Page 5 of Winds of Destiny

His face is hidden behind his heavy, viper-fanged helmet. I can only make out his eyes, glowing with a keen interest that makes me even more desperate to escape. “Prince Camrael,” he says in a sibilant whisper, andoh.

Oh, no.

I know that voice.

I was never permitted to speak in King Embros’s presence—not that I even wanted to—but I was required to attend some of his conferences with my father and sister. I would know the sound of his voice anywhere.

“What perfect timing,” he continues, satisfaction thick in his voice. “I thought it would be harder to get my hands on you, but it turns out you’re just as much trouble to your father as I’ve heard. I wonder if he’s more likely to curse me or thank me if I take you off his hands.”

No. No, no, no!The thought of my father learning that Embros has me, after all he’s done to prevent it, makes my tongue dumb with dread. I can’t let this happen. I try to push him away, but his grip around my waist is too tight.

“You’re quite pretty, for a man,” Embros goes on, and gods, will heevershut up? “I’ve never taken someone like you to bed before, but with the right paint for your lips and your eyes, you could almost be beautiful. Perhaps if I take you in candlelight—”

That’s as far as he gets before my dread turns to pure determination. My heart thrums with power as I push my hands against his chest, gathering magic like sucking in a breath. I release the winds into the space between us and end up torn from his grasp and thrown from the chariot.

When I hit the ground this time, it’s the sweetest pain ever. No more of his heavy arm clutching at me or his hot breath in my ear. I’m free, and I’m on my feet in an instant, looking for an escape route while Embros is still staring at me, eyes wide within his helmet. The reins to the lion’s harness are limp in his hands.

“Incredible…”

I don’t care about whatever he’s going to say; I just care about not getting eaten by the black-maned lion stalking toward me, dragging the chariot and its dumbstruck king along with it. I don’t have a weapon, I don’t even have my flute to move the whelvers, and the lion is just a body’s length away from me now.

I need a miracle.

Igetan arrow straight to the lion’s face, causing it to roar with pain and claw at its perforated muzzle. It paces from side to side as it scrapes at its face until Embros finally regains control of the reins.

Turo doesn’t wait for him to charge us. He grabs my hand and runs, pulling me toward the protection of the whelvers ringing the overturned wagons and their defenders, including, I can now see, huge, curly-horned armored rams that are smashing whatever they can get their hooves on to pieces. I can’t see any other mobile chariots, but that doesn’t mean they’re not lurking somewhere close. Better to be with allies, even if part of me wants to turn around and hit Embros with a wall of wind so hard it takes his head off. I don’t know whether my power can do that, though, so I don’t put up a fight as Turo leads me to safety.

As soon as we’ve dashed inside the line of whelvers, Turo drops my hand and turns to face me. I open my mouth, ready to defend my actions, but—

A second later, I’m crushed in his embrace. He’s never hugged me so hard before, like he can’t remember to be careful because he’s so happy. His armor is rough and presses painfully against the bruises I gave myself during my escape, but I don’t care. I embrace him twice as hard. This,thisis what I need, what I crave more than anything—more than discovering old and new forms of science, more than controlling the wind, more than a stark future as an unknown king’s spouse. I need Turo. Ineedhim.

“You scared the life out of me,” he mutters against my hair before— Was that a kiss to my temple? Did he justkissme?

How do I get him to do it again?

Before I can pursue it, Turo lets go of me. “No,” I object, trying to pull him close again, but he’s already scanning the area, sword at the ready. Right, of course—we’re in the middle of a fight, except it seems like the fight is winding down now. The sounds have gone from the clash of weapons and shouting to cheers from the Dellians as the remaining chariots vanish into the grass.

We did it. We’re okay.I look at Turo to share in the celebration, but the relief I saw on his face has been replaced by dread.

“Doric is hurt,” he says, looking toward the caravan. He twitches like he wants to go and check on him but can’t quite figure out how to make his body listen to his head.

My heart sinks; my father’s spymaster is one of our city’s greatest warriors. For him to be hurt badly enough that he’s not here to scold the pair of us… It must be bad.

“Let’s go see him,” I say, and that breaks Turo’s hesitation. He starts to walk, but stops after a pace and holds out his hand again. Is it just because he’s determined to keep me safe? Or does he want me close for other reasons? It hardly matters; I’m not going to refuse his request. I grab on, and we run the rest of the way to the caravan.

Apart from Doric, I count six men standing on or beside the two overturned wagons they have brought with them. Chests of cut, polished gemstones and rich fabrics have spilled out onto the ground, neatness sacrificed in the name of saving lives. Are these part of what Doric negotiated as my marriage price, perhaps? The thought makes me scowl, but I can’t follow the thought when Turo sees Doric and makes a noise like he’s just been stabbed himself.

The grass in front of them is scorched black, and sections of it still burn. Evidence of the Dellians’ vaunted fire power? There are two fallen chariots there, and bodies—one of them is cleaved nearly in two, despite the armor he’s wearing. Whoever was wielding that weapon must be something special.

As we approach, an enormous man with a thick, reddish-brown braid that trails halfway down his back stands up from where he’s been kneeling beside Doric. His ice-blue eyes are sympathetic as he looks at us, but he doesn’t put his massive two-headed axe down, his eyes scanning for more enemies even as he draws close.

Yep. Someone like this would do the trick.

“The javelin pierced something vital,” he says in a low, resonant voice. I’d love to hear this man recite one of our epics—there’s something beautiful about the way he speaks, even when the topic is ugly. “He’s dying.”

This one is as ugly as it gets.

Turo finally lets go of my hand as he crouches down beside the man who brought him to Zephyth all those years ago. I always knew Doric as my father’s spymaster, a man who chided me and deferred to me in equal measure. To Turo, though, he’s been the next best thing to a father. They even look alike, equally gray through their hair, both lean and hard and determined to do their jobs and keep Zephyth safe.

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