Page 154 of The Endless War

“Zarrah, you must—”

“Arjun,” Keris interrupted. “Zarrah has heard your counsel, and I know she respects it. But do not think that gives you the right to tell her what she must do.”

“Of course you’d support this madness,” her father snapped. “If she walks away from Valcotta, you can have her to yourself. Make her queen of Maridrina, as all know you desire to do.”

Keris silently met her father’s gaze, and a shiver ran over Zarrah’s skin as she realized that at some point in this long journey, he’d become a king. Not by law, but in spirit, and he was a force to be reckoned with.

“Zarrah is an empress,” he answered. “Not a queen.”

Her father looked away, the tension thick as she waited for him to decide. Finally, he said, “If those are your orders, Imperial Majesty, it will be done.”

She shifted her attention to Jor, who scowled at her.

“I’m too old for this.” Then he shrugged. “But fine, I’ll bring Aren the message.”

“We can’t leave you two alone,” her father said. “And Zarrah is not fit for travel.”

Keris lifted a hand and pointed downriver to where the vessel the Usurper had intended to use was tied to the bank. “You know how tosteer something like that?” he asked Saam, who lifted one shoulder.

“Can’t be that hard.”

“We’ll give you a head start, then set out down the Pyr,” Keris said. “Have a force meet us downstream before we reach the city.”

Zarrah saw the argument rising in her father’s eyes, so she said, “You all have your orders.” The muscles in her legs were trembling enough that it was only a matter of time until they gave out on her, and she wanted everyone gone before they did. “Go.”

Jor and her father departed, ascending the path they’d come from to find their armies, the group of soldiers rising the cliffs by another route to gather up their fellows. Zarrah’s legs lasted until they were out of sight; then her knees buckled.

Keris wordlessly caught her, lifting her into his arms while Saam went to the boat, drawing it close enough to shore that Keris could set her inside.

“You need my help?” Saam asked softly.

Keris shook his head. “I’ll take care of her. Can you …”

“I’ll watch your backs until dawn.”

“Thank you.”

The boat rocked as Keris climbed in, then helped her into the small cabin at the center. Grimacing in pain, Zarrah settled on the cot while he lit a lamp, used the light to dig through the supplies, and returned to her with a clear bottle of spirits and clean rags. “I need to clean the cuts on your face,” he said quietly, sitting on the cot. “It was her who scratched you?”

Zarrah gave a tight nod. “She … she wanted to make me ugly.”

“Well, we can add that to her long list of failures,” he answered. “Nothing could make you ugly.”

She bit her lip, then winced as he cleaned the long scratches down her cheek, his brow furrowed in concentration. “They aren’t that deep,” he said. “But Lara will have some sort of potion to help when we rejoin them.”

His hands moved to the buckles of her leather corselette and unfastened them. Beneath, the dark silk of her blouse was soaked with sweat, peeling away from her skin as he carefully removed it, eachmotion sending lances of pain through her torso. Every inch of her was darkening with bruises, yet she gave no protest as he ran his fingers along her ribs, her heart’s need for his touch far outweighing the pain. “I think only one is broken.”

He cleaned the cuts on her knuckles, then helped her out of her trousers to bandage a cut along one of her thighs that likely needed stitches but would have to do without. Retrieving a blanket, he wrapped it around her and then handed her the rest of the bottle of spirits. She took a long swallow, grimacing at the taste as it burned its way down her throat. Then she reached out a hand and knocked her fist against his armored chest. “It’s strange to see you wearing this.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Don’t get used to it. As soon as I have some certainty that no one is trying to stab me in the chest, I’m tossing the whole stinking lot into the river.”

“Good.” Her lip quivered when she tried to smile. “It does not suit you.”

Which was only half the truth, for he wore it well. He looked the part of the blood-soaked commander who’d led an army to victory, but that was not how she wanted to see him. The man she loved carried a book, not a sword. Had fingers stained with ink, not blood. Used words to accomplish his ends, not violence. This was part of him, she knew, but she hoped, prayed, it was one their victory would allow him to set aside.

As if hearing her thoughts, he began unbuckling the armor, dropping pieces of it onto the deck with loud thumps, clothing following suit. The lamplight illuminated the muscles of his body, and she trailed her eyes over every hard line and curve before he slipped under the blanket with her.

“Don’t think about taking liberties,” he murmured as she rested her head on his chest, their bodies fitting together as though some higher power had designed them as a pair. “I feel as though a herd of horses has galloped over me not once, but twice. I couldn’t manage it.”

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