Love is My Sin: Oathcursed, Book 2 Read online

  Hunter bit back a smile and stood up. “In that case, if we are finished here, maybe you would care for somewhere more private?”

  Fadeen smiled for the first time that evening.

  With a sharp look at Amma that did nothing to discourage her flirting, Hunter led Aran, Fadeen and one of his advisors to his private audience chamber. Fadeen sat in one of the richly upholstered chairs nearest the fire and rubbed his hands in front of the flames with a shiver. He seemed to relax a little then. Hunter poured him and his advisor the glasses of wine the Reethan preferred and Aran got the ale.

  And now for the crunch. What, exactly, did Nerinna have in mind?

  Fadeen sipped his wine, nodded appreciatively and came straight to the point. “Your crops have failed.”

  There seemed little point in denying it. Fadeen had spent four days riding from Mimirin, he would have seen. “That’s true. And?”

  Fadeen smiled, exposing small, uneven teeth. “And my chieftain wishes to help. If you will accept it. She thinks you will. I do not.”

  Under normal circumstances Fadeen would be right. The Gan and Armandians were too stubborn to accept help, or ask for it. But these were not normal circumstances. “I would think that depends on the form of help.”

  “Enough food to see you through the winter, and enough grain for seed for the next year.”

  Hunter’s glass almost slipped from his hand. Aran was not so controlled and swore under his breath. Hunter shot him a look and Aran blushed and kept his mouth shut. “I was under the impression that the Reethan had suffered just as much, more in some ways, than we have since the war. Yet you have food to spare?”

  Fadeen laughed softly. “Ah, she said you would be suspicious, that I should be open with you. I admit bluntness doesn’t come naturally to a Reethan. But yes, while our fields on Armand’s border suffered from the same mildew as yours, those on our eastern borders have been very fruitful. And we have less need for grain than you. Fewer horses and cows to feed. Our winters are much less harsh, no snow, so we need not feed them extra during that time. Our sheep and goats are our main source of food. They do well on what they can graze, and with our warmer climate, they can graze all year. So, what grain we can spare, which is much, and whatever other food we can give you.”

  A generous offer indeed, and timely. But at what cost? “In return?”

  Fadeen paused to flick a miniscule piece of fluff from his silk shirt. “Men.”

  “Men?”

  “Soldiers, such as yours. Not many.”

  “I don’t have a surfeit of soldiers, as I’m sure your chieftain is aware.” Although some could be spared. “And for what purpose?”

  Fadeen frowned at that. “That you would have to take up with Nerinna. I am here purely to make the offer, to open negotiations and make a preliminary agreement. There is, though, a caveat.”

  Of course there is. “Which is?”

  “Alliance between the Three Kingdoms. That we put all our ancient enmity aside.” Fadeen spat the words as though he could not believe he said them. “A marriage.”

  Aran choked on his ale and Hunter frowned him into silence. If that was all, they might get away lightly. “A marriage? Between who?”

  “Why, Aran and Nerinna, of course.”

  Nerinna

  Kadara, capital of the Reethan lands

  Chieftain Nerinna stepped out of her doorway in a swish of silks and a waft of perfume. The corridor was lined with shadows as the last of the day’s light bled away. She took a deep breath and started down the corridor, to where a tribal chief waited in his bed. Putting it off made the taking of pledges no easier to bear. And yet the pledges made it so easy to control the chieftains.

  In many ways it was pathetic, that they let her manipulate them so. But pathetic for her too. It ground her soul down in ways she did not care for, left her unfeeling to any man. Because all she was to them was a pleasing body. So all they were to her were insects, drones to move around and play against one another as she saw fit. Not one of them was worth more.

  But still, they held her bound to this. The loyalty pledge—a night with her in return for the fealty of the chief and his tribe. A loyalty she sorely needed right now that her eastern borders were overrun. A long-held trading tradition brought to the rulers by her father. And she couldn’t stop it, or not without half the tribal chiefs taking her from the throne.

  A shadow stepped out from the doorway, the stench of cloves preceding it. Arashin. Nerinna stopped, a flutter of fear coiling inside her. As always, he found her when she was alone, out of earshot of any guards or maids. This trip she always made alone.

  “Pardon, my lady.” The look on his face made nonsense of the polite words. Yet it wouldn’t do to show any fear. That was what he delighted in, as she well knew.

  Nerinna raised an imperious eyebrow. “Yes? What is it? I’m late.”

  “Late for another man’s bed, my lady. And yet you haven’t taken my pledge for some time.” He slid towards her and she pressed herself against the cool stone at her back. “If it’s not forthcoming, and soon, then my loyalty will no longer be to you.”

  She forced a smile. “Of course, Lord Arashin, of course. You’re not forgotten. The instant you return from the eastern borders, your pledge night will be my pleasure.”

  Though by then she hoped and prayed to be betrothed to Aran. Any and all pledge nights would be behind her, or that was her expectation in sending Fadeen to bargain with them. Once she had that betrothal agreed, she need only bed a man because she wanted to. She couldn’t resist a dig at Arashin. “If, of course, you perform adequately on the borders.”

  Arashin reached out a hand to her throat, a caress and a menace as his fingers stroked her skin and lingered over her windpipe. “The very instant, or your throne will be yours no longer, Chieftain. You need my tribe, you need me and my loyalty if you wish to keep that title. There is no issue with our performance. Make sure that knowledge is shown when you come to my bed.”

  “As always, Lord Arashin. Now if I may?”

  He stepped out of her path and she made her trembling legs put distance between them, grateful he knew nothing of Fadeen’s mission to the Gan.

  The Gan were strong, in warriors and in customs. A wife of their king couldn’t take a pledge. He would kill the man who tried. And their superior weapons, the training they gave every man when he came of age—unless every tribe sought to take her throne, the Gan could, and would, crush them, fight for the honour of their queen.

  If all went to plan, the Gan would return while Arashin and the others, the ones she most dreaded taking into her bed, would be leagues away at the eastern borders. With luck they would continue to know nothing until it was too late, until the Gan were hers, her protectors from the pledges and useful allies in the skirmishes along her borders. Arashin could then do nothing but fume—and oh, how she looked forward to that.

  Nerinna took a deep breath and tried a seductive smile. It felt strained on her face, as though the muscles were frozen, but it would have to do. She slipped through a door in a cloud of perfume.

  He stood up to greet her, the man whose pledge she’d come to take. An insect to make her slave. Or a leering wolf to make her his. A man whose tribe’s loyalty she needed, who promised men on the borders in return for this. A night with her.

  The bile curdled in her stomach. No, Fadeen and the Gan could not come soon enough for her.

  Regin’s Shrine

  Ganberg

  “No! I don’t know what she’s really after, but I won’t have you marrying someone you haven’t even met.” Hunter drained his ale and got up to pour himself another.

  After Fadeen had retired to his rooms—to await their answer in the morning—Amma and Valguard had joined Hunter and Aran.

  Unfortunately Aran was proving to be all too stubborn and naïve. “Why not? My parents had an arranged marriage and they were happy enough. At least until…”

  Yes, until. Until King Arall had been dr
iven mad by sorcery, murdered Queen Amariah and framed Hunter for the crime. Valguard still harboured thoughts that he was guilty, that he should have hung for that senseless death, even when Arall later confessed before throwing himself on his sword.

  It still hurt Hunter to think of it, to think of her. Amariah. The woman he’d secretly loved and could never have, could never even tell, because she’d been married to his best friend, his king. Because he had sworn an oath to both of them. Even now her death gnawed in his bones as a thing he could have, should have prevented. The reason he filled his days with activity so as not to think of it, and filled his nights with ale and duria.

  Aran looked at him hesitantly. “They did love each other, didn’t they?”

  Valguard smirked at Hunter, looked on the verge of making some remark, but Hunter’s glare stopped him. The knowing look didn’t leave his face though. Valguard sat down primly at the table, his vague little smile doing more to unnerve Hunter than a half-dozen swords aimed at his throat. Oku’s Prime Servant and his Disciples were far more dangerous than that.

  Hunter went to his desk and restlessly tidied the papers there, any activity to stave off Aran’s look. And answering the question. Finally he could put it off no longer. “They had a great deal of respect for each other, and a—a certain kind of love grew from that.”

  “But?”

  These kinds of questions had cropped up more often of late and Hunter didn’t know quite how to handle them, not without lying or telling the whole truth. Valguard’s smug face didn’t help, as though he knew more than he should.

  Hunter lifted his arm in his one-shouldered shrug, still staring down at the papers. “But arranged marriages can bring such misery. What if you hate her? What if she hates you? What if one of you falls in love with someone else?”

  Valguard snorted in disgust.

  Ah, and there was the crux of it. Because Amariah would not dishonour herself by going against her wedding vows. No man or woman of Ganheim would, though Hunter had desperately wanted to go against his own oath to king and country—to uphold his other oath and keep Amariah safe. To keep one oath would have been to betray another. But still, he should not have kissed her that last day.

  Their god was Oku, merciless god of justice and oaths, after all. And the goddess Kyr for the mercy he lacked. It was almost bred into them. An oath was a bargain with your soul as security. Oathbreakers were as bad as murderers, went to that same Bitter Dark after death. Suffered the same eternal torment.

  “Well, I won’t fall in love with someone else,” Aran said. “Hunter, we need this. If she can offer us enough food to see us right, then I have to. I’ll do anything to keep these countries together, to keep people from starving. You taught me that. My countries are more important than my wants.”

  “A very gracious gesture, Highness,” Valguard said. “Befitting your father’s memory. What is the precise offer?”

  “Enough food to stave off starvation and see us right for planting next spring, in return for a marriage, with Aran.”

  “And from us?”

  “Men. Soldiers, though she didn’t say for what purpose, or how many. And we’ve few enough to spare. But there’ll be a catch, I’ve no doubt of that. We won’t get this food without a hard cost.” It was hard to like a man who had wanted, maybe still did want him to hang. In Oku’s name, for justice.

  “So you’ll turn her down?” Valguard arched an eyebrow. “I think you let your emotions rule your head, as usual. Without this offer, this food, we’re a dead country. Aran, what do you have to say?”

  Aran looked from one to the other and blushed. Caught between the two of them, not an easy place to be.

  Hunter wanted to say it was all right. That whatever he wanted would be done. That they needed this food desperately, if they wanted to avoid starvation. But another part of him would die before he saw Aran in an arranged marriage. Before he would agree with anything Valguard said. He was letting personal feelings get in the way of what was right for Ganheim and Armand, something he’d always tried to avoid, so he said nothing.

  Aran looked up at him, regret plain on his face. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I have to take this offer. I have to do what you’ve taught me.”

  “The right thing to do, don’t you agree, my Lord Regent?” Valguard looked smugger than ever.

  Pride in Aran, that he would take this on himself, and dread of what this might mean for him warred in Hunter. But he couldn’t forbid it. They did need the food. Maybe Aran would be happy. “I’ll agree that we need the food. That we should go and negotiate terms, as requested. A preliminary agreement for now. But until we find out what it is exactly she wants in return, and more importantly why, I’ll agree to nothing more.”

  “You won’t regret it, I promise you.” Aran smiled and hugged himself.

  Hunter shut his eyes. The idealism of youth! Yet it made him proud too, that the son of his heart would do this. He wished there had been time before now to teach him more about the Reethan, but their own countries had come first in his education and there had been always too much to do. And he had spoiled the lad in trying to protect him, both him and Amma, he couldn’t deny it. Still, Aran couldn’t stay unaware and they had two days to teach him as much as they knew.

  He looked earnestly at Aran. “The Reethan are a strange people. Have you heard their saying Never trade with a man you wouldn’t share your wife with? That’s how the Reethan do it. Nerinna can, and has, used her body to take a loyalty pledge, to keep her tribes from outright rebellion, to seal a deal. As she’s doing now. By all reports she’s a great beauty and she knows how to use it. She’ll tumble any man to get what she wants. How sure could you be that she wouldn’t carry on that way? Bring you nothing but shame and dishonour? What if this makes your life nothing but extended torture?”

  Aran flushed and stared hard at a point on the floor. “I can’t be sure. But if an alliance isn’t reached, if I turn her down, how many will starve?”

  Hunter had no answer for that.

  ***

  Hunter strode across Temple Square, which was packed with stalls, booths and all manner of temptations but he didn’t see them. He rarely did. Today his focus was on Oku’s temple and the man who reigned within. Valguard. There would be an accounting between the two of them, and soon.

  He passed Regin’s small shrine where the Wolf’s sword, Shadow’s Curse, was kept and stopped for a moment. It was always a good place to sit and think. To wonder what Regin would have done and to work out what he should do. A smile twitched at the corner of Hunter’s mouth. Regin the Wolf wouldn’t have let himself get into this position in the first place.

  Hunter was too full of anger and a desire to choke Valguard to do what he should as regent and settle this with words not swords. He might be regent, might rule two countries, but the Chief Priest of Oku had a lot of power. Power that he would do well to appease.

  In the dark, lean years since the war that had claimed so many, faith had been an important part of the rebuilding process. Oku and therefore Valguard had become more powerful and Hunter hadn’t opposed it. People needed something to believe in. But he was secretly glad that Regin had people’s faith too.

  He stepped past two of his own off-duty guards who lingered near the door. This they did in turns, under no order of his, to keep the sword safe. Always Regin’s sword commanded such respect. He wouldn’t be regent without it. Without Shadow’s Curse he was just a half-able man in a land where your worth was decided by your ability to defend your country, your skill on the field. With it, he was Regin’s heir and regent. Regin the Wolf, Regin the Great, who had kept his oath for centuries beyond his own lifetime, and had left his sword to his descendent Hunter when finally he’d gone to the Halls. A man revered almost as a god among the Gan.

  At this time of night the shrine was all but empty except for the offerings that dripped from the sword as it hung in its place on the wall. A girl tidied the gifts, disposing of the flowers that had wilted.
She looked across at him as he slid into a chair in the corner and favoured him with a dimpled smile. Once he would have followed up that smile. But then, once that smile would have been mostly for him, who he was, not what he was. Not for the sword that hung over him, a sword he had never used since Regin had died. Had barely even touched except when he travelled, even though its power gave him his only real relief from the pain in his shoulder and arm. He had his own plain sword for daily use. One with no memories, or magic, attached.

  If not for the sword Regin had left to him, and the title Regin’s heir, the girl would not have given him a passing glance. Sometimes he thought about going into the city as he had once done, finding some pretty thing to court and keep his bed warm. To soothe his aching, lonely heart. As he’d done occasionally when he tried to deny that Amariah had his heart, when she was still alive. He’d had lovers then, to take his mind from her, to fill the emptiness in him where she should have been. None had lasted long. But he could not, would not subject himself now to the pitying smiles, the sympathy tumble. The ache that they were not who he wanted them to be.

  The girl left and he was alone. He sat back in the chair and laid his head against the cool wall. The muscles in his arm twisted again, drove their spike of pain up and into his chest, into his heart. Six, eight weeks ago—five years after the battle that had given him the wound—the pain had begun to worsen, past the ache of arthritis or twist of cramp in unused muscles that he’d managed before. Past the point where, when it came, it drove away every thought. To the point where the duria was now something he couldn’t do without. The only thing that made it bearable, the only thing that allowed him even the illusion of sleep. And still the pain grew every day, until he began to wonder whether he wouldn’t be better without the arm, without even the small movement he had from it.

  With a grimace he raised his bad arm onto his lap, about as much as it could manage, and forced the fingers to close into a loose fist. It was not much help to him; he could raise the shoulder and elbow some way but little else, and his grip was too weak to be any use. Even that clamped his arm in pain, as though someone held it in a vise and twisted. But he still did it every day, so as not to lose even that small movement.