Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) (53 page)

He knelt there for a long time, and gradually she saw his shoulders relax and she knew that she had reached him. Now that he understood, there would be no more talk of running away. She scooted close enough to him to feel his warmth and waited while the moon rose, the sky grew brighter and one by one the drums left off beating. The chirping of the insects slowed and grew drowsy.

‘I have something for you,’ she told him, and reached for the packet she’d concealed under her folded robe.

He took the flat bundle with a look of surprise and unwrapped the cloth. ‘What is—? Isa! Where did you get this?’

‘From the Nomas,’ she said happily as he lifted the top sheet from the stack of paper and held it up for them both to admire. ‘You can start your book again. You can write down everything Harotha told you about the past, and when that’s done, you can write down everything that’s happened here now.’

He ran his fingers over the sheet. ‘It’s so
smooth
.’

‘It’s from Daringal. The Nomas told me it was better than our paper – the best paper you can get. It’s made from the pulp of some soft tree.’

‘But how did you pay for it?’

‘Lahlil. She gave me some money before she left.’

‘And you bought me a present. I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful.’ He carefully placed the sheet back in the stack with the others, then looked up at her and said huskily, ‘Come here.’

They lay back in the scrubby grass then, and made love on his purple robe, not with the desperate, grasping awkwardness of the first time, or the frantic haste of their few secret trysts since then. This time they were exploring each other, testing their limits, seeking out the bliss that they knew waited on the other side of the pain; they were two people for whom the world would wait.

‘You’ll be a good king,’ Isa reassured him, tangling her fingers in the curls on the back of his neck, just as he did when he thought no one was watching. ‘And we will be together, when the time comes.’

He laughed a little, and flashed her a thin smile. ‘Thanks – but that’s not what’s worrying me.’ His expression darkened thoughtfully. ‘What’s worrying me is who we’ll have become by then. People change. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us. How are we supposed to keep it all from pulling us apart?’

She stretched out on the grass beside him and gazed up at the stars, searching for the answer.

Lahlil was concentrating on being still. As the Mongrel, she knew how to be still. In combat, it was often essential, and
in scouting, always – but that kind of stillness was preparatory to action; it was finite, and she controlled when it began and when it ended. This was different. This wasn’t about action. It wasn’t even about waiting. It was just about being still.

Slowly she drew in a deep breath, and just as slowly let it out again. The baby in her arms puckered up his rosy mouth and made a few tiny smacking sounds. Then he fell back into a deep sleep.

She went back to being still.

A grey haze drifted over the mountains and dissipated over the desert long before it reached her. The rich colour of the sand around her shifted as the pre-dawn light grew stronger.

A swish of sandalled footsteps approached from behind, and her heart, feeling as new to the world and as defenceless as the baby in her arms, swelled in anticipation.

‘Is he asleep?’ Jachad whispered. She felt his warm, wine-scented breath on her neck as he knelt down behind her and peeked over her shoulder. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of his face: his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. ‘Shof help me, he’s too beautiful to be real. Osharad. I like it – a little odd, perhaps, but it suits him.’ He knelt there for a few moments more, staring down at the tiny baby, his hands unconsciously resting on her shoulders. ‘Do you want me to take him for a while, give you a break?’ he asked hopefully. More gently he reminded her, ‘You’re going to have to give him to me in a little while, anyway.’

He lifted his hands from her shoulders and for a sinking moment she thought he was going to go away again, but instead
he sat down behind her in the sand and wriggled his back up against hers.

‘Here,’ he suggested, ‘lean on me.’

She did as he advised, and the slow, burning pain that had been spreading through her lower back began to fade.

‘They hauled out every tedious ritual they had for Harotha’s funeral. I left early,’ he said, his voice light and quick, but she had seen his eyes, and she could feel the grief moving just below the surface.
He’s hiding it from himself
, she thought,
not from me
. ‘But it was quite the spectacle. The wine was
terrible
. Nobody asked after you.’ He gathered his thoughts and then went on, ‘The
Argent
set sail in the afternoon. Nisha said to say goodbye to you. Again.’ She felt him shaking his head, and he laughed softly. ‘I still can’t believe she volunteered to take them to Norland in her own ship. What a showoff.’

She felt the rhythm of his breathing slow as he watched the sand blow around them in the dawn breeze.

‘What if I had never come back?’

He sighed, long and deep. ‘I knew that’s what you were thinking.’

She waited for him to give her an answer.

‘If you had never come back, things would have been different. That’s all you can know. Better for some, maybe worse for others. Who can say?’ His voice roughened; the grief was threatening to break through. ‘You came back because you needed to, and I came with you because I needed to. We both have to live with that now.’

They sat together in silence while the eastern sky slowly
brightened to a silvery grey. As he stirred at her back, she told him, ‘Not yet,’ and he grunted and settled back down again.

‘Nisha said she spoke to you about your illness,’ he said quietly, after another pause. ‘She said you’ve never actually asked Shof and Amai to be free. You might try that, you know – what have you got to lose? They might finally leave you alone.’

Lahlil felt the first sign, a shiver running up and down her legs. ‘Exactly.’

His fingertips crept over her shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘You’re not alone. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s not what’s worrying me.’

‘No?’ asked Jachad. He leaned further back and twisted around so that he could see her face. ‘What, then?’

Lahlil looked over her shoulder and into his sea-blue eyes. ‘I think I’m happy.’

The story continues in

FORTUNE’S BLIGHT

Book 2 of The Shattered Kingdoms

My dear friends and family, too many to name now, for their excitement, encouragement and general awesomeness. There are two more books in this series, so there’ll be loads more to come. For now …

My agent Becca Stumpf, recipient of my 99th query letter (I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere), whom I can never adequately thank for rescuing me from the slush pile or for her tireless work and reliably cheerful support ever since …

Jo Fletcher of Jo Fletcher Books and Stacy Hague-Hill of Tor Books, for taking a chance on me; for their marvelously insightful and sensitive editing, and for the magic trick of providing amazingly different but never contradictory notes; and for putting up with my rookie nonsense with remarkable patience …

Fellow author and unspeakably lovely person Laura J. Snyder, who blithely assured me that my book would be published the very first time we met, but who otherwise seems perfectly sane …

My amazing mother Joanne Manieri, for always believing that I could do something wonderful provided I took adequate
precautions against natural disasters, terrorists, deer ticks, black ice, under-cooked poultry and killer bees …

My daughter Prudence, who at nine years old is the kindest and most compassionate person I have ever met. Her good qualities will serve humankind well when she rules over us all as Goddess of the Uber-Nerds …

My husband Lou Flees – penultimately, of course, since that’s his favorite word – for being unfailingly gracious when awakened at 4am to inspect suspicious moles or identify distant beeping sounds. Without his support I could not possibly have written this book, or have had the chance to describe him in print as “Clooney handsome” (his phrase) …

And finally, the steadfast and true Lisa Rogers, who loses ten points for almost completely derailing this project by introducing me to Howard Overman’s
Misfits
, but gains a million points for making me a snow-globe with Simon’s picture in. I can always rely on her to tell me to get down off the ledge, out from under the covers, or away from the keyboard, as the situation requires – now being one of those times.