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Erida dismissed her ladies upon their return to the royal apartments. They skittered off like insects, disappearing into the palace without question. The sight of their bloodstained queen was enough to send even the boldest running.
Only Taristan remained, guiding her into the sitting room, a round chamber with windows looking out over the bay. The light was still odd, slanting orange across the floor, as if a wildfire burned somewhere close. Erida stared at the carpets, inspecting the complex designs with sudden intensity. She traced each thread, blue and gold and pink, forming diamond patterns and scrollwork. It was easier than looking at her own hands, her fingernails crusted in blood, the sleeves of her dress stained red.
Water sloshed somewhere, and Taristan knelt before her seat, a washcloth and a basin of water at his side. He set to his work with steady, slow motion, careful not to startle the Queen. Her breath came in fits and starts, the iron tang still hanging in the air.
“The first kill is hardest,” he murmured, lifting one of her hands. The cloth dragged along her skin, turning red as her fleshwent white again. “It stays with you.”
Erida turned her focus from the carpet to the water. It splashed, going the color of rust every time he dipped the cloth. The blood of a princess was like any other, indistinguishable from the lowest peasant or common rat. She saw Marguerite’s face in the water, eyes blank, mouth wide, blond hair splayed out like a godly halo.The girl was only fifteen.
Erida was reminded of the tent on the battlefield, when she wiped the blood from Taristan’s flesh. Then it was Prince Orleon she washed away. Now his sister swirled scarlet in the water.
She swallowed back a sour taste. “Who was yours?” she murmured.
Taristan continued cleaning her hand, tracing every line of her palm.
“Another port orphan. Bigger than me, too slow to steal like I could. Thought he could beat me into giving over my dinner.” His face tightened, a line furrowed across his forehead. Erida saw the memory in him, still a wound. “He was wrong.”
She curled a finger, brushing it along his hand. “How old were you?”
“Seven,” he spat. “I used a stone.”
A far cry from a dagger in the hall of a king.Her eyes stung and her vision swam, not from nausea, but from unshed tears. She blinked fiercely, trying to force them away. She worried her lip, nearly drawing blood. Sensation returned, the numbness fading from her limbs, the buzzing in her ears fading away.What have I done?
Without thought or concern for the blood, Taristan’s handclosed on hers, gripping tightly. She gripped back, their bones pressing together. She ached for the press of his lips, for the burn of his touch.
“Don’t apologize for doing what you must,” he breathed, ferocious. Her heart clenched, feeling the dagger in her hand again, Marguerite’s life bleeding out between her fingers. “This world will eat you if given the chance.”
His other hand went to her face, turning Erida to look at him. Not the carpet, not the basin. Not her own wretched fingers painted with slaughter. She leaned into his grasp, holding his gaze, searching his eyes.
There was only the endless black. Only Taristan kneeling before her, reverent as a priest.
“You’re strong, Erida. But strong as you are, you are the most appetizing piece of meat in all the realm right now.” The concern on his face was foreign, a puzzle. Erida had never seen it before. “The wolves will come.”
“One wolf already has,” she said, leaning to brace her forehead against his. His skin flamed and his eyes flickered, lids growing heavy. “Will you devour me too?”
The breath he drew in sounded like a snarl. It shuddered through her, from skull to toes.
“Like this?” she whispered, barely audible.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. All the world seemed to shrink.
“Like this,” he answered.
His lips were feverish and she shivered against them, sweat beading along her spine again. The fur fell from her shoulders, theblood forgotten. Something roared in her belly, taking hold, guiding her fingers as they latched in his hair and beneath his tunic. His own were already on her bare collarbone, her gown tugged over one shoulder, his lips trailing a path from her mouth to neck.
Every touch blazed, until Erida felt burned from the inside out. She never wanted it to stop.
As they lay together, limbs entwined, watching the bloody sunset across the windows of the Queen’s bedchamber, Erida waited for the infernal red wizard to burst through the door. But he was still shut up on the Library Isle, transfixed by the endless scrolls.
Good riddance,Erida thought, running a hand over now-familiar ground. Pale skin, white veins, a muscular chest sculpted by years of battle and toil. There were many scars, knobbled and raised, but none to match the veins. She traced the branches, torturous lightning in Taristan’s skin, spiderwebbing over his flesh. She had never seen anything like it, not even in her mother, who’d died of a wasting disease, reduced to barely bones before the end. This was something else. And it was spreading. She saw it, slowly but surely, the bone white creeping under his skin.
“I don’t know what it is,” Taristan said in a hollow voice, his eyes on the gilded ceiling above them. “Why I look like this now.”
Erida sat up sharply, propping herself against the bed with her elbows. “It—He never told you?” she said, perplexed.
Her consort stretched out next to her, his torso exposed by the burgundy silk blankets tangled around his waist. He lay flat on his back, one hand tucked behind his head. The veins stood out on his arm too, weaving around the lean muscles. Though thecourt of the Madrentine king did not suit Taristan, the king’s bed certainly did.
“What Waits doesn’t speak the way mortals do,” he said. His face tightened. “There are no words, only visions. And feelings.”
