Page 53 of Crown of the Dunes

“I don’t forgive you. Or her.” The voices in my skull chattered in agreement, despite the relative calm of my magic brought on by the open sky.

The air rustled as Kaius sighed heavily. “I’ve never forgiven myself either, and neither did she.”

I bared my teeth at the swell of something inside me—something soft that I desperately wanted to drown in fury and pain, but those outlets were lost to me right now as I grasped at the possibility of peace. It rose up in my throat to choke me.

I grit my teeth, but the words forced their way out. “Then why do I still miss her?”

The admission burned in my chest along with the realization that I now missed two people who had abused me for my power—one who tried to suppress it while the other wanted to use it for their own gain. While I felt Lord Alasdar’s absence like a tumor that had been excised, leaving a hole where I expected pain, my mother’s absence was a soul-deep ache.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at my father, but his tone was just as heartbreakingly gentle as I’m sure his eyes would have been. Just like they were when he was patching up an injured horse.

“The heart makes a sport of ignoring orders from the head. Although I have a feeling you already knew that, if the way you are with Keera is any indication.”

At that, my gaze did snap to him. He held the flask out to me once again with a wry smile. I grabbed it and took a long swallow, despite the fire the last swig had lit in my belly.

“That obvious, is it?” I grimaced.

“Your feelings have never been small or easily hidden.”

I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands as I handed the flask back, now sloshing with just an inch of liquid left in the bottom. Instead, I set my jaw and raised my face to the sky, hoping to let the heat of the sun on my skin burn away some of the frustration.

“It shouldn’t be so apparent, given that I surrendered to her and am supposed to be her prisoner. I’m the enemy.”

Kaius snorted. “Out on the plains today, I heard the crowd cheering for the Champion of the Desert. And I don’t think I’m so old as to need my hearing checked yet.”

“Keera is their Champion,” I sighed.

“You have as much claim to that title as she does, if I remember. Besides, I didn’t see anybody rushing to lock you up after you helped their queen protect them and defeat a tricrith.”

I glanced at him sidelong as he shrugged.

“I’m just a simple horsemaster, not a politician,” he continued, “But it seems like there might be a role for you here besides prisoner. You just have to figure out what it is.”

Chapter thirteen

Keera

My boots slapped on the stone steps, and I glared daggers at the back of a palace attendant who carried a bundle of my things in his arms. I didn’t own much beyond my sword and the clothes Neven had gifted me, but a shot of anger had run through me when I returned to my bedroom after the funeral to find half of them missing.

After a decade of having no more than the clothes on my back, I treasured every single scrap of cloth I was given.

I had cornered the next attendant who entered to pick up the trunk at the foot of my bed, only for him to stammer out an apology that he was just following the Archon of Trade, Torin’s orders and moving my things to the set of rooms in the tower.

The queen’s rooms.

“Torin has a point,” Aderyn pointed out as she trudged beside me.

I grunted. Even if the Archon of Trade gave sound advice from time to time, I would have to have a word with him about making personal decisions for me.

“Moving you into the royal quarters will help send a strong message about the transfer of power,” Aderyn continued, ignoring my discontent.

“I don’t understand how where I sleep affects whether people respect me as a queen or not,” I grumbled, although it was partially untrue. The lord of a clan always slept in the biggest tent at the center of the encampment, decorated with a flag of the clan’s emblem. The true source of my objection was the pit of unease lodged under my breastbone, like a rock stuck in my boot, poking me with every step.

I was not ready to be a queen.

I had never aspired to leadership, but now that I stared it down, I couldn’t turn away. The lonely exile buried in my chest grasped at it as concrete proof that I now belonged somewhere, and I couldn’t pry such a precious gift from her bruised and battered fingers.

I opened my mouth to fabricate another excuse but was cut off by a familiar figure in burgundy robes appearing before us on the landing.