Page 12 of Our Lady of War

Seaspray hit her face as they walked across the deck, the little droplets misting her dark locks. It did little to cool the rage boiling in her belly, but she remained serene. This was nothing more than another battle of hers to win. She didn’t need a quill or magic or an immortal status.

To hold herself steady, Athania focused on the sounds around her, letting them ground her. The scuff of boots on the ship’s wooden planks. How it contrasted with the imperceptible swish of her fine slippers. The thunk of the sails’ ropes against the mast—a war drum keeping time with the crash of ocean waves. She heard no voices. Of a surety, they were speaking. At the very least, the crew was whispering about her, jeering at her. Or, perhaps, they feared or respected their commander enough not to do such a thing. Alas, it didn’t matter. In war, she saw no people. Heard no people. There was only justice, and there was malice. The two sides of her coin. And it was time to flip it.

They reached a portion of the ship that jutted out onto the deck, and Athania realized for the first time how elegant the boat was. It looked more like a ship for a king’s transport than a warship. One of the burly men escorting her used a skeleton key to unlock the door they’d stopped in front of. He stepped aside and gestured for her to descend the few steps down. She hesitated for only a breath before one of the men shoved her forward a step. Attempting not to tumble down the steps and roll her ankle, she almost missed the cracking sound of a slap behind her. Finding her balance, she whipped around to see the commander digging his fingers into the throat of the soldier she could only presume was the one who’d pushed her. He spoke in their native tongue. Athania could only make out a word here or there, still cursing herself for letting dialects slip from her memory. Embarrassed by the admonishment, the soldier ducked his head and strode quickly away. Athania stared up at the commander. Her husband’s murderer. Her captor.

“Fire in her eyes,” he muttered, a grin on his handsome face, and she hated him all the more. “Bathe, wolf. I’ll be in shortly.”

Opulent wouldn’t begin to describe the commander’s quarters. Somehow, it had been untouched by the salt in the air, as everything was polished to a gleaming shine nearly impossible on a sea-bound vessel. Beneath her slippers, the oxblood carpet was so plush that she longed to bury her toes in it like warm sand in the summer.

Shaking away that thought, she reminded herself that Igor’s body was lying cold and headless somewhere, awaiting a grave. She hoped to the goddess he would receive a proper burial befitting his station, and a sob bubbled up in her chest at the realisation that she’d miss it. She’d never get to say goodbye.

Swiping angrily at the hot tears slipping down her cheeks, her teeth bared and jaw tight, Athania flung open the lavatory door so hard it banged against a wall. She was too damned ancient for tears and had seen too much to act like a lost girl. There was only one way, and that was forward.

With purpose, she strode into the small lavatory, watching as steam arose from the bath, the water sloshing with the sway of the ship, a miniature mimic of the vast ocean surrounding them. Athania stripped off her sodden, torn dress, surprised by the level of sadness she felt for its loss—one of her favourite gowns. Reverently, she set it to the side and slipped out of her underthings and into the warm water. The sting of it against her skin began to soothe her aching heart and her unsettled stomach, but she pushed the looming serenity away. It would do her no favours until this was over.

Dipping her head back into the water until it crept up to the widow’s peak on her forehead, she chuckled mirthlessly. She was a widow. A widow.

As she was pulling hay from her wet locks, she heard the distinct sound of weaponry being laid out on a wooden table and closed her eyes. Grief and trauma were such dark, peculiar friends, showing their faces in the most mundane of sounds, smells, memories. How many times had she heard Igor’s weapons thunk against wood when he returned to her, stripping them off before he would wrap her in his arms, tangle his fingers in her hair, lead them to their bed…

The door to the lavatory opened, and the commander peered in. Too many men and women had seen her naked for her to blush any longer, but her neck still heated at the thought of this man seeing her. Nevertheless, she did not hide herself, and she did not look away from him. Instead, she raised her chin. “I have never been required to bathe myself, and I’m not inclined to do so now.”

The commander let the door swing open the rest of the way, and he leaned against the frame, arms crossed and a disarming grin on his chiseled face. “I’m afraid this ship is manned by men. I could fetch one of your little Orfordian friends, hm?”

“I meant you,” she snapped, letting the shock that rolled over his features bolster her. She would play into what he liked and ignore the nausea roiling in her gut.

“Is that so?” His cadence was cocky, but his arms fell slack to his sides. “And here I thought you were cross with me.”

This is where you lie, Athania. She tugged at the malice in her bones, a saccharine smile curving her lips. When his eyes landed there, she handed him the sponge wordlessly. He came forward and knelt next to the tub, letting the soapy water drip over her bare back, and she finally spoke. “Cross with you? For killing my husband or taking me hostage?”

She’d expected him to pause the gentle washing, but he did not. Instead, he chuckled darkly. “War is a nasty business, I’m afraid.”

War is ruthless.

When she did not respond outwardly, the commander spoke again, still methodically—tenderly—washing her. “You do not seem distraught about your husband any longer.” He ran the sponge over one of her breasts, then lifted her arm to wash it.

“Anyone losing their head is disturbing, but he was nothing romantic to me,” she lied, her voice perfectly steady.

“Mm. And yet, you wore his amulet.”

At this, she turned her head toward him, peering at him half over her shoulder. “He wore my amulet.” The best bluffs are doused in truth. “My father was the keeper of our village bell tower, at home with the winged creatures who found solace there.”

He considered her, his green eyes intense and one arm slung over the side of the tub. He looked at her that way for so long that she wanted to look away, but did not.

The commander licked his lips and sat back, letting the sponge float along, bobbing in the sudsy water. “I am not making you part of some harem.” The sincerity in his voice gave her pause. “I have no harem, and I have no wife. You will be my first.” He paused. “Only. You will be my only wife.”

A torrent of thoughts assaulted her. The rage that this man thought he could take whomever he wanted and make them his wife—make it sound like some valiant thing. The disbelief that anyone would simply select a stranger and claim them. The intense heat coming off of him. A pull toward him that made her loathe herself.

“Why me?” was all she could choke out.

“Why not?”

“Because you do not know me.”

He heaved a great sigh and stood, his knees cracking. “I’m accustomed to getting what I want. And while I might be the spoiled second son of a king, I’d rather select my wife than have her selected for me. You”—his gaze raked over her body—“are not weak, and you know what is it to be the wife of a man of war.”

Fire shot up within her chest so violently she thought she would burst into flames. I am war.

“I will return at nightfall. Do make yourself at home.”

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