Love makes you weak. And foolish. That was the lesson he learned from his mother’s death. It was a lesson his current guest had, to Balat’s continued enrichment, never learned.
Irritation flashed in Balat’s guest’s eyes, but was quickly smothered. He leaned forward to pluck two shell-shaped lumps of sugar from the bowl and drop them into his cup, then sat back to stir the tea with a tiny golden spoon. After taking a sip, he said brusquely, “Delicious, as always.”
Balat smiled and leaned back in his chair, unoffended by his friend’s curt demeanor. Theirs had been a strained friendship for quite a number of years. “It is my pleasure to indulge you, my friend.” He made a point of sending his friend a small box of star blossom tea every year. As much a reminder of their past as a reminder of the power Balat held over him.
They’d first met years ago when they’d both traveled Mystral in search of the world’s magical secrets. After the fourth time their paths crossed, Balat made a point of befriending his fellow magical scholar. But although he and his friend had kept in contact over the years—Balat never lost touch with a useful acquaintance—it had been several years since they’d last met face-to-face. His friend found it difficult to leave home for any length of time.
That was part of the reason Balat had agreed to meet him here, at sea, rather than at Balat’s primary home—a mighty fortress built on the cliffs overlooking Trinipor, the bustling slave capital of Mystral. Leaving home for the time necessary to travel to and from Trinipor would have roused too much suspicion for his friend, and given how close Balat was to finally unlocking the greatest magical power in the history of Mystral, this was not the time to invite unnecessary scrutiny.
“So,” Balat prompted, “I take it you have reconsidered my offer?”
“I have. And you’ve brought what we agreed upon?”
“Of course.” Balat snapped his fingers. A servant hurried forward and, with a deep bow, held out an ornate golden serving tray bearing a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a small box. Balat set the pitcher and both glasses on the table and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a tiny crystal flacon filled with a deep purple liquid.
“You’ll find it much more powerful than the batch I brewed up for you before.” Balat unstoppered the flacon and poured a single, scant drop of the purple liquid into the pitcher of water, stirring it with a glass rod the servant produced from an apron pocket. “Even this is a much higher concentration than is advisable. To avoid detection, I recommend diluting a single drop in two gallons of water every two or three months and dispensing it no more than a quarter cup at a time. Would you like to sample it yourself?” At his friend’s nod, Balat poured two glasses from the pitcher, offering one to his friend and keeping the other for himself. Balat tossed back the contents of his own glass first, knowing his friend would not drink until after he did. He didn’t take offense. His friend’s suspicious nature was, in part, exactly why Balat liked him so well.
After waiting a few seconds to observe the effect of the drink on Balat, Mur’s guest sipped at his own glass experimentally, and his eyes widened.
“That’s far more potent than before. This is like drinking youth itself.”
“Yes, I’ve learned the trick of separating out the toxins so I can distill the potion to a much higher concentration, which greatly amplifies its effect and eliminates the side-effects you worried about before. The potion won’t bring the dead back to life, mind, but it does an excellent job of revitalizing whatever absorbs it. Short of drinking from the Fount of Æternis itself, nothing could do more to hold death at bay. This small flacon should supply you for twenty years at least.”
Balat corked the flacon, molded soft gold wax over the stopper to seal it tight, and tucked it back into its box. “As we agreed, I am including the recipe for making more.” He displayed a folded card, the inside of which was scrawled with alchemical notes. After laying the card atop the flacon, he closed and latched the box with a flick of his thumb, then handed it to his friend.
Balat’s guest immediately went to open the box, but the instant he touched the latch, bright yellow sparks shot out. Snatching back his smarting hand and shaking it against the shock he’d just received, he favored Balat with a scowl. “A protection spell?”
Balat smiled. His friend wasn’t the only one with a suspicious nature. “Simply a bit of insurance. I am giving you the extract as a show of good faith. When I have what you promised, I’ll send you the key to remove the spell. In the meantime, my servant here will bottle up the contents of the pitcher. That should be enough to last the summer.”
His friend regarded him with open bitterness. “After all this time, I’m hardly likely to betray you, now am I?”
Mystral’s most infamous slaver shrugged and gave another small charming smile. “Caution has always served me well. So, do we have a deal, my friend?”
Calivan Merimydion reached across the table to shake his hand. “We do. Before summer’s end, the Seasons of Summerlea will be yours.”
An hour after the sails of Calivan Merimydion’s ship disappeared over the horizon, a new set of sails appeared, these from a ship approaching from the north. Balat dined on a succulent feast of lobster, saffron rice, grilled vegetables, and glistening fruit as he waited for the ship to draw near.
When it did, an enormous, scary brute leapt aboard and headed straight for the dining table, ignoring Balat’s icy disapproval as he plopped down at the table and reached over to snatch a handful of grapes from the serving platter.
“You there.” The man known as the Shark, Mystral’s most feared pirate, snapped his fingers at one of Balat’s servants and pointed to the empty tabletop before him. After a hesitant look to Balat—who nodded—the servant bustled off and returned a few seconds later with a fresh table setting for the pirate. “I received your message. I take it your friend decided to come through for you?”
“He did.”
“We could do this without him, you know.” As the Shark spoke, a parade of servants came by, offering a wide selection of fine delicacies from the sea and local farms. He helped himself to three large reef lobsters, a salad, spiced cucumbers, roasted taca root, and a bowl of warm, crusty rolls swimming in melted garlic butter. “That spell you taught me has been working well. We can take the Seasons without additional help.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve done the calculations and consulted with my seers. Taking the Seasons without his help adds unnecessary risk. This is too important an opportunity for me to leave anything to chance. I want the Seasons spirited away without the slightest trail leading back to either of us or to any of my clients.”
“The Winter King will suspect at least one of your clients. The Maak hasn’t exactly been subtle in his pursuit of Autumn Coruscate.”
“Suspicion is a far cry from certainty. Without proof, they won’t dare start a war with the greatest military power on Mystral. And taking all three Seasons instead of just the one will help allay suspicions that would otherwise go naturally in the Maak’s direction.”
“And who would be the second person they’d suspect? I’m thinking Mystral’s most infamous and influential slaver.” The Shark gave Balat a pointed glance.
“True. But that’s why I have you—to give them other, more inviting trails to follow.”
“Hmm.” The Shark pulled off the tail of largest of his lobsters and cracked the shell with a flex of his massive hand. Pulling out the succulent meat, he drowned it in the bowl of butter and consumed it in three large bites. “And once you have the Seasons, I get what I want?”
“As soon as my transactions for them are safely completed, I’ll give you everything you need to destroy your enemies.”
“Then we have a deal.” The Shark shook back the long coils of his green-black hair and cracked one of the lobster claws with his teeth. “Shame those witches of yours can’t whip up a scry spell for me. I’d give anything to see that krillo Merimydion’s face when he discovers all three of his precious oulani princ
esses are gone.”
Konumarr, Wintercraig
“Holy Halla, home of all good gods!” Summer muttered the mild curse beneath her breath and tried not to gape at seemingly endless mass of perfect male humanity striding boldly down the crowd-lined streets of Konumarr.
Yesterday, Gabriella had been telling the truth when she assured her sisters she wasn’t the least bit nervous about the Calbernans coming to Konumarr, but today that same statement would have been a flat-out lie.
Beside her, Spring gave a stunned, wordless noise, while Autumn grabbed Summer’s hand and whispered, “I know what you mean. I think I’ve died and gone to Halla.”
The Calbernans had arrived. Fifteen ships full of men: a literal invasion force. Only this time, instead of being greeted with swords and arrows as they had this past winter, the invading Calbernans marched down the streets of Konumarr beneath a celebratory shower of flower petals.
Summer found herself shrinking back as the Calbernans, tall, dark, barbarically handsome, drew closer to Ragnar Square and the royal party that had assembled to greet them. She’d always found the Winterfolk intimidating, with their broad shoulders and towering forms, but the Calbernans were even more so.
They were practically naked, clad only in bright, embroidered cloths that wrapped around their trim waists and fell to mid-calf, fluttering open to reveal flashes of long, muscular legs as they walked. Each man sported a wide, jewel-encrusted belt, gleaming golden bands at their ankles and upper arms, and wide golden torques at their necks. All also sported iridescent blue tattoos that curled in curious patterns across their heavily muscled, hairless bodies, and all bore an iridescent blue tattoo that curled from the corner of their right eye across their right cheekbone. Their feet were bare. Their long, green-tinted black hair hung down their backs in springy ropes. Bells on their ankle bands chimed with each long-legged stride.
As if they needed chiming bells to draw anyone’s attention! Good gods, a woman could be deaf, dumb, and blind, and still be drawn to the Calbernans like a moth to a flame.
Summer’s stomach curled up tight. The Calbernans were shockingly primitive, their fierce, powerful, unrelenting maleness utterly and unsettlingly displayed for all to see. And try as she might, she could not tear her eyes from the biggest, strongest, handsomest of them all . . . their prince, Dilys Merimydion, Sealord of Calberna, son of the Calbernan Myerial, Alysaldria I.
He was huge. A few inches shorter than Khamsin’s husband Wynter, but nearly half a head taller than almost every other Calbernan or Winterman. Power radiated from him, fierce and unmistakable.
And he was beautiful. She could think of no other word for it. The long ropes of his hair were a glossy black that glinted deep, mysterious green in the sunlight, framing a face that was breathtaking in its symmetry, strength, and uncompromising lines. From the firm blade of his nose to the full, sensually sculpted lips, to the strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the deep-set, mesmerizing eyes of a bright, glittering gold. Even the exotic tattoos that swirled across his burnished bronze skin were beautiful, swirling patterns that sparkled in the sun and drew attention to every impressively carved muscle in his arms, broad shoulders, massive chest, and taut, rippled abdomen. More tattoos circled his equally impressive legs, teasing her with flashes of shimmering blue and bronze each time he took a step.
His bright, golden eyes fell upon her, she blushed and looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring, but the moment she felt the intensity of his gaze move away from her, she hazarded another peek.
Sweet Halla preserve her. He was magnificent.
The red rose-shaped birthmark on her inner right wrist—proof of her royal Summerlea heritage—warmed and began to throb, pulsing with the accelerated beat of her heart. Beneath the many bright, jewel-toned layers of her sumptuous court gown, a fire sparked inside Summer’s body, a hot, restless, hungry fire that burned hotter with every rhythmic stride of the Calbernan’s long, flashing legs.
Calberna’s prince was too big. Too male. Too unsettling. Too appealing. Too . . . everything. And for her, that made Dilys Merimydion pure, deadly poison wrapped up in a dangerously tempting package.
Summer Coruscate, the princess who could never allow herself to love, would choose a million lackluster Prince Rampions or consign herself to a life alone before she ever risked her heart and her sanity by wedding a man like Dilys Merimydion.
Leading the same army of Calbernari who had sailed with him to conquer Wintercraig and Summerlea, Dilys strode boldly down the streets of Konumarr to a much different welcome than the one they’d received only a little over six months ago.
Instead of swords and arrows and armed defenders, the city was decked out for a celebration. The streetlamps were twined with garlands of greenery and blossoms, and festooned with ribbons of ice blue, white, and deep, rich rose. Wreaths and blossoms hung from every door and window. Wintercraig flags—the white wolf’s head on a field of ice blue—waved at every doorway. And every plaza had been transformed into a feast hall set with massive wooden tables and chairs. The aroma of roasted meats and vegetables filled the air.
Winterfolk and Summerlanders alike lined the way four and five deep, and it pleased Dilys immensely to note that women and children outnumbered the men ten to one. They watched the Calbernans march past with wide eyes, and more than a few of the younger women nudged each other, blushing and giggling behind their hands the way girls often did when trying to catch the eye of a handsome man. That pleased Dilys as well. It was good to know his men would find a warm welcome here among the ladies of this land.
He knew the men following behind him were casting their own gazes across the potential wives gathered for the next three months of courtship—all while also keeping a careful eye on the heavily armed and armored Wintercraig guards stationed along the procession route, of course.
As per the conditions of his negotiated agreement with Queen Khamsin of Wintercraig, not one of the Calbernans carried a weapon, but no Calbernan—even unarmed—was truly vulnerable. They carried protection with them in their bones—the sharp, deadly battle claws and teeth, currently hidden from view but ready to snap into lethal place at a moment’s notice. And that was the least of their natural defenses.
Dilys eyed the deep, cold waters of the fjord that ran alongside the procession route all the way back to the enormous palace built into the steep mountainside. The brave young Winter Queen had either been very wise or very foolish in choosing this spot for the Calbernan’s visit. Where there were large quantities of water, be it river, lake, or ocean, Calbernans would always hold the upper hand. Dilys even more than most, bearing his mother’s great gifts inside him as he now did.
As much as he liked Khamsin of the Storms, Dilys hadn’t survived a lifetime of mercenary work by being a gullible fool. If today ended up being an ambush rather than a warm reception, blood would flow like wine.
It wouldn’t all be Calbernan blood, either.
When none of the Wintercraig guards drew a blade, he concluded that wisdom had guided the young queen, choosing the location specifically to put Dilys and his men at ease. And in that, she succeeded. Their procession to Konumarr Palace proceeded without incident, and though not as raucous as they might have been for their own kind, the gathered throngs cheered the Calbernans as they marched past.
He supposed that shouldn’t surprise him as much as it did. Dilys and his men had, after all, helped defeat the Ice King and his dreadful army.
The city’s main street led to a wide plaza that Dilys’s Wintercraig handler informed him was called Ragnar Square, and there, the procession stopped. Only Dilys and his officers crossed the plaza to approach the blossom-and-vine-festooned landing where Wintercraig’s royal family and Dilys’s future bride awaited.
Dilys let his gaze roam with undisguised appreciation over the three Seasons gathered just behind Wintercraig’s king and queen.
The reports and artists’ renditions of the three dark Summerlander princesses had not done t
hem justice. Each one of them was beautiful beyond words, with dark, silky skin, big, thickly-lashed eyes, and full, shapely lips made for passionate kisses. Each wore form-fitting, jewel-toned gowns in shimmering silks that exactly matched the color of their eyes.
Two of the Seasons—the auburn-haired beauty, Autumn, and Spring—watched his approach with bold, unflinching gazes. The third, a lovely, blushing myerina with tumbling waves of blue-black curls spilling about her shoulders, was more shy. She hung back between her sisters, watched him with wide, shocked blue eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking, then hurriedly glanced away from him whenever he tried to meet her gaze. That would be the little honeyrose, then. The sweet, sunny-tempered Season called Summer, beloved for her exceedingly kind heart and gentle ways.
He returned his attention to the two Seasons the Bridehunters had approved for him. Though he hadn’t believed it until just now, the odes to Autumn Coruscate’s beauty were no exaggerations. If anything, they did not do justice to her vibrant, stunning perfection. She was entirely exotic and utterly intoxicating. From her pansy-purple eyes and long, extravagant curls of deep auburn hair that reminded him of a spectacular ocean sunset, to the lush curves displayed to perfection in her deep amethyst gown. The fact that she was watching him with undisguised interest bode well for the coming months of courtship.
Although Spring—the princess the Bridehunters had decided would be the best match for him—did not possess quite the same jaw-dropping exquisiteness of the youngest Season, she was still any man’s definition of lovely. Her eyes a clear, piercing green, her hair a long, straight fall of inky silk that draped down to her waist, her body slender and shapely. Best of all, in Dilys’s opinion, was her cool, bold, challenging stare.
Calbernans didn’t fear a woman’s strength. They celebrated it. Admired it. Wed it, if they were lucky enough. There was no greater treasure than a bold, brave, fearless wife who would pass on that bold, brave, fearless blood to her daughters and sons.