Cinda Chima - The Gray Wolf Throne

“Are you sure?” Raisa felt her mean streak surfacing. She wanted to hurt Byrne to make up for what had been stolen from her. “Are you sure that you weren’t jealous because I loved Amon, while … while …”

Byrne continued to look at her, waiting, and she trailed off. No. She couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t go there.

“The linkage protects the line,” Byrne said, when it was clear she wouldn’t go on. “Amon is the best choice to serve as your captain. If it served the line for you to … be together, the linkage would not interfere.”

“Really,” Raisa said. “Where is that written? Where’s the rule book on all this? I just blunder along, thinking I’m free to make choices, and then I find out they’ve been made for me.”

Byrne inclined his head, acknowledging this, then looked up at her again.

“Where does it tell me what I’m supposed to do now?” she whispered, blinking back tears.

Byrne produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to her. “You serve,” he said. “You find happiness where you can. In love or not, you find a way to continue the line.”

Just as he had done.

And just like that, Raisa’s resentment faded, leaving a dull ache, like the muscle memory of an old injury. She realized that her bitterness had become a habit, that somewhere along the line, she’d accepted that she and Amon would never be together as lovers. That she needed friends as much, or even more, right now.

And then what had she done? She’d fallen for Han Alister—someone else she couldn’t have, in a marriage, anyway.

“None of us are free to follow our hearts,” she said. “Not really. Is that what you’re saying?”

He shook his head. “No one can stop you from loving someone,” he said.

Raisa dabbed at her eyes. “I thought that, for me, it would be different, that I would find a way to make it happen. That I would marry for love.” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Now I know,” she said, “like every other Gray Wolf queen, I will settle for a political marriage to someone I don’t love.”

Byrne half smiled. “Somehow I don’t think you will settle, Your Highness.”

I can always emulate Marianna, Raisa thought. And find love outside of marriage. She’d never forgiven her mother for not loving her father more. Now, belatedly, Raisa was beginning to realize that choices are not always as black-and-white as they seem.

Impulsively, Raisa leaned forward and gripped Byrne’s calloused hands. “How is she doing, Captain? The queen, I mean?”

He looked down at their joined hands, and up into her face. “My Lady, I don’t think—”

“You are linked to her. You must know something of her state of mind.”

Byrne grimaced as though she’d strayed onto a forbidden subject, a topic too intimate for discussion. Like love.

“Your Highness, it’s not my place to guess what—”

“If I’m going to help her once I return to the capital, I need to know,” Raisa said bluntly.

Byrne looked at Raisa, almost defensively. “It’s not as if I can read her mind.”

Raisa nodded. “I know.” She paused. “I just wish I understood her better. She never shared a lot with me, growing up, about herself. We are so different. I don’t even look much like her.”

He shook his head. “No, you favor your father more. Though she is tall, she has always seemed delicate to me, like … like maiden’s kiss.” Maiden’s kiss was a spring flower that bloomed for a day and shriveled at a touch.

“Her Majesty has been melancholy lately,” Byrne went on. “And no wonder. There is constant pressure from the Spirit clans, from the High Wizard and the Wizard Council. That, along with your absence …” His voice trailed off. “I did not want to leave her at this time.”

“It’s my fault you had to leave her, Captain,” Raisa said, again feeling the crush of guilt.

“If I were assigning blame, Your Highness, I would not begin with you.” Byrne plunked his saddlebags down in front of Raisa. “What food I have is in there. We’d better eat, then get some sleep so we can move when the storm is over.”

He stood, lifting the pot of water, and ducked out through the branches to water the horses.

By the time he returned, Raisa had rummaged through his saddlebags, pulled out a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, and set them out on cloths. Byrne divided the cheese with his belt dagger and handed half to her, then carved off thick slices of bread. When the food was gone, he slapped the blade thoughtfully across his palm.

“Do you carry a dagger, Your Highness?”

Raisa nodded. “I do, as a rule, but Micah and Fiona took mine.”

“Then take this one.” He wiped the blade on his breeches, returned the blade to a sheath at his waist, then unbuckled the belt, handing the whole package to her. Raisa slid the blade free, turning it so it caught the light. It was of the same make and design as the Lady sword, with the image of Hanalea worked into the hilt.

“I can’t take this!” she protested. “It belongs in your family.”

“I’ve not much use for it, in fact,” Byrne replied. “If I let an enemy get close enough to need it, I deserve what I get.” He raised his hand to forestall further protest. “At least carry it until we reach Fellsmarch.” He yawned. “We’re not going anywhere until this storm goes south, so we may as well get some sleep.” He unrolled his blankets in front of the makeshift entrance and slid under them.

Raisa crawled into her own bedroll, which was laid close to the fire. She set the knife in its sheath by her left hand. Their frail shelter trembled under the assault of the witch wind, and snow sifted down through the branches. “I’ll pray to the Maker that the storm moves on,” Raisa said sleepily.

“Be careful what you pray for, Your Highness,” Byrne said, his face turned away from her so she couldn’t see his expression. “We could use a little wind to move the snow around. We’ll be easier to track when the weather clears.”

The wind began to dwindle sometime before dawn. Raisa awoke to the sudden quiet and the realization that Edon Byrne was missing. She sat up, shivering, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands. Byrne’s blankets were rolled and tied, and a pot of tea steamed over the rekindled fire. A breakfast of more bread and cheese was laid out just outside the fire ring. The message was obvious: Byrne meant to make an early start.

Raisa stood and stretched, gingerly massaging her hip bones and backside. She had too little padding to enjoy sleeping on the ground. Unwinding the linen from around her neck, she scraped the poultice free, hoping Byrne wouldn’t insist on replacing it. She ate quickly, washing the dry breakfast down with tea, then began layering on clothing. Her socks and gloves were dry, but stiff and uncomfortable.

When she stepped outside, carrying their remaining gear, she was confronted with one of those transformations that are common in the mountains. Stars glittered over the peaks to the west. Where the thick pines blocked the wind, the ground was covered with a thick layer of new snow, pristine and virginal, in some places drifted higher than Raisa’s head. More exposed areas were scoured clean, with the wind still teasing the snow free and spinning it off into the darkness. Although it was still dark and very cold, the coming day promised to be a fair one.

“Good morning, Your Highness.” Raisa spun around. It was Byrne, leading their horses, both already saddled. Switcher was fighting the bit, ears laid back, protesting the early start. “We can hope our assailants are sleeping in, but I think it wise to travel as far as we can under cover of darkness.”