a pitiful burst of gratitude.

  * * *

  “I’m worried about her.” Sorcha stood at Temair’s side as they watched Nuriel gaze pensively out the window. Their usually exuberant friend had been strangely quiet since Lady Alta’s attack, refusing to talk about the experience.

  “She’ll be all right,” Temair assured her friend, though she worried, too. “Give her a wedding to plan, and she’ll be right as rayne.”

  “And I guess that wedding will be sooner rather than later,” Sorcha mused. They were waiting for Zevan, who’d slept for nearly forty-eight hours after sending his mother plummeting to the abyss she so richly deserved. Miach had insisted, and Temair had agreed, that Zevan should be present when sentence was passed on Nabal, and when Temair announced her intentions for the Aerie.

  When Dathan led Zevan into the room, Temair couldn’t help but catch her breath. When Miach joined them, the aire seemed to evaporate from the room, leaving her lightheaded.

  Miach was gorgeous, imposing and intimidating. Dathan was beautiful, sleek as a well-fed cat, and completely comfortable in his skin. Zevan was… something else. Slighter than her Consorts, slender but wiry, Zevan radiated a sense of vulnerability, which Temair now knew was completely deceptive. Her soon-to-be Third Consort was anything but harmless. And, sweet elements, but he was a delight to look at. Features almost too delicate, saved by the strong line of his jaw, and the intensity of those hematite eyes.

  Those eyes were currently fixed on the floor at his feet, and Temair found she did not like the diffident expression on Zevan’s fine features, or the subtle slump to his shoulders. Did he not want her? He’d been through so much, had been forced into so many things against his will… She wanted him desperately, and she knew Miach and Dathan were in total agreement with her. They all needed to make him theirs; theirs to love and protect. But she couldn’t bear the thought of taking another choice from him.

  Sorcha’s hand on her arm snapped her attention back to the task at hand. With a gesture, she called her men to her side. Nuriel drifted to stand in her accustomed spot beside Pelagia.

  A number of servants stood silently against the walls, men and women both, all looking haunted, angry, frightened. Temair was sick at the thought of what they’d been through because of the Queen’s ignorance and distraction.

  Nodding silently at Darmon and Pelagia, Temair moved to a large chair that had been placed directly in front of the window Alta had flown through. She both hated and appreciated the statement it made, just as she both hated and recognized the necessity of the power base she was building in this room.

  Nuriel and Sorcha seated themselves quietly in smaller chairs on either side of her, as Dathan and Miach moved to stand at her back, each man with a hand on the high back of her chair. She frowned a bit as Zevan moved to stand before her, dropping to one knee and lowering his head deferentially. Before she could correct him, tell him to join her Consorts where he belonged, her guards returned, Nabal dangling limp and uncooperative between them.

  Drawing herself up, Temair watched as Nabal collapsed beside Zevan. Never had Zevan’s strength been so obvious as it was now when compared to his cousin’s disgusting, blubbering display.

  “Nabal of the Aerie,” Sorcha spoke. Temair wasn’t sure how or when, but Sorcha had become the official speaker for Temair’s rule. She wondered what on Merab she’d do when Sorcha left to seek her own Consorts. Nabal shuddered and whimpered at the princess’s uncompromising voice. “You stand,” she paused, “rather, you grovel, accused of treason against the Crown Princess Temair, against her mother, the Most Serene Highness Queen Akasha, and against the Queendom of Emetra. What say you?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Nabal whined, tears and snot shiny on his face. “It was Auntie,” he insisted. “Auntie Alta. You saw her. How could I refuse her?”

  “You mean to say,” Temair interjected dryly, “you had no desire to take your place as my Consort? No longing for the power and prestige of that position?”

  “No! None at all! It was Auntie.” The fool dissolved into tears again, and Temair offered up a brief prayer of gratitude that he had not been the heir, that he hadn’t been her only option. If he had been, she knew she would have done as Alta had mockingly suggested, and sought her Consort from the commoners.

  “Your words and actions are at odds, Nabal of the Aerie.” Sorcha glanced toward her, and Temair nodded. “The decision of the Princess, who speaks for the Queendom at large, is thus: Nabal of the Aerie, for treason, for the assault and attempted murder of your cousin, Lord Zevan, and for the willful attack of the Crown Princess Temair of Emetra, the Crown Princess Nuriel of Zirah, and of the Crown Princess Sorcha of Turnin, you are to be sentenced to death. Your execution shall be quick, a more merciful death than you intended for your victims, and certainly a more merciful death than you deserve; and it shall be immediate.”

  Nabal drew a loud, wet breath and sobbed louder, filling the room with pathetic whimpering pleas for mercy. There was no mercy to be had, though. Nabal had made his choice, and now he would accept the consequences.

  Temair forced herself to watch as Darmon caught Nabal’s hair in one hand, forcing his head back sharply. Pelagia moved quickly, tipping a small cup to the traitor’s mouth, and Nabal swallowed convulsively. She refused to look away, watching every second as Nabal realized he’d swallowed poison, as he shook in terror, and then shook even harder as the drug stole his ability to control his body. It was less than a minute, but felt like hours when his eyes slid closed and his body relaxed in Darmon’s grip.

  Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Temair drew back up to face the people of the Aerie. Miach didn’t touch her, but she felt his heat glowing through the back of her chair, a private offering of support and approval.

  Zevan didn’t look up as Nabal was carried from the room. Temair’s heart clenched. Would he hate her for her harsh judgment of Nabal?

  “Lord Zevan.” Her voice was soft, but he still gave a little jerk, like a shock had jolted him. “You’ve had nothing to say to us.” As if by using the royal plural she could distance herself from the pain she anticipated.

  Slowly those charcoal eyes rose to meet hers. She couldn’t interpret his expression, but he almost looked… confused.

  “Your Highness. I most humbly submit to your judgment.”

  What? “For what should I judge you?” Temair didn’t
even try to keep her own confusion out of her voice. She could feel similar emotions through her close bonds with Miach and Dathan, and if she’d been willing to drag her gaze from Zevan’s silent, set face, she knew she’d see the same on Nuriel’s and Sorcha’s faces.

  “Princess, for the murder of my mother.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Dathan’s voice sounded like it wanted to be amused, but wasn’t quite there yet. “He’s kidding,” her Second Consort insisted, placing a comforting hand on Temair’s shoulder. But Temair was looking into Zevan’s bleak eyes, and she knew he wasn’t kidding. Her Aire Lord was truly awaiting her judgment.

  “Zevan.” Her throat closed with emotion, and Temair had to pause before continuing. “Your mother was a monster. Her systematic abuse of the men of Aire weakened and corrupted our Queendom.” A furrow appeared between Zevan’s brows, and Temair had the heartbreaking realization that nothing in his life had prepared Zevan for fairness or true justice at a woman’s hand.

  “I would have executed her for her abuses of her Lands, but for her abuses of you, who have become so precious to me so quickly, I would have had her die much more slowly and in much more pain.” Zevan’s eyes widened, disbelief filling their lightning-streaked depths. She thought there might have been the slightest kindling of hope flickering there, too. “My Aire Lord,” she concluded softly, “you merely saved me the effort of a formal execution, and the possible emotional burden of torturing her before her death.”

  Miach gave a low growl of agreement, and Zevan’s eyes flared brilliantly. And yes, it was hope that had smoldered in the depths of his pretty eyes, because that hope was now blazing brightly.

  “Princess?” His voice was a whisper, his full lips soft and uncertain.

  Making a snap decision, Temair rose and stepped down to stand before him. “Rise, My Lord Aire.”

  Zevan rose slowly, eyes locked on hers, a fine trembling running over slender, muscular limbs.

  “Tradition would have me ask this of your parent. Lacking that, you must speak for yourself.” Taking a step closer, so that she could feel the energy vibrating off him, Temair spoke softly, but firmly. Even she could hear the destiny in her voice, the resonation of a Queen. “Lord Zevan, I formally petition you. I have chosen you, Lord of the Aerie, as my Third Consort, and ask if you are agreeable to my choice.”

  Zevan drew a deep, shaky breath, and his eyes slid closed. When they opened, there was such a depth of gratitude and love that it nearly brought Temair to her knees.

  “Princess, I am humbled and awed by your choice.” He blinked, and Temair realized that she wasn’t the only one whose eyes were damp. “I am honored, and will strive eternally to be worthy of your faith.”

  * * *

  Sitric pressed his back against the wall and watched grimly as Sorcha pronounced sentence on Nabal. He’d like to resent it, to use it as further ammunition in the men’s rebellion against the abuses they suffered at the hands of the ruling women, but he couldn’t. Nabal had been the worst sort of traitor, betraying his gender and his family in pursuit of power. He knew he wouldn’t be so calm when they pronounced sentence on Lord Zevan.

  He’d come to like the boy during his weeks in the Aerie. Zevan had a quick mind and, when he let it show, a wicked-dry sense of humor. He was ridiculously well-educated in strategy, and would make a wonderful ally in the fight to free the males of Merab. But that wouldn’t happen now, not if the Crown Princess was allowed to execute him, as she must since he’d murdered not only a noblewoman, but his own mother.

  When the princess rose and began speaking, Sitric thought he must be hearing things. Because, instead of condemning him, it sounded an awful lot like Temair was asking Zevan to be her Consort. He cut his eyes to the first two Consorts, and their expressions confirmed it. Filled with grief and compassion, Miach’s eyes burned with approval at the princess’s words. The Rayne Lord, too, looked well satisfied, a small smile curling his sensual lips.

  The other princesses drew his attention. Well, if he were strictly honest with himself, the fiery-haired princess drew his attention. Her eyes shone, glossy with unshed tears, and her face was so filled with compassion, it was almost painful to see. How, when she’d been so cold in judging Nabal, could she be so obviously sympathetic to Zevan? It defied everything Sitric knew of women, but then most of what he’d witnessed from these princesses had defied what he knew to be true. It confused him, and that pissed him off. The fact that her voice stroked like velvet along his spine and the sight of her hair glowing like a fiery halo sent the blood rushing to his prick only pissed him off more.

  He needed to study this woman. No, he needed to study these women. There was something here that didn’t make sense, and he needed to figure it out so that he could remove them from his path and go on to liberate the men of Merab.

  Chapter Nine

  The wind was cutting as they stood on the flat rock that formed the top of the Aerie. Temair knew Dathan must be suffering the cold, but he’d made not a sound of complaint. Petty comforts no longer held any importance in the face of the pain and corruption they’d found in the Aerie.

  “Princess.” The priest’s voice was a dry rustle of sound, devoid of joy or approval. Temair ached for the People of Aire, who were too wounded in spirit to allow themselves to even hope. “Have you chosen your Third Consort?”

  “I have,” Temair responded firmly, with a reassuring smile meant for the People of Aire, as well as for the young Aire Lord who stood facing her with his heart in his eyes.

  “And of what House do you choose, Princess?”

  “I choose my Third Consort of the Aerie.” The very aire was still and hushed, as though Emetra herself held her breath.

  “And whom do you choose?”

  “I choose Zevan, Lord of Aire, and Lord of the Aerie.” The priest blinked as she named Zevan, declaring him sole ruler of the Aerie. Zevan blinked, too, and Temair vowed that he would quickly learn his value, not only to her, but to the citizens of their Queendom.

  “What say you, Zevan, Lord of Aire, and Lord of the Aerie? Will you share your Aire with your princess? Will you comfort and defend her? Will you strive with her to build and protect a strong Queendom?”

  Zevan gave her a searching look as he answered. “I will do so.” His voice was soft and wondering. “I offer the Lady my body, my Aire, and my protection.” He gave a little smile. “They belong to her already.” Each word hit Temair’s heart like a blow, a vow made in defiance of a lifetime of broken trust.

  “Lady Ambassador?” The priest gestured Sorcha forward with a nervous, false smile. She gave Temair an approving smile, and sent Zevan a reassuring glance.

  The flame-haired princess faced Temair with two slender hematite cuffs gleaming dark gray on her palms.

  “Sister of my heart, fellow ruler and friend.” Her words were filled with affection, but more, with new respect. “Will you accept the bonds of mating as a symbol to all that you are bound to your people, the People of the Aerie?”

  Temair held out her wrists for Sorcha to enclose in the cuffs. “I will do so,” she answered, making her voice as firm and determined as she could, an unspoken vow resonating in her heart, a vow to heal these people, her people.

  Sorcha turned to Zevan, who watched her with silent awe. Temair knew he still didn’t really believe this was happening, that she’d chosen him. Sorcha smiled at him, and that timid flame of hope kindled in his eyes again, squeezing Temair’s heart.

  “Zevan, Lord of the Aerie, will you accept the bonds of mating as a symbol to all that the People of the Aerie are bound to the support and protection of their Queen?” Sorcha held up the heavy hematite bands, and the watery light of a pale sun cast rainbows across the surface as she slid them over the wrists Zevan instantly offered.

  As the heavy metal settled against his skin he gave a sigh that sounded a lot like relief and murmured in a fervent voice, “Yes, I will do so.”

  “And will you respect your fellow Consorts
, giving them the support and friendship they need and deserve, and allowing them to do the same for you?”

  Temair’s eyes filled. She knew without looking that Miach and Dathan would be watching Zevan, their eyes filled with support and the promise of friendship, just as she knew they must have approached Sorcha and asked her to keep this as a part of their marriage vows.

  “I will do so.” Zevan’s voice was faint with shock.

  Sorcha lifted her gaze to Temair’s first two Consorts. “And you?”

  Miach answered for them both, but it was obvious from the look on his face that Dathan was in total agreement. “We will do so, happily.”

  Zevan shook his head in apparent disbelief, and Dathan snaked a hand out to ruffle the younger man’s spiky hair. Temair laughed with pure joy, and even Zevan managed a small smile.

  Sorcha gestured, and Zevan laid both hands over the delicate hematite cuffs around Temair’s wrists. Temair responded by wrapping her fingers around his cuffs, and Sorcha immediately layered her hands over theirs and began the mysterious, musical chant that would forever join her with Zevan.

  When Sorcha raised her hands from theirs, the thick, gleaming bands around Zevan’s wrists were seamlessly sealed, a never-ending promise. Temair looked at her own wrists. The copper symbolizing her joining with Miach wrapped in delicate licks of rosy flame, wound through with the silver surges of Dathan’s silver. Zevan’s dark, rainbow-shifting hematite wound through the two softer metals, creating a deceptively delicate latticework connecting the three bands in an unbreakable bond.

  “By the four elements of Emetra,” Sorcha proclaimed, “by the blood of Zirah’s beasts, and by the soul of Turnin’s magic, you have bound yourselves together.” Magic shivered in her voice, trembled in the aire. Goosebumps rose on Zevan’s arms and neck, and Temair felt a chill shiver over her own skin. Dathan caught his breath, and Miach’s fyre flared, sending healing warmth over all four of them. That same, soul deep connection clicked into place, only this time it was bigger, stronger, and a low sigh passed through the few People of the Aerie in attendance. The priest caught his breath, and for the first time, something like hope entered his eyes. Once again, the future had altered. Temair was building a family, but she was also building a Queendom, and she’d never felt stronger or more capable of living up to her responsibilities.