The Queens of Merab 3: Temair’s Aire
Violet Summers
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Copyright ©2010 Violet Summers
ISBN: 978-1-60521-422-1
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The Queens of Merab 3: Temair’s Aire
Violet Summers
On the world of Merab, women rule, while men wield the magic. It’s been an equitable system, until now. Temair knew that one day she’d have to step up and take her place as Queen of Emetra; she just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon!
Now she finds herself on a Tour of the Queendom in search of her four Consorts -- the four men whose Elemental magic will awaken hers. Her First Consort, Fyre Lord Miach, is all warrior. Her Second Consort, Rayne Lord Dathan, is all play. Bonding with Fyre and Rayne was almost effortless. Aire is giving her some problems -- mostly because his mother has him so sequestered that Temair hasn’t even caught a glimpse of the man!
When she finally does, Temair isn’t at all prepared for what she finds. Instead of a stone cold fighter or a playful playboy, she finds a man scarred by life. Zevan needs more than Temair’s love; he needs the love and support of the family she’s building, too. Only by seeing himself through their eyes can he truly believe he’s worthy to be Temair’s Aire.
Prologue
The nobleman preened in the mirror, not realizing Sitric had activated the enchantment that would allow them to communicate. Sitric stood out of sight at the periphery of the mirror’s range and studied his so-called ally. The man was a vision in cream lace and burnt orange velvet, as he fussed with his flame-colored hair, arranging it to fall like silk over his shoulders. Finally Sitric had all he could stand of the nobleman’s vanity, and he moved front and center, gaining the man’s startled attention.
“Losing Storm was an unfortunate setback,” he commented mildly, when he was feeling anything but mild. The Healer’s loss of anonymity had been a debilitating blow to the men’s rebellion. Not only had they lost a valuable and strategically placed ally, but also a voice of reason.
“Pah.” The nobleman made a rude noise and an even ruder gesture. “We’ve dealt with nothing but riff-raff. If you and I were to coordinate things, our mission would be long completed and our cause won.”
Sitric refrained from pointing out that the nobleman had been the mastermind behind the attack in the Fyre Lands. The man was a fool, but a well-placed fool. “Well, whatever the obstacles, it’s time to sit back and regroup,” he commented. It was getting harder to keep his voice calm, his tone level. The abuses the males in Emetra suffered were mild compared to the abuses elsewhere, but they were enough to warrant alarm. More than enough.
“Don’t pussy out now, man,” the nobleman sneered, leaning in toward the mirror in what he probably thought was a threatening and intimidating manner. It lost some of its effectiveness when the nobleman was obviously distracted by his own reflection.
“It’s not pussying out to proceed with caution and wisdom,” Sitric responded blandly. “They’ll be arriving at the Aerie any day now. It costs nothing to wait a few days and see what we can see before acting. It was haste that doomed our first two attempts.”
“It costs nothing but time and the element of surprise,” the nobleman snapped, and Sitric wondered if the idiot really believed they still had the element of surprise. Hell, they hadn’t had that advantage since Forn shot the poorly aimed fyre arrow at Princess Temair weeks ago. “Nevertheless,” the nobleman concluded with obvious displeasure, “you’re the boss for the moment.”
Sitric knew the nobleman intended to change that little fact. He also knew he had no intention of allowing that to happen.
Chapter One
“I’m cold,” Dathan muttered, huddling deeper into his parka.
“Stop whining,” Miach snapped, throwing the Second Consort an irritated glare. “It’s unattractive.”
Dathan smiled wickedly. “And what would you find attractive, Consort?” He smiled even wider at Miach’s disgusted growl, then hunched back into the heavy wool fabric swathing him. “I’m from a tropical land,” he pointed out, knowing he was pouting, but unable to stop it. “Not all of us have built in heaters,” he added, sending a resentful glance toward Miach and Temair, who both seemed to radiate the heat of Fyre magic.
“Why don’t you get in the carriage and ride with the women, if you’re suffering so badly?”
Temair leaned over in her saddle and aimed a smack at the back of Miach’s head. “Excuse me, my Lord Husband,” she glowered at him, but Dathan noticed her eyes were dancing. “Woman right here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Miach sent her that little half-smile that caused a tendril of warmth to curl through Dathan’s belly -- he suspected it did the same to Temair -- and caught the princess’s head in one big hand, leaning dangerously out from his horse to press a firm kiss on her laughing mouth.
“Believe me, Spark,” he said dryly. “I could never forget you.”
“Another day of travel, maximum,” she commented once she’d regained her breath.
Dathan shot a distasteful look around at the rocky, mountainous territory. “I fear that arriving at the Aerie won’t be much more agreeable. This land is as barren as Storm’s heart.”
“If that’s the case,” Temair answered quellingly, “we should find the area rich with life and emotion.”
When Dathan sent Temair a disbelieving look, Miach answered for her, his voice thoughtful. “Storm acted out of love. Treasonously and without honor, but with a great deal of love.”
Dathan just shook his head. He could see Miach’s point; could even concede it. Perhaps if they’d been discussing a fyre lord, or a lord of aire or earth he could drum up some sympathy for the former Healer. As it was, all he could feel was betrayal and rage at the danger the rebel had placed Temair in.
“At any rate,” he muttered, more to himself than his companions, though the princess smiled sympathetically, “at least in the Aerie there might be some consistent source of heat.”
* * *
Temair paced the large sitting room restlessly. Even wrapped up in a woolen shawl and calling on her inner fyre, she was still chilled.
Poor Dathan was huddled before the monstrous fireplace trying to warm his thin blood.
She approached the floor to ceiling windows covering the north wall. The Aerie was built atop a giant cliff; all Temair was able to see were never-ending gray skies above and the equally dull waters of the Galta Sea below. At night she could hear the waves crashing into the walls making sleep difficult.
Even Dathan, who was always at home near the water, wasn’t drawn to the turbulent tides below. This was not the same place her Aire father had described to her. She’d expected the physical chill; she just hadn’t realized the cold would be soul-deep.
She’d spent two days looking out these windows waiting to meet Lady Alta’s only son, Zevan, and for two days she’d been told that he was ill. Instead the Lady had foisted her nephew Nabal upon them.
Temair had taken an instant dislike to the man. He was too eager to talk with her exclusively. He completely ignored Miach and Dathan, treating them more like servants than her Consorts. That behavior alone would have made her dislike him, but there was more. Anytime she made an inquiry concerning Lady Alta’s son, Nabal had a snide comment to make concerning the other man. Rather than defending her son, Lady Alta always laughed and remarked how observant Nabal was.
The wide double doors at the end of the room opened and Lady Alta, escorted by the odious Nabal, entered the room with a flourish. The older woman smiled as she approached, but Temair wasn’t fooled. There was no joy in the Lady’s silvery eyes. She wasn’t even sure the Lady had ever experienced that particular emotion.
The Lady wore her hair in the short, spiky style of the Aire people, the dark charcoal color indicating the strength of her aire magic. White strands flowed from her crown to frame her face.
“Princess,” she bowed slightly as she stopped next to Temair. “I assume you have been taken care of. All your needs met?”
Temair bristled at the slightly caustic tone the woman took. It was obvious Lady Alta didn’t like Temair, but since she had not been blatantly rude, Temair bore her tedious behavior.
“Thank you, Lady Alta, all my needs have been met, with the exception of meeting your son.” Temair gripped her shawl tighter around her not only to relieve the sudden chill in the room, but to keep from strangling her hostess.
The Lady’s smile faded. “Yes, well, he is still not up to visitors. But I have good news. Nabal has been generous enough to offer to escort you on a tour of the grounds.”
By the elements! Temair did not want to spend any more time with Nabal. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand the man. Miach wanted nothing more than to choke him to death. Dathan was more diplomatic, but he lost no opportunity to make Nabal look like a fool without him realizing it.
“Thank you, Lady,” she said between clenched teeth, then turned to Nabal. “And thank you, Nabal, for your time.”
“You are more than welcome, Princess. It is no chore escorting such a beautiful woman around my home.” His smile reminded her of a predator just before they bit the head off something small and helpless. “I will meet you here in three hours.” He bowed, then straightening he held out his arm for his aunt and they made their exit.
Temair smiled ruefully as she walked over to the divan Dathan was huddled on. Miach came out of the corner he’d been hiding in to sit down on her other side. “Spark, if I have to spend another minute with that little snake I will kill him for sure.”
She patted her husband’s cheek. “Now, now, my warrior. I let you hide in dark corners whenever they come to speak with me. I won’t let you abandon me during our little excursions.”
Dathan leaned forward. “Quit whining, Consort. At least you’re warm. I haven’t felt a lick of heat in three days.”
Temair raised an eyebrow. “Not a lick, Lord Rayne?”
“Okay, maybe a few licks here and there,” he grudgingly admitted. “But even then one side of me is generally cold.” Miach snorted at Dathan’s complaint. “If Number One over there wasn’t such a baby, I could sleep in the middle and be kept warm by both of your fyres.” Dathan’s pout pulled at Temair’s heart. Miach’s scowl tickled her sense of humor.
“It’s not my fault you have such thin blood, water boy. It’s not my job to keep your skinny ass warm.” She stifled a laugh as their familiar bickering continued.
Finally, she grabbed each man by the hand. “Enough, you two! Tonight you can sleep between us, Dathan.” When the Rayne Lord’s blue eyes began to glow, Temair laughed. “Sleep, Dathan,” she emphasized with a grin.
“Spark,” Miach’s warning growl lit her fyre and made her wet.
She leaned over and kissed him deeply. Pulling back she stared into his burning black eyes. “Please, Miach, do this for me. I promise all will be well.”
Dathan reached out and squeezed Miach’s thigh, causing her warrior to jump. “Don’t you worry, hot stuff, I won’t touch anything.”
“Damn right, you won’t,” Miach grumbled.
Dathan winked at him. “Unless, of course, you beg me to.”
Chapter Two
As she always did when she was troubled, Temair found the library. She stifled a little snort of amusement. The Lady Alta might not be willing to share her only son with the royal party, but she’d certainly put her collection of musty old books at their disposal.
Darmon and Pelagia made themselves at home, the fyre warrior near the library’s one large window, the rayne warrior just inside the door. They’d become rather adept at staying invisible to her when she wanted privacy. She supposed she’d have to become equally adept at ignoring them.
With a sigh, she moved to the nearest shelves. The room was enormous, one giant, vaulted space with each wall lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of books. One wall was broken by a large fireplace. Several high-backed chairs and a long couch were clustered around it. Like everything else she’d seen in the Aerie, the couch looked hard and rough, and she wondered what kind of person could find comfort here.
Turning her attention back to the books, Temair was delighted to find a copy of her favorite history of Merab, the one that included the story of the original three Queens, and their struggle to bring order from the chaos of the world’s uncontrolled magic. It also told the stories of the first Consorts, and described how the Queens vowed to rule with compassion and affection.
An apt reminder, she thought, in light of the things she was discovering in her Queendom. She considered Storm and his doomed love for Losha, and her heart ached for them, even as she feared the Healer’s hatred was merely a symptom of a greater disease.
On a whim she pulled the book from the shelf and moved to sit on one of the chairs before the fyre. She rounded the high-backed seat, and a soft gasp was her only warning before she found herself seated firmly on the lap of the chair’s current occupant.
“Oh, sweet elements, I’m sorry,” she laughed, bouncing right back to her feet.
“No, no,” the boy seated there stammered, jumping to his own feet. “I shouldn’t be here.” He looked around in alarm, as if expecting security to come and drag him away on the spot.
Something in his anxious expression twisted at Temair’s heart, and she reached out impulsively to lay a hand along his cheek. When she encountered stubble, she looked a bit closer.
He was older than she’d first thought, she realized. Probably still younger than her, but definitely not a boy. He had fine, narrow features set off by wide eyes the gray of hematite and fringed with lashes so thick and dark they almost looked lined with kohl, and full lips. His hair was cropped short in the fashion of the land, and oddly colored. The roots were a charcoal so deep as to look black, while the last inch or so stood up in icy white spikes reminiscent of Temair’s Aire sire.
He’d gone still under her touch, and she heard a slight hitch in his breathing that brought a hungry smile to her face. Before Miach, she’d never considered herself a sexual being. Once Dathan had joined them, Temair had discovered depths to her sexuality she’d never have gue
ssed at. The devoted attentions of her Consorts had brought out the predator in her, and suddenly this beautiful, damaged young man looked a lot like prey.
“Stay,” she coaxed, pushing lightly on his chest and knocking him gently into his chair. Ignoring protocol, she pulled up a footstool and sat in front of him.
“I’m Temmie,” she said, some instinct warning her not to use her given name or title. Instead the pet name her parents and foster sisters used for her seemed much more appropriate.
“R-rari,” he stammered back. Temair frowned. In the old language, his name meant bitter. He reacted to her frown by shifting uncomfortably, clearly prepared to flee. She couldn’t allow that. Not when everything about him was calling out to everything in her.
“So,” she responded quickly, before he could gather his wits enough to rise, “what are you reading, Rari?”
He flushed, and the sight of the blood rising to the surface of his pale skin, painting slashes across his high cheekbones, made her want to taste his skin with her tongue, to see if he tasted as sweet as he looked.
“It’s a war treatise,” he mumbled, holding the book out for her to see.
“The Art and Grace of Warfare,” she read, raising an eyebrow. “There’s not been any need for that sort of thing in Emetra in over a century,” she pointed out, delighted when his flush grew even darker.
“Of course not,” he agreed. “Though there are some who would like to change that.” The last was muttered as if he’d forgotten she could hear him. His gaze flew back to hers, hematite dark and glistening. She rather thought he had no idea how winsome and alluring he looked, gazing shyly up at her from through those dark lashes.
“I read it for the strategy,” he explained, relaxing back into his chair a bit when she didn’t scold or interrupt him. “We spend a great deal of time inside,” a quick smile, utterly charming and as unselfconscious as a child, “as I’m sure you’d expect. Some of us occupy our time with war games.” Another smile, this one a tad embarrassed. “Role play and the like. A mere man like me needs all the help he can get when faced with griffins and basilisks.” He gestured with the book in his hand. “So, I teach myself strategy.”