“Hmm. So how did you really know how to heal Me?”
I shifted restlessly, but she had me pinned, had me—quite literally—by the cock. So I lifted her off me and settled her against my side, turning to face her.
“Ambrose did say it, and so did you,” I told her. “He said you’re a fusion of flesh and flower. And you bit me, on the boat, asked for my blood then. You said Calanthe was hungry, and you were hungry. You’re some kind of extension of Calanthe. Calanthe was awakened by blood, and you needed to be revived. Those fucking wizards drained you of your blood, so I gave it back to you.”
A smile curved her lips, delight illuminating her eyes. “You have the intuition of a king, Conrí. Who’d have guessed?”
“I’m no king.” But the denial was reflexive. Kara had said that to me as we stood in the ruins of the temple at Cradysica, in a rare burst of sentiment. You are Conrí. Our king. My king. Now these people’s king.
“But you are. I think you knew what to do for Me because you are a true king, and you know intuitively how to tend the land.”
“Are you the land in this equation?” I teased.
“Obviously,” she breathed. She kissed me, and I tasted the salt of my blood on her lips, along with nectar, like the honeysuckle blossoms Rhéiane and I would pick, sucking the plucked tips of their sweetness. “Tend to Me, Con.”
“Always,” I said into her mouth. It didn’t matter if she wanted to be married to me. I was married to her the same way I belonged to lost Oriel. Something in me shifted and settled, the rightness of it glowing with surety. The king loved the land; the land didn’t necessarily love him back. But it did belong to him, and Lia was mine.
She’d been holding her injured hand carefully away, the twig fingers flexing like she wanted to touch me with them. I kissed her, feeling her open to my mouth, then touched my hand to the regrowing one. She tensed, pausing in her lush pleasuring.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, pulling back to see her face.
“No.” She searched my eyes. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” We both turned our heads to watch as I threaded my fingers with the slender twigs of hers. They felt both delicate and strong, like the new limbs of a willow tree. Our hands joined, I brought them closer, brushing one of the slender fronds with a kiss. It smelled green, the leafy scent that was Lia. “I love all of you,” I told her.
She smiled and drew me into a kiss, opening like a blossom, heated and redolent of life. Much later, as I drifted into sleep, I realized the storm no longer howled.
7
When I woke, it was all at once, and I felt singingly alive. Con, his big body lax in exhausted slumber, lay curled around me, protecting me even in sleep. Bloodstains dotted the white sheets like crushed roses, the color vivid in the bright late-afternoon sunshine leaking through the cracks in the boards over the windows.
Sunshine. The storm had abated, at last heeding my wishes. That boded well for me getting a grip on Calanthe again. She still roared in the background of my mind but no longer felt entirely beyond my control. I could separate myself from Her again—a relief as visceral as being released from her grinding hunger. I still wasn’t sure how to pacify Her, or if I even could. Anure’s wizards, too, nibbled at Calanthe’s wards, searching for the orchid ring. I could feel their magic needles, poking at Her. I’d have to destroy them before they devoured me.
At least I felt finally able to face the possibility of trying.
All thanks to Con and his extraordinary actions. I studied his face, so much younger-looking in sleep. He’d come after me in Yekpehr, saved my life at least twice, declared his love for me—and shown it in so many ways. My heart wrung itself, full of so many raw emotions. As always, Con had a way of turning everything upside down. I didn’t know what to do about him.
But I did know I needed to get up and save my realm—if possible—so first things first.
Moving as silently as I could, I eased myself from his embrace, sliding out of the bed. I was so focused on not waking Con that I was standing before I thought to test my legs. They held me easily, vitality coursing through my veins. The orchid rustled in agreement, and even my twig fingers looked thicker, the vine webbing from the orchid’s band weaving through the lower part, forming a hand, the hint of a palm.
You are a creation of human flesh, the floral body of Calanthe, and an extension of the goddess. Ambrose had pinpointed a truth I’d only guessed at, perhaps half remembered. Had my father even known the origin of the infant crown princess the priestesses gave into his care? I thought not. He’d only known to protect me, to hide me from the sight of those who’d know me for what I was.
And now the wizards knew perhaps more than I knew about myself. I would have to change that. At least I no longer needed to hide.
My sleeping gown was spattered with blood—and no faithful lady-in-waiting had left a robe for me. So I put on Con’s black shirt, large enough on me to fall to my knees. When I reached the door, I discovered how we’d slept so long unbothered, and slid open the bolt. Con didn’t stir, so I eased open the door and slipped out. He’d been nearly gaunt with exhaustion, and hopefully would sleep himself out.
I padded silently on the thick carpets, seeing my beautifully appointed rooms as if for the first time. The windows out here weren’t boarded over, and flower-scented breezes wafted in filled with sunshine and birdsong, blue skies beyond. The graceful architecture, the works of art on the walls and gleaming in niches, all of it seemed new. When had I last truly looked at any of it? I would now. Pausing, I smoothed my fingertips over a marble sculpture of a bird taking flight. Drawn by a painting of a shrouded woman with a snake’s skeleton at her feet, I admired that, too.
I’d been granted a reprieve, a second chance. I’d returned to my home, my sanctuary and the refuge of so many. I would find a way to save Calanthe, and everything and everyone on Her.
When I opened the door into the outer sitting room, Vesno spotted me first, the wolfhound lifting his head from an afternoon drowse. He bounded for me, waking Sondra who’d been draped over a sofa—boots on and sword in hand, an ugly walking stick lying on the floor beside her. She was on her feet nearly as fast as the dog, lowering her sword soon after and gaping at me.
Ibolya dashed in from an adjoining chamber, most indecorously, skirts lifted high to allow herself to run. She slid to an astonished stop, then threw herself at my feet, pressing her forehead to them. I coaxed Vesno to the side—not easy, as he seemed determined to lick me everywhere—and Sondra came over to urge the wolfhound away.
I crouched down, placed my hands on Ibolya’s shoulders. She was sobbing, shaking with it. “Your Highness,” she gasped. “I—I apologize. I was so afraid.”
“But look,” I said, gathering my poise around me as if I wore my crown and full regalia, “here I am. All is well. Or will be,” I amended.
She lifted her tear-streaked face and nodded. “So many terrible things have happened, Your Highness. Do You truly think it will be right again?”
“Yes,” I told her with all the confidence she required of her queen. “I’ll see to it. But first, I need to bathe and dress, hmm?”