Quintus had trouble suppressing a smile at the news the bride master had gotten the worst of a transaction. Nigellus had long been renowned as a cheat and a poacher, but Albus blindly trusted him despite the carnage he’d caused. Along what should have been a peaceful northern front, several Mystic raids had been triggered as retaliation for this man’s thefts of women, leading to death and destruction on both sides of the truce line.
Albus waved his arms. “We promise satisfaction or money returned. This woman gave no satisfaction, only the scratches of a lioness and bite marks…not to mention the nightmares. One of her unfortunate husbands hanged himself two days after he brought her back.”
The reference to nightmares gave Quintus pause. The unpleasant dream Teasha interrupted had been another in a long line, some good, some bad, and most occurring well before he ever saw the sketch of Maynya or met her in the flesh. She hadn’t cast the evil eye on him to disturb an afternoon nap. They had a history.
“Thirteen escapes!” Albus railed. “Each time, this simple slave was rumored to be the planner, the ringleader, the instigator, the witch behind the schemes! We put her in the stocks, we flogged her in the square, we beat her to within an inch of her life, and now the peasants are riled up. They complain we’re abusing their saint!”
Quintus’s heart drummed with pride, not so much for Maynya’s actions but the fierce determination he’d seen in her eyes, despite the tortures she’d endured. What had she done to him? She’d steered him like a siren into a shipwreck of emotions.
Albus grabbed a vase of flowers and threw it against the wall. “I wanted to burn her alive. We should have nailed her to a cross and lit a bonfire!”
Quintus’s heart pounded harder. “I saw her dragging a cross up a hill.”
“I’m toying with her! Phineas advised against anything worse.”
“Phineas?”
Albus had another vase in his hands. He stopped short and turned. The rage in his features eased. “You’ve been gone too long, brother. Phineas serves as my head of state now.”
The appointment would have served as a slap in the face if Quintus cared. Phineas was no more than a common raider, one of a dozen thieves who stole brides from Sanctimonia when they weren’t too busy scheming to steal from the palace coffers.
For centuries, fractious tribal states scattered across this vast continent shared a single trait. They embraced command structures based on bloodline. Quintus was the second son. He should have been appointed head of state, his brother’s right-hand man, the moment their father died three years earlier. But Albus had chosen to leave the position vacant until what, he found the least suitable man?
No matter. Quintus’s second greatest desire—after this perplexing Maynya/Carla infatuation—was to steer clear of this madhouse of a palace and get back to the army at the earliest possible moment.
“Maynya has a following,” Albus said. “Our foolish peasants worship the ground she walks on, and Phineas says the death of a martyr might incite their revolt.”
“He provides good counsel then. Look what happened in Barcavia a decade ago.”
Albus arched his brows. “Ah, but I have a plan. Shall I tell you the story of the magnanimous king?”
The ugly gleam in the man’s eye sent a chill down the back of Quintus’s neck. “Save your stories for Phineas.”
“Oh, but you must hear this one! The king became smitten with a saintly slave, married her, and shared his kingdom. Then one day, the poor bastard suffered a grievous loss. His lovely wife died in childbirth.”
Quintus tried to control the twitch in the hand closest to the knife at his calf.
“Do you know what the unwashed masses did? They worshipped the widowed king like a god, rewarding him with devotion for making their beloved queen’s final days such happy ones.” Albus dropped the vase he’d been holding, scattering fragments across the slate floor in a hundred directions. “Beautiful things break so easily.”
Quintus’s keen awareness of his knife intensified. The temptation to end this man, Abel rising up against Cain, nearly overwhelmed him.
To hell with the masses. How had a mysterious woman managed to clutch his heart with so strong a grip he’d kill his own brother to save her? The western front would have to wait until he discovered the answer. “Allow me to stay a fortnight or two, Albus. I’d enjoy watching this fairy tale of yours play out.”
Albus elbowed him. “I knew you had a hint of mischief inside of you. We are brothers after all.”
“So they say.”
“From the moment I first heard about this proud filly, I’ve wanted to break her in my bed. You can have a go at her, too, if you like.”
The bubbling blood in Quintus’s veins drowned the simple moral code he’d followed all his life. He’d never lied, stolen, cheated, or plundered. He’d never committed murder. Not until now.
He bent for his knife, but two soldiers burst into the room before he could whip it out of its sheath and plunge the cold blade into his brother’s heart.
“The ceremony is beginning,” said one.
“You’re needed at the tent, sire,” said the other.
Albus grinned. “I’ve prepared a sacrifice to make this occasion all the more auspicious, brother. We recaptured one of the women Maynya set free.”
CHAPTER 30
Waiting for her groom
Dusty wind fluttered the upper folds of the wedding tent like a billowing sail. Maynya looked beyond toward the foundry’s plume of smoke. The breeze blew it straight north toward the forest. She closed her eyes, imagining the ability to spread wings and soar to the highest branches.
But she landed where she’d been standing, flanked on
