Kylar remembered removing the black ka’kari from Curoch before going to face Neph Dada. It had barely been a conscious act. He’d known that the Hunter hated krul and that it would be drawn to reclaim its stolen sword. Maybe he’d thought it would come earlier and kill a lot of krul. But more than a plan, it had simply been something that felt right. It felt like he was moving in consonance with the universe, with his own deepest character. If the Wolf was right, that was its own kind of magic. “I didn’t know,” Kylar admitted. “I believed.”
The Wolf got pensive. “In this world of shadows, you believe? Despite all you’ve seen?”
Kylar took a breath, looking over the city in all its splendor and remembering what it had looked like not so long ago. “We live on a great battlefield, and you and I fight behind enemy lines,” he said. “Like it or not, my lupine friend, you are one of the lights that helps me believe.”
Ezra hmmed. “I will consider what you’ve said. The creature stirs. The day’s battle begins.”
“May the light shine on you, my friend,” Kylar said.
“That’s twice you’ve called me friend.” Ezra seemed to taste the word as if it were a flavor long lost. Then he smiled, accepting it. “Thank you.”
Ezra turned away, then hesitated. He turned back. “There is . . . one other thing. The red flowers? They’re a modified tulip not native to Midcyru. They’re known as the Heralds of Spring. They’re the first flowers to bloom every year. They’re a symbol of hope. I studied the magic, and . . . Elene made them, Kylar, all of them. She made them for you,” Ezra’s voice cracked. “I couldn’t save her. I owed you that much, but I couldn’t save her.” Ezra pursed his lips, and his jaw clenched as he crushed his own emotions. He touched Kylar’s shoulder. “I must go. May I not see you in the Antechamber of the Mystery for many, many years.”
Tears flowed down Kylar’s face. There were tens of thousands of red tulips. Every intersection, every field, every house was adorned with them. They were Elene’s sign to him of her presence, her joy, her acceptance, her love. Only Elene would put such beauty in the middle of his pain. How was he ever going to live without her?
99
Logan dispatched perhaps the fortieth messenger of the day. Not being Talented seemed to have saved him from the brunt of the cost the magi who’d used Curoch had borne. Half of them were still unconscious, including Kylar. Vi had a white streak in her fiery red hair now, and Dorian’s hair was gone utterly white like Solon’s, though Solon retained his sanity, while Dorian had completely lost his. It was, perhaps, the better part of why Logan had spared the man. Dorian had turned at the end, and he’d certainly saved Logan’s life and the lives of everyone else—but they wouldn’t have been in jeopardy if Dorian hadn’t stolen Logan’s wife in the first place. Or not in jeopardy today, at any rate.
Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Logan almost knocked his new crown off. A soldier had found it waiting in the castle and had presented it to Logan, who’d lost his Cenarian crown in the fighting. They’d wanted to start the coronation celebrations to crown him High King immediately, but Logan insisted on taking care of his men first, and with Lantano Garuwashi and Hideo Mitsurugi reporting to him, as well as one of the magi telling him about the conditions of Khalidor’s human soldiers, the number of men Logan regarded as his own had exploded. Mercifully, he also had the services of eight thousand Sisters, most of whom had some ability with Healing. With more than one in ten of his people a Healer, far fewer died than would have otherwise. And Curoch’s magic had left them in a paradise where they’d expected a wasteland.
Still, he’d had more than enough work to keep him busy until long after dark. Part of him was glad for it. It was one thing to raise an army to rescue your stolen bride; it was quite another to figure out how to repair a marriage when your wife had thought you dead, had remarried, and had been sharing another man’s rule and his bed.
Logan rubbed his temples again and set the crown down on a desk. He looked around the room and realized he had no idea where he was. He’d left an immense throne room and walked at random. Kaldrosa Wyn and Gnasher and several other bodyguards had followed him, but they’d said nothing as they took up their positions outside the door. He guessed they knew he needed nothing so much as a quiet place. He sat.
There was a gentle knock and the door opened. It was Jenine. She looked small, fragile. Her face was gray. “Your Majesty,” she said formally. “I’m pregnant.”
“I know,” Logan said flatly. “Solon told me you bear Dorian’s child.”
“I’ve just met with a Healer. It’s twins. Boys.” Her voice was wooden.
It was a disaster. Sons. Nor would they be simple bastards who could be put aside: they were the offspring of a Godking and a Cenarian queen, with ample claim to the High King’s throne on the basis of their blood alone. Their very existence would be destabilizing. If Logan had sons of his own, it would only be inviting civil war.
“I found a Healer who said . . . she said this early it would be safe to abort them.” Jenine’s eyes were dead.
“That isn’t what you want,” Logan said.
“There’s more you have to know, Your Majesty,” Jenine said. “I—I loved Dorian. Not the way I loved you, but even as I watched him descend into the madness and evil, I cared for him. You can scrub his sons from my body, but I will not come clean so easily. I’m sorry. You waited for me, and I didn’t wait for you. If you wish to put me aside, Your Majesty, I will make no trouble for you. And if you wish me to purge my womb, I will. My duty to my lord husband and my country is greater than my own—”
“I’ve always wanted to be a dad,” Logan said.
“What?”
“Can you love me, Jeni?”
She blinked up at him. “I love you so much it hurts.”
Logan took her right hand in his left. “You are my wife, my lady, my queen.” He put his right hand on her stomach. “Let these boys be my sons.”
She jumped into his arms and squeezed him so hard he coughed. Then they laughed together and cried together and sat talking together for hours until Logan asked a question and Jeni didn’t answer. She was staring at his lips.
“What?” he asked. He brushed his lips, but there was nothing on them.
Then her mouth was on his and there was roaring in his ears and the room faded and her softness and warmth was better than anything Logan had ever imagined. Somehow she was on his lap straddling him and her hands were on his back, in his hair, on his face, always pulling him closer, and he was pulling her in to him, crushing her against him, begging, demanding to be closer than clothes would allow.
When he surfaced from that kiss, her eyes were warm, dark pools of desire, reflecting only him. Somehow her hair had become disheveled, but it had never been more perfect. He’d surfaced for a reason, but he had to kiss the curve of her neck, so he did—and then her throaty murmur demanded more kisses and he gave them gladly. Following the curving of her neck to his lips, her back arched and her hand was behind his head, pulling him down toward her breasts.
Damn, the girl knows what she wants. Guess Dorian taught her a thing or three. What if Logan the Virgin doesn’t measure up?