Trial of Three Page 3

  Having wisely shifted back before returning from the stable, Shade’s wolf has somehow evicted me not only to a scrap of mattress but to the worst scrap of the lot. Trying to pull the blanket over my head to ward off the rays, I discover that this too has been coveted by the two-hundred-pound lump of lupine insolence.

  My skin prickling with scratches from tumbling in straw and hay, I prod the beast with my foot. Judging from the sky’s soft red cast, I still have a good hour before I need to rise—and I want to spend it in comfort.

  Shade’s ear twitches, the only sign he gives of being anything but a plush toy. He certainly does not condescend to open his eyes or—stars forbid—move.

  “Canine parasite.” I jab his rump harder with my foot. “If you don’t move over, I’m going into Tye’s room.”

  One yellow eye opens, blinking at me unhappily. With a slowness to match growing grass, the wolf climbs to his feet and lazily stretches his back paws. Then his front paws. Then his back, arching it up, up, up like a cat, then down, raising his tail toward the ceiling. Then—

  “Shade!”

  Giving me a long-suffering sigh, the wolf takes two steps away from the center of the bed before falling over on his side like a log.

  Accepting the compromise, I settle into the newly vacated space. Small but warm and smelling wonderfully of fur and forest. Shade’s wolf shuffles himself, curling perfectly against my back, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest soothing my thoughts. That is, until I feel something prickling my skin and brush the sheet to discover . . . “You’re shedding?” I rub stray bits of gray fur off my skin and accept that all hopes of sleep are now gone.

  I slip onto the floor, its stone cool and pleasantly rough beneath my bare soles, and take the few steps over to my dresser to pull free a uniform. Loose black breeches, a wine-colored tunic with a wide-open collar—the tailor still not having gotten around to taking in any of the shirts, even the smallest of which are too big on my small frame—and soft leather boots. I take extra care in wrapping a wide sash around my middle, the small touch transforming the uniform into a reasonably tasteful ensemble. I almost toss my nightshirt onto the bed, then remember Shade’s fur and think better of it. Of all the countless hazards I’d imagined of bonding with four elite fae warriors, dealing with shedding was somehow never one of them.

  When I start the search for my hairbrush, Shade hops down from the bed and out the window, his body a streak of gray fur.

  “What—?” I start to say, cutting off with a curse as I finally find my brush.

  On the floor. Its once gorgeously carved wooden handle now a tangle of splinters and teeth marks.

  Despite the early hour, River and Autumn are already in the common room, the male’s large body dominating the space without effort. Even sitting behind a worktable, his sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful, corded forearms, River’s simple movements as he turns sheets of paper are an exercise in control. When he lifts his gray eyes to me, my bones soften in spite of themselves.

  “Leralynn.” River rises, the wide sash around his middle tightening against chiseled muscles. “Good morning.”

  My name in River’s low voice echoes through me. Stupid. I’m stupid to let the male get under my skin. To harp on a simple kiss. To want him when he has other things on his mind. When we both do.

  “It’s good to have you back.” I take a step toward him and kiss his cheek, feeling his body go rigid at the touch of my lips. “What did Klarissa want yesterday?”

  “Aside from discussing our upcoming trial, nothing of consequence.” River pulls a chair out for me across the table, his clean, earthy scent wafting off him.

  Putting my hand on the chair’s back, I meet River’s gaze. Tell me. Let me in.

  The smooth angles of his face don’t budge, his set jaw giving me nothing.

  I try not to let the hurt spiraling through me make it to my face.

  “Good morning, Lera,” Autumn calls from the couch, balancing a book in one hand and chocolate pastry in the other. The female’s myriad silver-blond braids cascade down her delicate shoulders, one of which is bare beneath a wide-necked purple top that skims her bellybutton. “There is coffee if you hurry, before the rest of the vultures descend upon it.” She points to a tray on the side table, laden with coffee, tea, sweet breads, and fruit. The rich, bitter smell of roasted beans fills my nose as I pour the hot liquid into a delicate painted cup.

  “I fear Autumn has already laid claim to the chocolate bread,” River says, passing a scone to me. “I was smart enough not to argue.”

  “See, so you can be reasonable, rare as the occasion is,” Autumn says. “Speaking of reasonable, Klarissa told Kora last night that her quint is ready for the third trial. Which is horseshit.”

  Returning to his seat, River takes a sip of coffee, setting the cup down carefully to avoid the documents. “If Klarissa says the quint is ready, I imagine they are.” His gaze returns to his reading. “The female is practical to a fault. As I see no reason why she might wish Kora’s quint dead, her decree of readiness is likely genuine.”

  “I don’t like ‘likely,’” Autumn says, her body tight.

  River turns over a page. “Liking it is not a requirement.”

  I frown at the male. Being a jerk to me is one thing. Adding Autumn into the mix is unacceptable.

  “What are you reading?” I ask, laying my palm flat over his damn papers. “And don’t you dare answer ‘nothing of consequence.’”

  River looks from my hand to me and lifts a questioning brow. “A report from the council.” He waves at the text, his words calm. Conversational. “You are welcome to read for yourself, Leralynn. In short, the Night Guard attacked a mining village on Blaze Court’s northern border. Witnesses now claim to have seen a qoru in the mix.”

  “Witnesses.” Autumn wrinkles her nose. “They probably saw dark hounds and jumped to bards’ tales. If the qoru found an open corridor from Mors to Lunos, I don’t imagine they’d waste the passage on raiding a few miners.” Her brows pull together, that keen intelligence sparkling in her eyes. “Though if Klarissa wanted to get your attention, River, the mention of a qoru or two would not go amiss.”

  “Agreed.” River’s jaw tightens, something hidden and grim settling over his shoulders. A layer to this news that he refuses to share. “I’ll speak to her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say, careful not to phrase it as a question. River may be the commander of this quint, but I’m not about to stop fighting for him. For us. Catching his gaze, I hold it tightly, raising my chin. My heart quickens. “When you go to meet with Klarissa, I’m going with you.”

  “No need.” Breaking the gaze, River takes another sip of coffee. “Train. Your magic—your weaving—is the priority until both of the remaining trials are behind us. Shade’s magic is still recovering, so go with Coal.”

  Heat rises to my face, the fire inside me growing to match River’s ice. “I wish to come with you.” My voice is even. Hard. “I will somehow endeavor not to distract the adults.”

  Autumn snorts.

  “I don’t want me distracting you,” River says, eyes flashing. “You can involve yourself in politics and strategy after you master your powers. Learning control is a better use of your time than listening to me explain all the nuances of these reports—without which the conversation with Klarissa would make little sense to you.”

  Go play with Coal while the grownups talk. “If training my magic is so important, how come we’ve not attempted to work with your earth affinity?” I ask sweetly. “Not since before we even knew me to be a weaver.”

  River runs a hand through his hair. A tell. The prince is worried. About me? The reports? Something else? My body tightens, the not knowing like a scrape of nails on stone.

  “You cannot catch up on three centuries of political intrigue in three weeks, Leralynn,” he says finally. No apology, not even a hint of one, shining behind his gray eyes. “We all have our duties. Just now, yours is to harne
ss magic and mine is to confer with Klarissa on these reports she sent me.”

  My blood sizzles. “And if I insist, Prince?”

  Reaching across the table, River takes hold of my chin, his grip tightening when I attempt to jerk free. “Then I will order you to stand down, Leralynn,” he says without blinking an eye. “And you will obey.”

  5

  Lera

  I walk with Coal to the sparring ring in silence, barely noticing the gleaming white buildings and flowering vines, the manicured lawns and bustle of scholars and warriors going about their business. In my own way, I’ve become used to the Citadel—its toxic sweetness and echoing grandness.

  The conversation with River still burns in my chest, making bile crawl up my throat. It’s good that it’s Coal working with me today. Good that in a few minutes I’ll be knocked about so hard, I won’t have time to fume over River’s orders. Good that I’ll have somebody I can try to kill.

  “I heard,” Coal says, his voice a low rumble.

  “Heard what?” I focus on the sand in front of us, raked smooth by the Citadel’s invisible servants, the fence around it showing a fresh coat of white paint.

  The warrior taps his pointed ear. “Your argument with River. Everyone in the suite did.”

  Damn fae and their bloody hearing. And here I thought it was the early hour that kept the other males out of the common room. Fine. It wasn’t a secret. “River is a bastard.”

  “Yes.” Coal vaults over the fence while I opt for the gate. “But he’s also right.”

  My jaw tightens but I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m not going to discuss River with Coal, not when I can’t discuss Coal with Coal. The male saved my life back in the trial arena, plunging himself into his own nightmares until they overwhelmed him. Forcing his strange magic to lash out in agony and bridge the gap between us.

  It was Coal’s power flowing through my veins, my muscles, my heart, that let me fight off Malikai. And yet when the fight ended . . . Coal said nothing of it. Not when I asked. Not when I woke drenched in sweat, the echoes of Coal’s nightmares shaking my body. Certainly not when those nightmares flickered in his blue eyes, turning them a shade of purple.

  All my males have sacrificed so much for my sake—surrendering their dignity to wear the runes of Citadel initiates, suffering echoes of hell to grant me magic, offering their lives for mine—but discussing it? That’s a bridge too far.

  Pulling off the wide sash holding the uniform tunic against his body, Coal hangs the cloth on the waist-high rail. A moment later, he grabs the back of his shirt with thickly corded arms, drawing it over his head without disturbing a single hair in his tight blond bun. My mouth dries, my hands suddenly longing to touch Coal in a way that has nothing to do with combat. His bare torso is smooth and defined enough to make a sculptor jealous, the hard pectorals mirroring the carved squares of his abdomen. A thin pink line snakes around the curve of his left shoulder, the fading footprint of a whip’s tail that must have wrapped itself around his flesh last week. I know the view from the back is far worse, last week’s lashings joining a crisscrossed pattern of old scars from his days in Mors, nearly covering up the odd tattoo twining down his spine.

  My jaw tightens. As he dismissed my request this morning, River didn’t fight against Coal’s punishment either, not even when I begged the prince to keep Coal away from the whipping post. A commander and his underlings. Seeing that pink line on Coal’s skin, I realize just how sick of River’s attitude I’m getting.

  Coal’s piercing blue gaze follows the path of mine and hardens. “Stop worrying about my flesh and start worrying for your own.”

  Well, at least he didn’t guess the other reason I was gazing at his chest. Grabbing a practice sword off a rack, the male tosses it into my hands before selecting another weapon for himself. He swings the sword in a wide, lazy circle, even that casual movement a study in precision. “Speaking of which, Shade’s healing magic is still recovering, so whatever marks you collect this morning are yours to keep.”

  I twirl the wood, getting used to its weight. A month ago I’d never even held a weapon, and now the blade greets me like—well, it would be a lie to call it a friend, but perhaps an acquaintance. A translator. If normal beings use words and phrases to communicate, Coal prefers blows and parries. I tie my unruly auburn hair back into a knot and bring the practice blade to ready guard. “Save your breath, Coal. I’ve not been afraid of you for some time.”

  Coal’s eyes darken, flecks of purple flashing through the brilliant blue. “That is a mistake, mortal.” His low voice sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can respond—before I can think—the male swings his blade into my sword arm.

  I hear the strike before I feel it, a limb-numbing pain that explodes inside my flesh. I swallow a shout, only the threat of a repeat blow keeping my weapon in my hand. Bastard. Bloody sadistic bastard. Every thought of caressing Coal’s velvet muscles goes out of my mind in an instant. Blood simmers in my veins, pulsing through my newly forming welt. Through my head. My world narrows to Coal.

  His blade circles back, his muscles rippling beneath bare skin. The weapon twirls smartly in the air and snaps for my skull.

  Planting my foot in the sand, I thrust my blade up to parry the blow. The wooden swords meet deafeningly above my head, making my teeth clank together as my arms buckle beneath the strain. That attack—it too was harder than it needed to be.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, stepping away from the clash just before Coal’s sword smashes through both my defense and my head. “Are you insane?”

  “Insane?” Coal parrots, aiming for my knees. When I jump away to save myself from a shattered joint, the tip of his blade cruelly clips my shoulder. “Insane is a weaver playing with magic instead of controlling it. Insane is a mortal challenging the quint’s commander. Insane”—Coal circles me, his sword slicing a pattern of deadly blows—“is training the same way and expecting a different result.”

  I open my mouth but shut it again without speaking, the need to protect my head outweighing all thought.

  “Klarissa was right yesterday.” Coal spits the words, his muscles moving in smooth, deadly arcs. Clank. Clank. Clank. His eyes are dark. Merciless. “What we’ve been doing is child’s play that does no one any good. And I, for one, am done playing.”

  I say nothing. I’ve no breath to waste on such frivolities.

  Coal’s attack takes on a pattern, each blow making up in power for what it lacks in uniqueness. Low, middle, high. Low, middle, high. Clank, clank, clank.

  My breath hitches, my muscles burning as I struggle to keep up with the dance. Each parry, each step, a desperate bid to forestall the inevitable impact. Sweat soaks my hair and drips down to sting my eyes, my boots’ purchase on the sand more precarious with each lunge. I sidestep, bringing my sword up to block a high blow that I can’t even see but guess is coming.

  A harsh pain blossoms across my ribs instead. I gasp, the futility of it all cinching like a noose around my throat. Stars, Coal hasn’t done this to me since that first training day in the mortal world. My foot slips and I fall to one knee.

  The warrior doesn’t even slow down.

  Our blades crack above my head, pressing against each other. My lungs burn, my arms shaking with the effort of staving off his blade. “Stop it!”

  Coal kicks me, his foot sinking deep into my solar plexus.

  I fall back so hard that the world winks. The sword flies from my hand. With the next heartbeat, the male is atop me, his powerful thighs straddling my ribs, his weight an immovable stone atop my chest.

  “Better?” Coal demands, showing me his teeth.

  I buck, grasping mentally for my training, some part of me still aware that bridging to create space is my only route of escape. Except I can’t. Can’t lift my hips from the sand. Can’t shift Coal’s weight off me. Can’t move the wrists Coal now has pinned.

  The world darkens around its edges until nothing but Coal’s perfect
, chiseled face fills my sight. My pulse pounds as the male leans down, suffocatingly close. Stealing what little air remains to pull into my lungs. Coal’s metallic musk chokes me, his hands on my wrists so tight that my fingers go numb.

  “Stop.” I mean to shout the word, but it comes out as a mere puff of air. My eyes sting, my body screams at its restraints. I long to go limp, to stop fighting in hopes that darkness might claim me, stopping the torment. Except I can’t even do that, for the promise Coal once extracted from me. Never stop fighting.

  The male forces my wrists together above my head, transferring his hold until one of his large hands traps both of mine. Lifting off me for the briefest of moments, Coal forces me face-down on the sand. Just like . . .

  Just like I was in the trial. The fight with Malikai.

  Nausea and panic race through me as I follow the realization to its terrifying conclusion. If Coal is recreating my trial fight, then we are in act two of that horrid play. And the final act, the one still to come, is me drawing on Coal’s magic to save my life.

  I twist my head, desperately searching out his face. My blood chills when I find it. Coal’s skin is ashen, his eyes a deep purple-blue, haunted with nightmares. I might be on the sand just now, flopping like a dying fish, but Coal—he is in a Mors dungeon, chained and tormented for the qoru’s amusement.

  “Stop, Coal,” I scream. A demand this time, not a plea. “Stop. Now. For both our sakes.”

  “Make me.” Coal pokes my ribs hard, each jab shooting bolts of pain through my body. “Fight back, mortal. With everything you have.” Coal gasps. “Fight with everything I have.”

  The sound of Coal’s strangled gasp shatters something inside me, and like hawks flying through an open window, images invade my mind. A cold, gray room. Restraints. The smell of blood and pain that I know are Coal’s. A heartbeat later, power flows into me, spreading through my body. Waking it.