The Queens of Merab 3 Temair’s Aire

  His concentration was shattered when Temair threw her head back as her orgasm took her over the edge. The tight contractions of her sheath around his fingers took Dathan with her, and Miach followed close behind, as caught up in Temair’s pleasure as Dathan was.

  But for a split second as Miach spilled himself on their wife’s gorgeous chest, blue flecks met red sparks and something powerful passed between the two men. Something neither was ready to deal with and neither would be able to forget.

  * * *

  Temair felt her eyes go wide with delight as they entered Lady Alta’s formal sitting room. There, at the Lady’s left hand, was Rari. She moved to greet him, thrilled with this new development. He was at the Lady’s left, so he couldn’t be the son, but his presence indicated he was some sort of relation, and therefore a potential Consort.

  “Your Highness. Please, you all must sit.” Lady Alta’s cool greeting distracted her for a moment, but not before she saw Rari’s face go white and stricken. She still would have gone to him if Dathan hadn’t caught her elbow in a gentle grip. She shot him a dark look, but her irritation faded at the intense way he was looking from the Lady to Rari and back again.

  Forcing herself back into the role of Crown Princess, Temair begrudgingly dredged up the proper manners for the occasion.

  “How lovely to see you, Alta.” The woman’s icy eyes narrowed at the familiar address, but Temair suspected she’d need every bit of strategy she could muster to keep the woman in her place. She sent a deliberate glance toward the empty seat at Lady Aire’s right. “I see we’re waiting for one last guest,” she commented blandly. Her joy at finding Rari in attendance had almost overshadowed the insult given by the absence of the Lady’s heir.

  Nuriel and Sorcha moved to sit on a white tapestry couch, as Temair seated herself, flanked on each side by her Consorts, who chose to remain standing. A quick, hard rap at the door had the Lady nodding to a servant.

  Now we’ll see, she thought to herself, but she was doomed to disappointment, for it was not the heir who entered the sitting room and took the place at Lady Aire’s right hand, but Nabal.

  She felt the fyre spark in her eyes, and Dathan’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. The caress of his rayne magic calmed her marginally, but before she could confront the woman, Miach stepped forward and spoke for her.

  “What is the meaning of this, Lady Aire?” he snapped. Temair heard the flame crackling in his voice, and was glad all that fyre was for her and not against her.

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?” Lady Alta’s voice was even colder than before, enough that Temair felt a chill tiptoe down her spine. “You demanded an audience with the heir, and so you have one.”

  “Do you mean to say that Nabal is your heir?” Temair could clearly picture Miach’s chaos-black eyes, the flicker of fyre surging from their depths.

  “Lord Nabal,” Lady Alta corrected, giving the man in question a fond pat on the back of his hand. “But no, I mean to say that my son,” and Temair had never heard a parent layer such scorn into a word as Alta did to son, “is here.” She tipped her head to indicate the young man on her left.

  “Rari?” Temair kept her voice soft. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry at his deception; how could she when faced with his mother’s bitterness. Bitter. Like the name he’d chosen for himself.

  “Zevan,” he corrected her in an equally soft voice. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Highness.”

  “Stop mumbling,” Lady Alta snapped. Rari -- no, Zevan -- flushed, and this was nothing like the delightful blush she’d seen in the library yesterday. This flush spoke of shame. “I apologize,” she continued, turning her attention to Temair. “He has no manners.”

  “I disagree,” Dathan muttered at her side. “He’s shown the best manners we’ve seen thus far.”

  Temair allowed a smile to touch her lips as Lady Alta’s face went rigid at the insult. “Indeed,” she added, “I find nothing amiss in Lord Zevan’s manners.”

  “What incredible luck that you don’t recognize his lack,” the Lady replied. Temair wondered if the cut was deliberate, or accidental. “He’d prefer to spend his days buried in some old book rather than learning court manners, or any skill fitting a man of his station.”

  Nuriel gave a ladylike snort of laughter, and Temair flicked a dismissive hand at her whispered “Gee, sounds like a match made in literary heaven.”

  “I’m shamed to admit that my son is the least skilled Aire Lord for the position of Consort. Not only does he keep his head in the clouds, but his magic is sub-par.”

  Zevan dropped his eyes to the floor, and Temair’s heart broke at the humiliation on his beautiful face.

  “His hair was the first hint,” Lady Alta continued, oblivious to her son’s misery and her future Queen’s offense. “If it had been pure charcoal or pure white we’d have known we’d bred a strong talent. But not even his appearance bears any strength. Just oddness.”

  “Funny,” Miach commented, surprising them all. “He doesn’t look at all odd to me.” He sent a measuring look over the young Aire Lord. “In fact, he’s actually quite attractive.” He ignored Dathan’s strangled laugh. “If you like the type.”

  Lady Alta’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits of crushed diamond. “I suppose a lover of other men would find such weakness attractive.”

  Surprisingly, Miach didn’t rise to the bait. It was Dathan who responded, in his unique and irreverent way. “You’d suppose wrong, my Lady.” He slunk around Temair’s chair, managing -- even through the many layers of fabric he wore -- to give the impression of nakedness. Lifting a hand to toy with a strand of hair that had worked loose of Miach’s top-knot he explained, “As an occasional lover of men, I can assure you that weakness is the last thing we look for in a partner. In fact,” Dathan turned glowing eyes to Zevan, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to crawl under his chair. “I suspect that Lord Zevan is stronger than the lot of us.” Those ocean-streaked eyes met Temair’s in a moment of perfect understanding. “He’d have to be, wouldn’t he?” the Rayne Lord concluded softly.

  Chapter Four

  The rest of the brunch passed painfully slowly. Lady Alta continued her quest to sing the praises of her nephew. Nabal continued to make veiled insinuations about Temair and send lewd glances at Nuriel’s cleavage. Zevan sat silently, an untouched cup of tea clutched in one white-knuckled hand.

  When, praise the Mother, the audience was finally finished, Miach stood and offered his hand to Temair. He was feeling an urgent need to get away from the deliberately cruel barbs the Lady kept jabbing at her son. Their visit to the Aerie was reminding him most emphatically of why he’d sympathized with the rebels in the first place.

  “If I might have a moment.” Dathan’s hand on his arm drew Miach to an abrupt halt. Temair turned questioningly, and the Rayne Lord murmured, “I’d like for you to see something.” The princess raised a brow, but nodded, leaving Miach no choice but to linger with his co-Consort.

  “I’m really not in the mood,” he gritted out, quietly so that Lady Aire and her family, who’d lingered in the sitting room, wouldn’t hear him.

  “Oh, get over yourself, Consort.” Dathan rolled his eyes in obvious amusement. “Not everything is about you.” He moved closer to the sitting room door, which was conveniently ajar. He drew Miach closer with the grip he still had on his arm. His voice was a mere breath of sound, tickling the silky hairs at Miach’s nape so that he had to struggle to pay attention to the Rayne Lord’s words.

  “I’d meant to mention it before, but I got distracted.” A sly smile from slanted blue eyes told Miach exactly what kind of distraction he was referring to. “I want to hear what she has to say to him now, though.”

  Miach turned, partially to question Dathan, and partially to escape the warm, damp rush of the man’s breath on his neck. Before he could speak, though, the Rayne Lord laid one long finger over Miach’s lips and tilted his head meaningfully toward the crack
ed door.

  “I ask very little from you, Zevan.” Lady Alta’s voice cut suddenly through the tension vibrating between Miach and Dathan. “I allow you to hide in your rooms and leave the ruling of the Aerie to Nabal.”

  There was a pause, then, very softly, “Yes, Mother.” Miach frowned. He didn’t like the sound of Zevan’s voice any more than he’d liked the look in the boy’s eyes. It reminded him too much of a dog that had been kicked one too many times.

  “I asked only one thing,” the Lady continued, voice raising with every word. “I asked you to keep your mouth shut. To let Nabal shine, and to show the princess how unsuited you are for the role of Consort.” There was an agitated rustling, and Miach knew the Lady had risen and was pacing the room.

  “But you couldn’t do that, could you? Oh, no. Not only did you try to charm the princess,” Lady Alta’s voice continued to rise, growing shrill with her last words, “you had to flirt with the Consorts, too!”

  Miach’s jaw dropped open in shock, and Dathan slapped a hand over his own mouth, clearly trying to keep back his laughter. Laughter, however, fled both Consorts’ minds at the sounds that followed. The sharp crack of skin on skin. A slap. A sharply indrawn breath. Nabal’s voice, low and menacing. “P’raps he’s a bit too pretty?” A meaty thud and a grunt.

  “What the fuck?” Dathan grabbed Miach before he could burst through the door. The sounds of physical violence had stopped, and Lady Alta was speaking again.

  “Zevan, you will not leave your room until our visitors,” the word was a sneer, “leave. Nabal,” she continued briskly, “you will ingratiate yourself with the Consorts. It is obvious that mating with the princess also means mating with her men.”

  “I’m no faggot!” Nabal protested. Dathan’s eyes narrowed and grew icy. Miach knew his expression matched the Rayne Lord’s. The ignorant fool’s words infuriated him, but not for the reasons he expected. He’d have thought he’d be upset at being labeled a lover of men. Instead he was enraged at the contemptuous tone Nabal took at the prospect.

  “Of course you aren’t,” Lady Alta soothed. “You just have to pretend to be one until the mating ceremony. Once you’re joined to the princess, you can set about correcting the corrupt, perverted practices in the monarchy.”

  There was a pause and another rustle of fabric. “You.” Lady Alta’s voice was arctic. “Get to your room and reflect on what you have done.” Dathan used the grip on Miach’s arm that he’d never released to tug him into a little alcove behind a statue. The door to the Lady’s sitting room opened, and Zevan walked out, standing tall and painfully proud, a red splotch of color on one cheek evidence of his mother’s slap, and a dark, swollen bruise forming around one eye. He flinched a little at his mother’s final words. “Do not give me further reason to punish you.”

  “Shit,” Dathan muttered when Zevan had disappeared around a corner. For once, Miach was in total agreement with him.

  * * *

  Temair was furious enough with Lady Alta that she didn’t even give a thought to Darmon and Pelagia trailing along behind her as she marched to Zevan’s chambers.

  She knocked briskly, and when a moment passed with no answer she nodded at Darmon who obligingly pounded on the door with one enormous fist. The man who answered was of medium height, slim, and had a rather forgettable face. His plain garb proclaimed his status as a servant.

  “The princess will speak with Lord Zevan,” Darmon rumbled, clearly enjoying his role as Royal Enforcer. The servant’s eyes widened, and he almost looked like he’d deny them entrance, but a soft voice from inside the chamber spoke.

  “Let them in, Tric. There’s no point trying to keep them out.”

  Temair caught her breath at the resignation in that soft voice, even as she noted the way the servant’s mouth tightened at Zevan’s words. He stepped back with a dip of his head, and let the door swing open.

  Temair made to step through, but Pelagia held her back while Darmon did a quick search of the room.

  “There’s no other exit,” Zevan commented, watching Darmon’s search with reluctant interest. He waved to indicate the stone walls. “No windows, even.”

  Darmon seemed to have confirmed Zevan’s claim, as he nodded to Pelagia, who allowed Temair to enter the room. Darmon gave a pointed, less than friendly smile to the servant, who reluctantly preceded him out of the chamber. Temair shut the door firmly behind the three men, leaving herself and Zevan completely alone.

  The Aire Lord was sitting at a small desk that took up about a third of the small chamber. The look on the boy’s -- no, the man’s -- face nearly broke her heart. As did the bruise blooming under his left eye. She’d believed Miach and Dathan, of course, when they’d told her of Lady Alta’s abuse, but somehow seeing it made it real.

  “Does she do this often?” She kept her tone as neutral as she could, but Zevan still flushed, dark slashes of mortified color painting his high cheekbones.

  “Not as often as all that,” he denied, but his eyes shifted as he said it.

  “Do not lie to me, Lord Aire.” She let her voice go hard. Zevan’s gaze had flown to hers, and his posture straightened a bit at the words, and it occurred to her that he’d never been addressed by his title. Her heart squeezed a little harder.

  “Occasionally,” he finally replied. “When she feels I’ve offended her.” His gaze flickered again, only this time Temair knew he wasn’t hiding the truth, just his embarrassment. “Or if I’ve offended my cousin.”

  Temair seated herself on his bed, ignoring his wide-eyed reaction to her lack of formality. “Your cousin is an ass,” she replied tartly. “He deserves to be offended.”

  Zevan turned away, and she thought she heard him choke back a laugh. She cast her eye around the chamber with a frown. The room was much smaller than the guest room she and her Consorts shared, and very plain. Certainly not befitting a son of the Aerie. But she was willing to bet Nabal’s chamber was pure luxury. A bit of leather poking out from under a pillow caught her attention, and she leaned across the bed to tug out the history book she’d given Zevan to read. When she glanced up, his eyes were tracing the line of her body with a very grown up interest, so she hid a smile and took her time sitting up, twisting so her dress pulled snugly over her breasts.

  “Have you read it?” she asked, drawing his startled eyes back to her face and pretending for all she was worth that she hadn’t noticed his ogling.

  “I have,” he replied in a breathless rush, clearly fighting to keep his eyes at face level.

  “And what did you think?” At her question, some of the innocent heat in his eyes died.

  “I think it’s a lovely romance, Highness.” His voice was resigned again. “It has little bearing on reality, though.” His eyes closed for a moment, and the bruise under his left eye seemed to pulse with the corruption that so obviously filled the Aerie. “At least not on my reality.”

  “It should,” Temair answered with quiet passion. “It should be true in every one of Emetra’s realms. In Turnin and Zirah.” She clutched the book tightly in one hand and rose. Zevan was shaking his head.

  “My mother is a good Queen,” she continued, stalking the few paces from the bed to the wall. “But I fear she’s been an absent Queen.” She stalked back to the bed, then spun to face Zevan. “I am not the woman my mother is, and I will not be the sort of Queen she is.” Zevan’s eyes grew wider as she continued, “If this is how the Aerie is run, clearly a Royal influence is needed.” She resumed her seat on the edge of Zevan’s bed and finished more quietly. “For my Aire Consort I need a man who is willing and able to help me make the changes that the Aire people so desperately need.”

  * * *

  Zevan would have been less surprised if she’d bashed him over the head with the slim leather book she was gripping like a weapon. Because, it sounded an awful lot like she was implying he would be a good choice for Consort. Which was ridiculous.

  “I’m sure Nabal…” he began, but she cut him off with
a derisive and decidedly un-ladylike snort.

  “Nabal is an ass.” He choked back another imprudent laugh. “And an ignorant ass, at that,” she added, sending him a sly, twinkling look. “I’m looking for a man who is educated.” Now she sent a glance over the multitude of books littering his desk and the floor around it. “Someone who knows how to think.” She tapped the history book she still held against her palm. “Someone who recognizes the truth, and is willing to stand for it, even when it’s not easy.”

  “Highness,” he began again, and this time she let him speak, though she leaned back on her elbows in a way that was most distracting. “Highness, I don’t know what you want from me.” He cast a helpless glance around his tiny chamber. “My mother says I’m hopeless, and though I don’t enjoy her methods, I can’t fault her judgment.”

  Temair’s eyes narrowed, and she pushed back into a sitting position. Zevan hurried on before she could interrupt.

  “Nabal may be the ignorant ass you claim, but I’m no better.” He made a frustrated gesture around the room. “I have no presence in the Aerie, no input into how the land is governed or our people are treated. I am not even allowed to be present during citizen petitions!” He paused to catch his breath, astounded at his own words and the passion behind them. He hadn’t realized, until he started to verbalize it, how very much had been denied him. “I play make-believe games.” He let the bitterness he was feeling fill the words, lost in the utter futility of his life. “I pretend to fight evil armies and rescue beautiful princesses.” Eyes closed against the truth, he let his head hang. “I’m a child playing with imaginary friends.”

  “Oh, Zevan.” While his eyes had been closed, the princess had approached. She knelt between his spread legs, laying her palms gently on his thighs.

  “Highness!” He grabbed her hands, appalled to see the crown princess on her knees to him, and tried to urge her to stand, but she wouldn’t cooperate. Instead she turned her palms against his and brought his hands to her heart. The tender gesture stung his eyes, even as the soft heat of her flesh made him catch his breath.