Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) Read Free

by his father's broad back, his whole body swaying up and down with the quick, smooth pace of Myra's loping. His father had taken hours to tell the story to him that day.
    Today the short version would have to do.
     
    Paris's frustration grew. He had seen nothing of them—lady, husband, or child—for almost a week. Who knew where they had gone off to? Or how long it would be until their return? His hate grew against the woman for slipping from his grasp so easily. He hated himself, too: how could one spend years in such a pursuit and fail on so trivial a matter? A quick flick of the wrist, a slash to the halter, and he was riding free, his annoying cart left behind for good. He drank every bottle he could find.
    The next morning he awoke to the beat of the blacksmith's anvil. He screamed, his head splitting apart at the noise. He grabbed at anything cloth to drown out the noise. Throb, throb, throb. He hated the blacksmith, the town, everything. But most of all that awful noise. Would it ever stop?
    Surprisingly, it did. And soon. He cringed, awaiting its return. He listened for all he was worth for the next blow—would it be a dull crash or the sharp, bell-like ring? Slowly his throbbing lessened. He could almost ignore it. Gritting his teeth he got up and woke to see the blacksmith and the redheaded girl walking into the wood. She had something in her hand, a basket of sorts.

 
    Paris slumped over to the creek and washed his face in the chilly water. His mind cleared, a little, and he sat there, a rare spot just out of reach of the morning's long shadows. A slight tickle of sunlit air reached him. Not much to warm up with but a promise of more.
    He trudged back to his cart. The blacksmith's path came into view clearly marked, for the dew hung heavy on all the untrod grass.
    His mind clicked like the gate to the palace garden in Kyriopolis. Maybe the Ring was still nearby. He moved swiftly to the cart and, after a slight change to his wardrobe, crept after the blacksmith.
    The path winded through the light forest, avoiding thick underbrush. It steadily progressed eastward. Paris was rounding a thick clump of oak when a raven screeched at him. He jumped, tripping into the branch that lay dead right in front of him. A few stumbling steps in desperation and he was down beside it, his head mere inches from a protruding rock.
    He sat there until the trees stopped swaying in erratic circles above him. He got back on his feet. First thing back in civilized lands he'd rid himself of this silly costume. In the present he contented himself with transferring some of the damp dirt from forehead to sleeve.
    He walked on, eyes wide open. He took in the sky, too, this time but saw no further sign of the raven. At last his patience was rewarded: he jumped back against a tree he had just walked around. His split second glance had caught a ramshackle collection of grayed wood on the edge of a clearing. It was not five score paces away.
    The lady was standing in front, hands occupied with something, and the blacksmith was a few feet from her. Next to him was a pile of more wood, a lighter color though. He was turned towards this, away from her, and—lucky for him—away from him, too. Paris sat staring into nowhere, back against the tree, whole body tensed.

 
    He breathed. It sound like gale-force winds. He forced himself to slow down. Most of him wanted to run away. What was he supposed to do with that overgrown brute standing around? He felt like turning himself in—her dark-browed eyes still implored him.
    Stop it, fool. The steady sound of wood being picked up and dropped revitalized him. He got his body back into control and bound his fears. He scraped against the tree as he turned to look. Not much had changed: the blacksmith now faced the hovel, leaning some poles up against it. She placed the bowl she was holding earlier back over the fire a dozen paces to the left of the house. They didn't appear to be talking: at any rate,