Nitesh

by JennaKay Francis

Overview

Thalassa, a sea-witch, is captured when the warlord Rhaeven sends his troops to her small village. After the hard life she's already lived, she's resigned to her fate. Married at a young age to an abusive man she doesn't love, she's secretly glad to see her husband die. Now, pregnant, enslaved and stricken with a deadly disease, she only waits for her own death to release her from the torment that is life.

Elfin Crown Prince of Diraenia, Terran, must choose a mate and produce an heir before his thirtieth birthday or risk forfeiting the crown to his youngest brother Unwin. Time is running out. Terran is twenty-nine, his fiancee is dead, and he believes Unwin responsible despite the lack of proof. To make matters worse, Terran's other brother Sinclair has disappeared, and Terran fears the worst.

Bothered by a strange, haunting beat of drums no one can hear but Terran, the Crown Prince's thoughts continually turn to a brief encounter he shared with a young woman from Zal. For three days, he'd walked her back to her village, delivering her to her pre-ordained life there. For three days, he fell in love with a woman who could never be his. When he returned to his own palace, he'd seen the emptiness and despair of his own life.

The drums call to Terran until he can longer deny his own need to revisit the village where he'd fallen in love. If he sees Thalassa one last time, can he make himself let go?

Product Details

BN ID:	2940166417503
Publisher:	Writers Exchange E-Publishing
Publication date:	02/18/2022
Sold by:	Draft2Digital
Format:	eBook
File size:	8 MB

About the Author

JennaKay Francis has been writing since she was 12 years old. She has written in many different genres - science fiction, childrens, mainstream, poetry - but truly found her voice and love in fantasy. She writes fantasy adventure, fantasy romance, dark fantasy and children's picture books.

Her first official publication was a children's poem that was the Grand Prize winner in a contest sponsored by Half-Price Books. Her prize was a $500.00 gift certificate at Half Price Books: something she took great delight in spending. She has been published in several local newsletters, several print magazines, as well as numerous online magazines in both fiction and non-fiction.

You can find a listing of her books on her homepage at http://www.jennakayfrancis.com.

Jenna lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, their three delightful children, two wild cats, a chihuahua that thinks he's really a dog, one rat, one anole and a several tanks of tropical fish, frogs and newts. Oh, yeah, and a forest full of elves, fairies and magic.

JennaKay is also Writers Exchange's Senior editor.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

"Bind and brand them."

The words sent a chill racing through Thalassa, and a murmur of despair through the long line of war captives. Thalassa's gaze traveled over those around her. A sorry lot they were, though not all were her countrymen. The dark-haired Diraenians and Asurians stood out amongst her people, the pale-skinned, blond-haired Zals. Most of the captives were under-nourished, many were injured. All showed signs of their long weeks on the road. Resignation lay heavy on their battered and bruised faces, deep within pitiful eyes that held no hope. Their existence had come to a shattering conclusion. To the victor go the spoils, Thalassa thought bitterly. We have all become nothing more. Nothing more than slaves, indentured to those who had maimed and scarred the countryside, claiming it as their own. At twenty years of age, that wasn't much of a future. If she had a future at all. She shuddered and returned her gaze to the heavily muscled man at the front of the line.

He yanked the first person forward, a young boy of no more than eighteen, with the dark hair and eyes of a Diraenian. The lad's face was white, his terror obvious. Thalassa watched as the guard wrapped the boy's arms about a thick post sunk deep into the muddy ground. The burly man seemed to take great pleasure in making the ties as tight as possible, as if he expected the lean youth to suddenly fight back. Thalassa grimaced in anger. For a moment, the lad's gaze met hers, then he closed his eyes and hung his head.

The captive's back was bared, exposing a thin torso. Thalassa could see his ribs with every gasping breath he took. Quickly, she reached out tohim with her magic to shield him from pain, as another man approached with a red-hot metal brand. He pressed the brand against the boy's left shoulder, held for a moment, then released. Though the lad stiffened, he did not cry out in pain. Still, as cold water was poured across the brand, he sagged against the wood. The brander frowned in confusion, no doubt used to hearing screams of agony at his touch. He leaned forward to peer into the boy's face, then grunted, shrugged and tramped back to the fire pit to reheat the iron. It was only then that Thalassa eased the youth into unconsciousness, a small sigh of fatigue escaping her.

The guard untied the boy, letting him collapse in the mud. Another guard dragged him away, while the next person was secured in his place. With each one, Thalassa took on their pain, drew it away from them, then allowed them to fall into a deep, healing sleep. She was aware of the thick silence that had descended, of the strained and confused looks on the guards' faces. They were exhibiting their own fear now, no doubt puzzled at this strange turn of events. Thalassa controlled her smile of satisfaction, quietly continuing to move to the back of the line, one by one. She would be the last.

Finally, it was her turn. She faced the post with head high, though her heart hammered. She wasn't sure if she had the strength left to control her own pain. As her arms were secured, she closed her eyes, and reached deep within herself for what small magic she yet held. Cold air rushed over her back as her tunic was pulled away. Footfalls behind her warned her of the brander's approach, and she stiffened, waiting. Though she felt the press of the metal against her skin, she managed to ward off the pain of the burn, then sighed with relief as the pressure eased.

She was about to allow herself to sleep, when sudden, severe pain ripped through her face. For a moment her mind whirled with confusion, then her eyes snapped open, and a gasp escaped her. The brander stepped back, holding a smaller iron, a leering smile on his face. Thalassa stared at the iron in wide-eyed disbelief--a pentagram. The mark of magic; it was forever seared onto her left cheek, for the world to see. Agony brought tears to her eyes, and, try as she might, she could not summon the magic to ease her pain.

Another man took the brander's place. He was a sturdily-built man, with muscles that rippled beneath his white linen shirt. He tipped her head back, using one long, elegant finger. His dark eyes held hers as he extended his other hand toward some unseen person. A second later, he gently rubbed a cooling salve into the brand on her cheek.

"You have a strong gift to be able to shield all of these people," he said quietly. "Mind how you use that gift, sea-woman."

Thalassa trembled under his touch, realizing he had been watching her. Still, she would not give in to the command he seemed to demand. "My name is Thalassa," she said, her voice cold and aloof, "not sea-woman."

The man's eyebrows raised in surprise, and a small smile quirked his full lips. "Magic and spirit," he said. "That combination could get you killed."

"What care I? My soul died when my countrymen did," Thalassa told him. "There is only this shell left."

His gaze traveled to her swollen belly. "And the child. Has the child's soul also died?"

Thalassa trembled, momentarily overwhelmed with emotion. The child. This child created from an act of rape, not love, though the father had been her own husband. At first, she had hated the child as much as she had hated her husband, but over the last eight months she had come to accept it. Love was not yet in the offering.

"The child is not mine," she said.

The man again was surprised, and he studied her for a long moment. His gaze traveled down her neck, lingered a moment on the white skin of her breasts, and finally moved to her wrist. He touched lightly at the red streak that lay halfway between wrist and elbow.

"You have the Sickness," he said quietly.

"Aye," Thalassa whispered smugly. "So your brand will do no good. I will be dead before I can serve you and your house."

The man studied her a long moment, his finger continuing to gently stroke her arm. It sent chills racing through her, and she could not suppress her tremble. A small smile touched at his lips, though there was no warmth in it. "Cut her loose," he instructed the guards, "and take her to Ilsa." He looked back at Thalassa. "I will send for you later."

Thalassa watched him stride away, noticing the confident way he walked, the head held high, as long, dark tresses drifted in the breeze. There was no doubt who was in control of this camp. The thought sent a rage bubbling through her. He had been the one to order the branding; it was his voice, cool and unemotional, that had promised pain to men, women, and children alike. And a life of servitude.

Her bonds were untied and she was pulled away from the post. Her tunic, torn at the shoulders, fell about her waist, exposing her breasts. Though both guards leered, neither touched her. Obviously, they weren't going to incur the wrath of their lord. She now belonged to him.

***

Elfin Crown Prince Terran drew a long slow breath and clutched his hands behind his back. He regarded the man before him with heavy determination in his dark eyes. "No, father," he said firmly, "I will not wed simply to produce an heir."

King Liam took a long pull on his wine, before looking up at his eldest son. "Elise has been gone for almost one year now. It is time you stopped mourning her death."

"It has only been eight months, father," Terran replied, his voice tight. "Still, I do not chase after ghosts. However, I see no point in placing another woman in jeopardy simply for the sake of producing an heir to the throne."

"No point?" The king rose, his blue and silver robes swirling about his muscular frame. "Terran, if you do not produce an heir by your thirtieth birthday, the crown will forfeit to your brother. You know that!"

Terran turned away, unwilling to let his father see the anger that filled his soul, a consuming anger that was evident in the tightened jaw line and the scowl. "What good will it do me to wed and produce a child, father? Unwin will only kill the woman, and the child, as well."

"Stop it!" Liam sputtered. "You have no proof that Unwin had anything to do with Elise's death. Why would he do such a thing? He's your brother!"

"You said it yourself, father. Today is my twenty-ninth birthday. If I don't produce an heir by year's end, the crown forfeits to Unwin. I see precious little that I can do to stop it. I would have to meet, marry, and mate in the next two months. I do not believe that is palatable, or even possible." He frowned and strode to the open mullioned window, his attention diverted. "What is that infernal drumming?"

"Drumming?" Liam joined his son at the window. After a moment, he shook his grayed head. "I hear nothing, but, then, that's to be expected at my age."

Terran listened a moment longer, then looked back at his father with a small, grim smile. "And don't try to ply me with that getting-old routine. You're as fit as they come."

The king smiled. "Will you at least consider meeting with Princess Sylvia?"

"When will she be arriving?" Terran asked, resignation evident in his voice.

Liam looked hurt. "Would I invite her for a visit without your consent?"

"When?" Terran pressed.

"In a fortnight," the king answered with a soft chuckle. He reached out to squeeze Terran's shoulder affectionately. "Her father insisted, and she is a good prospect, Terran. She's quite beautiful from what I've heard."

"Beauty does not equate love, father," Terran replied, then cocked his head again at the sound of the drums beating in the distance. "I'll meet with the princess, then. Just be quite sure to post extra guards around her quarters. We certainly don't need strained relations with Asuria."

The King stiffened at the word. "Our relations with Asuria are always in question, Terran. Perhaps this marriage will put some ease into it."

Terran grimaced at his father's words. "Marriage?" he muttered, then strode toward the door of his father's study. "I'm going riding. I shall return later."

"How much later?"

Terran tossed his father a smile. "In time for the princess, father, don't worry." He slipped out the door and hurried down the hallway, the drums pounding in rhythm with his heart.

Chapter Two

Thalassa moaned and reached up to touch at the burn on her cheek. A cool hand stayed the motion.

"Nah, girlie, don't touch at it," a voice gravelly with age warned.

Thalassa opened her eyes. An old woman with thin white hair sat on a bentwood stool beside the bed. Her blue eyes, cloudy with cataracts, appraised Thalassa thoughtfully. Thalassa guessed she was Ilsa, the one the man in the courtyard had mentioned.

"What ya did out there, for the others, was nice, but it was stupid. Why did ya go showing off your magic like that? 'ere? In front of these people?"

Thalassa winced under the harsh words. "I did only what my conscience bade me to do," she replied. "I could not let them suffer when I had the means to prevent it."

The old woman sighed. "Aye, I can feel the empathy within ya. Your gift is strong. But its use was for naught. Suffering is the way of life 'ere, thanks to 'im."

"To who? That lord?"

"Aye, and 'is brother."

Thalassa pondered a moment on the woman's words. She remembered the gentleness of the man's touch as he had applied the salve. How could one be merciless one moment, then so tender the next? She sighed and pulled to a sitting position on the narrow bed. Her gaze flicked about the small room. It was not unlike those she had grown up in--dirt floor, uneven wooden walls stuffed with moss, a small hearthless fireplace, and a thatched roof overhead. The cottage smelled of weak soup and stale bread, no doubt the only foodstuffs she would be eating now. She brought her gaze back to the old woman.

"What are their names? The brothers?"

"The one in the yard is called Lord Adrick. 'is brother, the holder of this land, is called Rhaeven."

"Rhaeven? That's an odd name for a man."

"Daren't ya let 'im hear ya say that, girlie. He's as crafty as a raven is, mind ya. As wily and evil, as well. Isn't a thing done 'ere that isn't by 'is command. And all who knows 'im, follows that command without question."

"Even his own brother?"

The old woman snorted. "Don't be taken in by Adrick's manner. 'e's a fox, that one is. Smooth and beautiful, but 'e'll rip ya to shreds should ya step the wrong way." She rose from her chair, taking the small tin plate she held with her.

Thalassa touched gently at her burned cheek. Her fingers came away sticky with some foul-smelling salve. She grimaced and wiped the medicine on the ragged bed covering.

"Lord Adrick said I would be serving him. In what way?"

The woman shrugged, picking up a clean bowl. She ladled some soup from the iron pot hung over the flame. "'horing for 'im most likely." She sat the bowl down on the small wooden table, then motioned Thalassa near. "Come an' eat. Ya'll not be working til the babe is born, at any rate."

Thalassa swallowed her disgust, and rose unsteadily. One hand touched lightly at her pregnant belly. "And how will he keep me from becoming like this again?" she asked.

Ilsa grunted. "He has 'is ways, girlie. But so do I. We'll talk more when it becomes a problem."

"And the child? What will Rhaeven do with this child?"

The old woman regarded Thalassa's belly. "Most likely sell it, if'n it's a boy. If'n it's a girl...dunno. Meybe kill it."

Thalassa caught at her breath in horror. For the first time since carrying this child, she felt protective of it. Both hands covered her stomach, her fingers splayed as if to encompass the entire thing.

"No!" she whispered. "Not just because it's a girl."

"No use for a girl child," Ilsa retorted. "A boy child can bring money, but a girl child brings only costs." She plunked a piece of hard bread down next to the bowl. "Eat."

Thalassa sank down on the chair, numb with despair. The red streak on her arm shone like a beacon against her chalk-white skin. She stared at it, willing its course upwards towards her heart. She would rather that both she and the child die of the Sickness. She pushed the food away, and laid her head on her arms on the table.

"What's the point of eating, Ilsa? It will only prolong my death."

Ilsa was quiet for a long moment, though she rustled about the room. Finally, she sat down at the table. Thalassa looked up at the sound of stones clicking together. Ilsa held a small leather bag, which she shook gently. Finally, she held it out to Thalassa.

"Draw ya a stone," she instructed.

Thalassa hesitated, then reached into the bag and felt of the small, cool stones therein. She touched each, then drew out one, which she handed to Ilsa. The old woman took the stone, peered closely at it, then looked up with surprise.

"Parjuk," she said quietly. "The Rune of Travel, of new beginnings, new directions."

"Figures," Thalassa mumbled. "My new life as whore to a brutal warlord." The words carved deep into her soul, left her weak and sick. She pushed away from the table and returned to the bed, where she sagged, giving over to the tears she had not let herself cry for so many days.

***

Terran laid the floral bouquet upon the grave, and sat back on his heels. The setting sun warmed the flowers, letting loose their sweet scent. Sunribbons, Elise's favorite. They were to be the flower of decoration used at the wedding. The thought brought a sad smile to Terran's lips. He had wanted to marry in the winter, when the snow lay deep, crisp and white about the lands. Elise had insisted on waiting until spring, when Sunribbons were in full bloom. Terran had relented, though he had ached to hold this woman as his wife. He never got the chance.

An accident, he'd been told. A case of bad timing and ill luck. He doubted it. Elise had been killed by a stray arrow while out riding, an arrow supposedly intended for a stag that had bounded across her path. The hunting party had been sent out by Unwin, to procure meat for a banquet to announce the arrival of yet another of his bastard children. How many did that make? Five? Six? Terran had lost count. Not that it mattered. It took only one, one strong boy, to be named as heir to the throne. This latest birth, a boy now eight months old, seemed to be the chosen. He was a stocky lad, gregarious and outgoing even at his tender age. His dark eyes held a glint of mischief, and despite his resolve to distance himself from his brother's brood, Terran found the boy quite endearing. He hoped that Unwin would do the moral thing and marry the lad's mother.

A cool breeze ruffled Terran's dark locks, and he turned his face east. Unexpected memories surfaced with a rush. The vision of a woman, as pale complexioned as he was dark, rose to haunt him. Guilt tore him away from Elise's grave, and he returned to his horse. Why had he suddenly thought of her? It had been months since he had seen her.

He shook his head, but could not dislodge the tormented thoughts. He had ridden out that night of Elise's funeral, shattered in heart and spirit. Days of endless wandering had taken him to a small village near the border of Zal. He had sought comfort in bottles of wine, not even good wine at that. Drunk, and exhausted from lack of sleep, he had roamed the streets of the village, searching for something to dull his grief. He had found it in the pale woman.

Terran stumbled into the dark alley, tears nearly blinding him. He wanted only to be gone from this place, to continue his search for peace. But there was no outlet on this road; it ended at a cold, stone wall. It seemed fitting that he should find himself in the dark, with no path forward. He turned, a soft sob escaping him, and nearly tripped over a young woman huddled in the corner.

She looked up at him, enveloped in a stray beam of moonlight. He could see the terror in her pale eyes, made worse by the weapon hung at his side. He stepped back, holding his hands before him.

"Do not fear me, M'Lady," he said softly. "I will bring you no harm."

"M'Lady?" she whispered, then actually laughed. It was a laughter filled with despair and resignation. "I am no lady, M'Lord."

He studied her a moment, taking in the pale skin, the white-blonde hair. "You are Zal. You are far from home."

"Not far enough, it would seem," she replied quietly.

"May I sit?"

She seemed startled that he would ask, and nodded. He settled down near her, wondering what had brought her to this place, to this dark alley. She appraised him thoughtfully.

"What brings a man of your wealth to a place such as this?" she finally asked.

Terran glanced down at his clothing. "Escape," he whispered.

"Aye," she replied her voice as soft. "Escape I know much of." She brought her gaze to meet his. "But it is only a respite from reality, is it not? We must both return."

"And what do you return to, M'Lady?"

She paused, then sighed. "To a waiting husband, to a life planned for me, no matter the plans I may have dreamed for myself."

"I know well of destiny," Terran said, his heart heavy. He forced a smile to his face. "Perhaps I can accompany you back home. For a time, let us write our own future."

She smiled at him. "I would like that, M'Lord."

Three days he had spent with the woman, as he accompanied her back toward her village. They talked, laughed, teased and flirted with each other. There was no denying the attraction, though both tried to suppress it. But on that last night, before he would bid her goodbye, they fell into each other's arms.

Terran remembered it all too well. It tormented him with a strange mixture of joy and guilt. She was gone when he woke the next morning, and he could not bring himself to go into her village and witness her marriage to another. Broken-hearted yet again, he had made his way home to resume the life he knew he must.

So, why now was she in his thoughts again? He had tried to purge the memories, tried to erase her image from his mind, her name from his soul. Thalassa. It was a beautiful name, full of the sea and the wind. Thalassa. It sang to him, and he whispered it aloud, letting his tongue caress the word, as his hands had caressed her body. He wondered how she was, if she had reconciled herself to her husband, her life. She would probably be with child by now. He smiled, trying to picture a protruding belly on such a small stature. She would be beautiful.

With another shake of his head, he swung into the saddle and turned his horse's head east. He would ride out just a bit, just to the top of the hills where he could look out over the lands, and imagine the sea in the distance.

Chapter Three

Lord Adrick sent for Thalassa the next morning. Ilsa accompanied her as far as the front gates of the modest Keep. There she left Thalassa, with nothing more than a brief squeeze of the hand.

Thalassa wiped sweaty palms against the cotton shift she now wore, and walked slowly through the gates. The two guards stationed in the alcove tossed her a cursory glance, and went back to their business, which didn't appear to be much more than a game of Sticks. Thalassa drew a deep breath, and stepped into the inner courtyard of the Keep.

Mid-morning sun shone down on a smooth grass lawn, coaxed fragrance from the roses lining the meandering path, and sparkled on the water tinkling quietly from several fountains. Thalassa felt as if she had entered a dream. She glanced back over her shoulder at the drab, brown buildings beyond the Keep's gates. Such was life, she mused. One either had it all, or one had nothing.

"Welcome."

The voice brought Thalassa around with a gasp. Lord Adrick stood on the path before her. He was dressed in fine, blue silks that glowed in the sunshine. His dark hair had been smoothed back and tied with a simple bit of leather. Thalassa studied him thoughtfully, noticing the thin lips, the narrowed eyes, the high, jutting cheekbones. He was Asurian, that was certain. The name left the taste of bile at the back of her throat.

"Is this how you greet your lord?" Adrick asked, his voice cold and aloof.

"And just how should I greet you?" Thalassa retorted, unable to keep the contempt from her words.

Anger flitted across Adrick's face. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist in a painful hold. He bent her arm back toward her chest, applying pressure, until her knees buckled.

"How?" he asked. "On your knees. Subserviant. Slave to master."

Thalassa refused to look up at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the crushed stone she now knelt on, that drew blood from her knees. The action seemed to anger Adrick further. He hunkered down before her, then reached back to take a handful of her hair. He pulled, forcing her face to tilt up towards his, until their gazes met.

For a long moment, he studied her, his eyes cold and angry. Then, without warning, he brought his lips to meet hers in a crushing kiss. Startled, Thalassa tried to pull away. The movement caught Adrick off guard and off balance. He toppled toward her, and she fell backward onto the rocks, his body atop hers.

His weight against her pregnant belly drove the air from her lungs, and she pushed against him with both hands. Infuriated, he grasped her wrists and pressed them against the ground, still not moving his position from atop her.

"If you wish to kill the child," Thalassa managed, "there are easier ways."

"Are there? Tell me of them, then."

The words drove panic and hurt into Thalassa's soul, but she tried to keep it from showing in her eyes. "You could kill me," she said tightly.

"I could," he agreed, then released one of her wrists to trace his finger along her cheek and jaw. "But where is the fun in that for me?"

"Then that's what I am to be to you?" Thalassa asked, trying to pull in a breath. "A plaything?"

"What did you expect? You're nothing but a sea-woman. Good for gutting fish and carnal pleasure." He chuckled and nipped lightly at her neck. "Not necessarily in that order, of course."

Thalassa tried to shift to a different position, tried to get some air back into her impoverished lungs, but could not. She could feel the baby moving in its own effort to escape the crushing weight of the man.

"Adrick? Will you bed her here, in the gardens?"

Thalassa gasped at the deep voice that posed the question. She moved her head to peer over Adrick's shoulder. A tall, heavily-muscled man stood in the path, hands on hips. He was a copy of Adrick, though much more solidly built. His dark gaze appraised her with first question, then appreciation, as Adrick rolled off her.

She took in great, gasping breaths of air, her head spinning. Adrick grinned up at his older brother.

"Now that would be a thought, Rhaeven," he said. "I do so love an audience."

"You're depraved, Adrick," Rhaeven retorted with a grimace of disgust. He extended his hand to Thalassa. "Stand. Your position is very unbecoming in your condition."

Thalassa took his hand warily, and allowed him to help her to her feet. Adrick frowned, though he made no move to stand.

"I suppose you'll be wanting first bedding rights with her," he said sullenly.

"She is in no position to give rights to anyone at the moment," Rhaeven replied, his gaze locked on Thalassa's face. "The child is due when?"

"In three months time," she lied.

Surprise flitted through Rhaeven's dark eyes. "Three months time?" he repeated. "It will be a large child."

Thalassa remained quiet, knowing he had read through her deceit. She wondered if she would pay for the lie later. Rhaeven glanced at his brother.

"Do get up," he said. "You're in that position enough as it is, with all of your drink." He tucked Thalassa's arm under his, and pulled her alongside him. "I think we need to get better acquainted."

Thalassa looked back at Adrick as he stood. His rugged face registered anger, but Thalassa wasn't sure if it was aimed at her or at Rhaeven. Trembling, she returned her attention to the path.

Rhaeven led her inside the hall, where it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the cool dimness. When they did, she caught her breath. True splendor surrounded her, from the exquisitely upholstered furniture, to the thick furskin rugs laid before a blazing hearth. The firelight danced off well-polished wooden floors, brass candle sconces and a pair of crossed blades above the mantle. The sweet smell of incense scented the air, and Thalassa drew a deep, calming breath. She felt as if she had entered yet another dream.

Life beyond the Keep walls was surely no such dream. More of a nightmare. The burn on her shoulder and cheek still smarted, sending a thin sheen of sweat to cover her face and neck. Having her back crushed into the gravel on the path hadn't helped the pain, and now her knees stung, as well. She turned as Rhaeven pulled a bell-cord to summon a servant.

"You shall stay the night here," he told Thalassa. "As my guest."

"Your guest?" Thalassa could not keep the sarcasm from her tone. "And whose bed shall I have?"

"For now," Rhaeven answered, his tone so cold it sent shivers of trepidation through her, "your own."

Thalassa could not keep the tremble from her limbs. If belonging to Adrick would destroy her heart, she wondered what belonging to Rhaeven would do to her soul.

***

Terran adjusted the saddle, tightening the cinch another notch. His groomsman stood nearby, fiddling aimlessly with the leads. Terran was always amused by the reaction of palace staff when he insisted on doing something for himself. It was as if they thought he was incapable, that they would only have to do the task over again themselves to assure that it was done right. Surely, the groomsman was thinking that the saddle would slide and dump the Crown Prince in the dirt. And whose hide would be punished were that to happen?

Terran hid his smile, and swung into the saddle. "I won't be gone but a few days, Bockman. Be sure to pay extra attention to the mare. She is due to foal anytime. I don't have to remind you of her lineage, and the importance of both surviving the birth."

"No, Your Highness," the groomsman replied. "She will be taken care of properly, as if it were me own child I'd be birthing."

Terran chuckled. "If you were to birth a child, Bockman, that would be special indeed." He laughed harder at the groomsman's flush, and guided his steed from the stables into the morning sunshine.

His escorts were already mounted and waiting, ready to follow at a respectable distance to allow the prince a semblance of privacy, yet still able to ride to his rescue at a moment's notice. He gave the palace one last look, then turned toward the gatehouse. The guards snapped to attention, their eyes averted in subservience. It grated on Terran's nerves, despite the fact that he had been raised in such an atmosphere. With no more than a nod of acknowledgement, he urged his horse forward to escape the confines of his royal life.

Yet, he still had to traverse the town that sprawled about the palace, still had to endure the bows and curtsies, the flowers tossed in his path, the coppers that fell from fingers that could ill afford to lose them. Why his people insisted on presenting him with money, he could never fathom. It should be just the opposite. He should be sharing his wealth with them. If he had his way, he would dole out fair amounts to all of the peasants that called this Kingdom home. His father, however, was of another mind. With an inner sigh, he motioned to one of his men to collect the offered coins. Later, he would use them to provide food to those who needed it.

Once free of the confines of the village, he urged his horse into a canter, eager to be away. The wind blew lightly across the meadows bringing the scent of Sunribbons with it. It stirred Terran's heart, but it wasn't to Elise that his thoughts flew. It was to Thalassa. He shook his head, scowling. Why was she continuing to plague his thoughts? He drove his horse faster, as if he could escape the thoughts through sheer speed.

He rounded a bend in the path, then gasped when his horse suddenly shied, near throwing him from the saddle. He reined up sharply, his surprise turning to annoyance when he saw the cause of his horse's alarm. Unwin sat astride his stallion directly in Terran's path, a smug smile on his face. He crossed his hands over the saddle pommel and regarded Terran, even as Terran's escorts thundered up, swords already drawn. They hurriedly re-sheathed their weapons, averting their gazes from Unwin. He regarded them with open hostility and contempt.

"So, big brother, where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked.

"A matter of business, Unwin," Terran returned. "What are you doing out here? Where are your escorts?"

Unwin chuckled. "I have none. Apparently father doesn't think it necessary to safeguard someone who is not crucial to the throne. Besides, with such poor performance as your escorts just exhibited, why would I need them?"

Terran drew a slow breath. "You have escorts assigned, Unwin. Where are they?"

Unwin shrugged, changing the subject. He nodded his head toward the leather pouch that hung at Terran's waist. "So, what's that?"

"A document for the Lord Chancellor of Galtrin. Father thought it required my touch to deliver."

Unwin scowled. "You mean your title, Crown Prince," he said, not hiding his jealous tone.

Terran shrugged. "Think what you will, Unwin, but leave me pass."

Unwin sidestepped his horse out of the path, his face set in a hard frown. "Enjoy your title now, Terran, because it shall soon be mine." He jerked his horse's head about and put his heels to its side. The stallion bolted.

Terran watched his brother ride away. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Unwin's escorts attempting to follow the hotheaded young prince. Father was right. The kingdom would be in dire straits if Unwin were to assume rule. Terran began to resign himself to a marriage of convenience to Princess Sylvia. She was most likely quite charming and quite beautiful. Most Asurians were, with their dark coloring. Still, Terran's eye had always been turned by just the opposite. Those of the fair skin and pale eyes, those of Zal, intrigued him.

They were said by many to be witches, born to the craft and destined to use it. Terran had yet to see any evidence of such. He did know one thing--they were dying. Of some sickness peculiar only to their race. The thought brought a frown to his face, as once more his thoughts went to Thalassa. He wondered if she was sick, if she had already died from the sickness. The mere idea sent a chill through him. Again, he chastised himself for his wayward thoughts, then abruptly turned to his escorts. As one, they bowed their heads, and their captain came forward.

"Your Highness," he said. "Prince Unwin is right. We were caught off-guard. Even though the road we now travel is your father's, we should have been more attentive. I take full responsibility, and will -"

"Bron," Terran interrupted. "I need you to do a favor for me."

"Your Highness?" The man frowned in question.

Terran untied the leather pouch holding the document. He held it out to Bron. "I want you and your men to take this to Galtrin. Deliver it to the Lord Chancellor, then take a few days liberty."

"But Your Highness," Bron protested, a stricken look on his face, "that would leave you without escorts. I cannot do that."

"Yes, you can. You will." Terran kept his voice low but firm. He pressed the leather pouch into the man's hand. "I just need a few days of solitude, Bron. I will be fine. I won't put myself into any danger. I promise you that."

Bron hesitated, fear in his eyes. Terran sighed and climbed from his horse. Immediately, the guards followed, uneasy with being elevated above their Crown Prince. Terran took some paper from his satchel, then a quill and a pot of ink. He scratched out a quick note absolving the guards of any wrongdoing or blame should anything untoward happen to him. In the absence of wax, he coated his signet ring with ink, and pressed it on the parchment. When the ink was dry, he rolled the document and gave it to Bron.

"Now, you're set," he told the guard.

Bron looked at the parchment, then back up at Terran. "Your Highness, I appreciate this act of goodwill, but I fear more for you than for myself. The thought of you riding off alone does not sit well with me."

Terran chuckled. "You're a mother hen, Bron. Be off with you, all of you. I will meet you again here, at this point, in ten days time. If I am not here, you have my permission to come searching for me."

"And where do you ride, Your Highness?"

Terran hesitated, again conscious of the beating of drums far off in the distance. "To Zal, Bron, to check on an old friend." He remounted his steed, waved one hand at the guards, and put his heels to the stallion's sides.