Blood and Memory Read Free Page B

held it gently but firmly in his large, gnarled, soldier’s hands. Liryk sighed heavily, and when he said “your majesty,” as though his shoulders carried the very weight of the realm, her intuition suggested she did not want to hear whatever it was he had to report. She had to bite her lip to prevent herself from begging him to say no more.
    He began to speak, his tone measured, his words carefully chosen.
    Valentyna looked at Liryk’s hand covering hers, trying to shut out the voice, concentrating on the gingery hair on the back of his, which made her think of Wyl Thirsk, of all people. Poor, lovely Wyl Thirsk with his thatch of orange hair and freckles. She recalled the way he blushed whenever her eyes glanced toward his, and his smile, so hard to win but bright and joyful when it came. He should never have died. He had fought courageously for a realm not his own, to save the life of his enemy. She had liked him the instant they had met, had felt a connection to him somehow that was hard to shake. Curiously the young man entered her mind at the oddest of times to this day and there were moments—none that she would admit openly to—when Fynch’s suggestion, that Wyl Thirsk was still among them, rang true with her.
    It was an odd situation. Normally she did not take to people so readily; she was wary of folk by nature and downright suspicious of strangers from Morgravia. But Wyl was not what she had expected. He was forthright and humble. Just a little in awe of her father, which she had appreciated because it showed respect—even between enemies. And her father had liked him and, more importantly, trusted him. That much was obvious. She recalled how Romen had admitted that Wyl had fallen desperately in love with her on that first meeting. How shocked she had been and, strange though it sounded, how flattered she had felt. There was something about Wyl Thirsk—something special. Despite his lack of stature, which she had gently poked fun at, he certainly possessed a presence…and there had been a chemistry between them. Valentyna recalled how he had not felt ashamed to weep in front of them or accept her comfort. She had admired that about him.
    Liryk’s voice spoke on.
    The Queen heard, as though from a distance, Liryk talking about a place called the Forbidden Fruit. It sounded like no establishment she would ever visit. Apparently Romen had gone with a woman. She knew what this meant but she tried to ignore it. She wanted to believe that the bathing and smoothing was an innocent activity to help ease the tension of that strange and joyless day. But it was more than a smoothing. She could read as much in the way Liryk said it.
    Hildyth was her name. Hateful name. She suddenly despised the woman…a stranger she had never met or ever would meet. A whore.
    Romen’s whore.
    She imagined the stranger laughing with him; unself-conscious at being naked with this private and yet playful man. The whore would feel his fingers over her body, his tongue, his lips…and Valentyna tried to convince herself, as these visions raged, that Romen was using the woman because he could not have his queen. His queen had banished him. Expelled him. Marked him as no friend of hers, or of Briavel’s. He had to drown his sorrows somewhere and he had drowned them at the Forbidden Fruit, sheathing himself within a woman called Hildyth. Is this what Liryk seemed so hesitant to tell her…that Romen had spent the night with a paid woman?
    It seemed not. There was more to the tale. As Liryk continued, her throat caught, and then began to close, as though it meant to stop her breathing. Liryk was speaking of being stabbed…something about a fingerless hand.
    She looked up suddenly. He stopped speaking, disturbed by her sudden attention.
    “I…Liryk…I don’t understand.” There was a tremor in her voice and she hated it. Hated it almost as much as she hated Hildyth for taking the pleasures of Romen’s body when they were meant for a