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DAWN WOKE HER, the swift light touch of sun upon her eyelids, followed by the unexpected trill of birdsong outside an open window. Gentle. Persistent. Inexorable.
Ilse lay with her eyes closed, taking in each detail of this new day—the linen sheets entangled around her legs, the scent of her own perfume, of rosewater mixed with sweat and the sharper scent of sex, and the fainter ones of incense and beeswax. The familiar weight of Raul’s arm over her hip. The still unfamiliar roughness of his unshaven cheek against her back.
A warm breeze drifted through the window, carrying with it the muted noise of the city beyond the palace grounds. Duenne. At last.
She shook with silent laughter. She had come to Duenne ten months ago. And yet it was not until today that she had a sense of completion, as if the coronation and wedding signaled the end to some long-delayed endeavor.
Raul stirred. His hand slipped along her leg and he murmured something truly salacious. Ilse’s breath caught in a sudden access of desire, even as she stifled more laughter. So much had changed. So much had not.
She slid from his embrace and sat up, the better to indulge herself and stare besottedly at his sleeping face. His dark hair, shorn by the physicians and which he continued to wear in that style, was like a velvet hood over his skull. Silver shimmered among the blue-black. Scars ran in a pale network over his neck, chest, and shoulders—a remnant of his last battle with Markus Khandarr. He was still beautiful in her eyes, but she could not ignore the signs of age, of anxiety. Nor the other signs of that last battle. A shadow of beard painted his cheeks and chin, dark limned with silver. The silken cloud over his chest and belly, between his legs. Not quite a grown man’s, nor yet the sign of youth.
Whatever Khandarr intended, Raul Kosenmark would never return to his childhood, nor would he leap beyond the years to become a man like any other. He would be forever himself.
In the past few moments, the sun had lifted a few degrees. Now it poured through the openwork shutters, casting a lattice of shadows over Raul’s face. He wrinkled his nose, as if the light tickled, then breathed out a sigh.
My beloved, my king.
He had wanted kingship, had thrust it away because he feared his own ambitions. At the last, he had accepted. Emma Iani believed the victory was hers. But in the end the victory was Veraene’s, the decision Raul’s.
They had both made their choices. More and more would come, until each minute turning of each day revealed itself in the grander pattern of a life, of lives, of history.
It was this quote from Tanja Duhr that drove her from bed. Ilse washed her face in the waiting bowl of water. (Warmed with magic, scented with herbs.) By the king’s and queen’s order, given the night before, no attendant waited to help her dress. Someone had left a gown and robe waiting for her. She dressed in them and headed toward the outer chamber.
The doors swung open—as if impelled by magic, she thought. Three attendants and six guards waited outside. All of them sank into deep bows.
“Your Majesty.”
I am queen, she thought. Queen of Veraene. Her pulse beat impossibly fast. If nothing else convinced her, this one gesture did.
“I would walk,” she said at last. “Let the king know where I have gone.”
She did not need to give her destination—indeed, she did not know it yet—but she felt certain that Raul would receive word when he needed it. She set off in a flutter of robes. A moment later she heard the echo of booted feet.
They were her guards, charged with the queen’s safety.
I could order them away.
Or not. It might be a custom beyond her power, or Raul’s, to keep the guards away from Veraene’s kings and queens.
Gradually her pace slowed, as did her pulse. It was not fair for her to take out her whims on those charged to protect her. She would have to accustom herself to constant vigilance and the presence of watchers, observers, gossips, and minions.
She blew out a breath. (And wondered if someone watched and noted her behavior.)
I shall go mad if I worry about who sees what.
At the same time, she could not ignore it.
Ilse ran a hand over her face. No smile, not yet. But she knew at last where in all of Duenne’s palace she wished to go.
* * *
MIDMORNING. THE SUN poured down from the cloudless sky, inundating the city and its palace. Already heat shimmered from the stonework, reflected from the clouds of dust stirred by traffic in the streets, until the city appeared to float upon a golden haze.
Ilse sat tucked beneath an overhanging ledge, on an almost-cool patch of stone, with the shade shrinking about her. The city of Duenne spread out from her feet. South. East. West. Through the haze of dust and sunlight, she could make out the broad Gallenz River as it circled around the older districts. She could mark the progress of history by the various walls, the different colors of brick and stone, the shape of the buildings.
“Good morning, my queen.”
Raul dropped onto the sun-warmed bricks beside her. He wore a dull-brown tunic and trousers and was barefoot. He was smiling, a small smile that radiated contentment.
