Sins of Calate: BOOK II OF THE FOUR REALMS SERIES

Part XVI | Fara

Fear slammed into her chest, the power of it like a herd of galloping Varveh. The blood in her veins turned to ice and it felt like frost began to spread over her skin. She turned her cheek up to the moon and tried to steady her breath and calm the swell of dread rushing through her. The glow of the moonlight felt cool upon her, reminding her that she had faced worse.

With a tremulous breath outward she turned to face him.

Valdr stood just inside the door. His eyes were narrow with doubt but they widened as she met his gaze, a tremor rocking through him causing him to rock slightly. She thought perhaps his legs would not hold him.

Then he took a small step toward her. Then another.

One hand knotted in the thick fabric of her cloak, the other curled around the potent loop of steel in her pocket. For a brief, fleeting moment she wished she wore it still, wished she still had the power of his protection here, now. She thought about going to him, about throwing herself on her knees to beg forgiveness. What she told herself she would need to do if she were ever dragged before him after fleeing with Galyn.

But she had not been dragged or forced here. She had walked, freely, back to him.

Her brother looked leaner than she remembered, taller too. The cruel slant of his mouth had been smoothed away by shock and it made him look younger, though dark shadows hung like death beneath his eyes. She tried then to recall the last time she saw him. Then she tried to forget it. The king's robe of black and gold skimmed the floor by his bare feet, tied loosely at the waist under which she could see he wore nothing. His hair was ruffled from sleep or, she supposed, from his marital bed. Rancour scratched at her throat, turgid and bile-like.

She felt her gaze lower to the floor.

'Leave us, Dacian,' Valdr said then, his voice like tempered steel in the quiet chill of the room.

She had not forgotten the musical sound his voice, for did it not live inside her. His commands, his threats, his declarations, his promises. All had been committed upon her with that same tongue. That noble curse.

She swallowed and lifted her head to look at Wyll. He looked as though he might question his king's command, but then he bowed and backed from the room, his eyes never leaving Fara's as he went. This time the sound of the doors closing thundered like an executioner's drum.

Valdr did not move for many moments. He merely stared at her from across the chamber, his eyes over wide and his breathing quick. She felt of stone. Of marble. One soft breeze and she would crumble to dust at his feet.

'Speak,' he said. 'Speak so that I know it is not a spectre standing before me.'

'I am no spectre, Valdr,' she replied.

He blinked, and she saw something crumble behind his eyes, something vulnerable move into them. Tears. Scrubbing both hands over his mouth, he shook his head, lost. Her heart pinched, betraying her as it often did where her brother was concerned. The look he gave her was a plea for comfort perhaps, or mercy, and it only served to magnify the tenderness she felt for him then. Always these two sides warred with her. Love, hate. Disgust, reverence. Devotion, fear.

He moved toward her slowly, carefully, as though she were some deadly thing that sought to hurt him. When he was an arm's reach from her he made a soft sound, a scrape of anguish from the back of his throat.

He reached out, hesitant, to smooth his fingers over the curve of her jaw, tracing her mouth with his thumb. The scent of him flooded her nose; that rich intoxicating oil of darkberry and oakenwood. It soothed and sickened her all at once.