The Hidden Relic (The Evermen Saga, Book Two) (33 page)

Perhaps there was some end to this war in sight after all. Ella thought about Bartolo and Shani, desperately locked together in embrace. There was still love in the world, even amidst the horror. She thought about herself, and the little experience she'd had with love. After the day of bloodshed, the terror stronger than any she'd felt before, didn't she deserve to feel someone warm beside her?

Prince Ilathor led her to the wrought-iron gates of a three-storied stone building. Some Hazaran guards nodded and placed their hands on their hearts when the prince and Ella walked through the gates, following a paved path through a garden to the door of the manse.

Without knocking, Prince Ilathor pushed open the door, holding it open so Ella could walk in, and then allowing it to shut behind them.

"
Tish-tassine
," the prince said, and instantly nightlamps set into the walls and ceiling lit up from one end of the manse to the other.

"I suppose I should get to bed," Ella said. "Where is everyone?"

"The master of the manse and his family have vacated at my request," Prince Ilathor said. "There is no one here but you and me."

Ella and the prince stood in an expansive entertaining room. The floor was marble and there were framed canvases on the walls: Petryan landscapes and even a haunting image of the Hazara Desert at night. At the back of the room were thick carpets, low benches, and piles of embroidered cushions with patterns of crimson and gold. A squared column stood in the middle of the room, rising to the high stone ceiling, and each facet of the support carried a tall rectangular mirror, so that Ella could see the prince's broad shoulders, tall back and long dark hair, as he stood with his back to the mirror.

Ella could also see herself reflected in the silver. Her straight, blonde hair fell past her shoulders; it had grown long, she realised, nearly to her waist. Ella's green enchantress's dress, long-sleeved and hooded, clung to her body, the silk sheer and supple. The magic in her dress meant it looked new and fresh, as if she hadn't just fought in a great battle — hadn't nearly been killed. It followed the contours of her body in a way she had never been fully conscious of before.

Had her body filled out more, in the last year? Her calves were lean and her legs tapered only slightly from her hips. But her hips seemed a little wider, and her waist a little narrower. Her breasts were never large, but the silk of the dress pressed up against them, and if the dress had been lower cut, Ella was sure she would have been displaying cleavage. The skin at her wrists and throat was pale, infinitely lighter than Ilathor's, and Ella's green eyes looked seriously back at her from her heart-shaped face.

"Is it really just us?" Ella said in a small voice.

"Yes," the prince said the word like a whisper, or like the hiss of a snake, soft and sibilant.

He took a step towards her and gazed down at her. Ella looked up at him, suddenly afraid. They were from such different worlds. Was this really going to happen?

"You are my desert rose," Ilathor said. "It was in memory of you that I chose the symbol for my house." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord of Fire, how I wept when I thought you were gone."

Prince Ilathor lowered his head, closing his eyes as his lips found hers. This time when the shock hit her it was powerful, so strong that she almost made a sound. Ella's mouth sought his as tingling waves ran up and down her spine, and as their tongues met she felt a melting warmth welling up from inside her.

The prince's arm came round behind Ella's back, and she felt his hand caressing her dress in the small of her back.

Then, as they continued to kiss, with a smooth sensation of pleasure flowing through every fibre of Ella's body, the prince's fingers found the buttons at the back of Ella's dress.

Ella tensed, suddenly as taut as a drum, before she again relaxed as the prince undid the topmost button and moved to the next. His other hand caressed the hair on the back of her head, stroking the soft silken strands, before he followed the contours of her back down, feeling where her hips curved in at her waist.

He had now undone four of the buttons, and there was no sign of him stopping. Ella wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop. Part of her was frightened but the prince was gentle. As he moved onto the fifth button, his other moved around to her front, travelling up the smooth silk and touching the bottom of her breast through the material.

Ella's tongue and his sought each other, his lips strong and insistent, their mouths wet and hungry.

The prince undid the last of the buttons and broke off their kiss, pushing her away from him. As Ella's lips left his, a tiny moan escaped her lips. She could feel the back of her dress open to her waist, her skin bared to the warm air. The prince's expression was intent as he reached forward and pulled the material away from Ella's left shoulder.

Without being aware of what she was doing, Ella slid her arms out of the sleeves. Ilathor reached forward to assist, but she held his hands away, and at the end, she did it herself. She pulled the dress down to the tops of her breasts, and with each motion, more of her skin was revealed to the prince's hungry gaze. Her left breast came free, and then her right, the nipples round and pink. Ella blushed; she had never willingly revealed herself to a man in this way. She pulled the dress down still further, to her narrow waist, the material growing tight when she reached the top of her hips.

Ella looked past the prince, at the mirror, where she could see herself exposed, her golden hair falling over the tops of her breasts. It somehow drove home what she was doing, so that she knew it deep in her core. She was undressing herself for a man.

She pushed the dress down past her hips, past her black undergarment, and let the dress fall down to the floor, stepping out of it. She blushed again when she looked up at the prince and could see herself in the mirror behind him. Ella's flat belly led to the small triangle of material she wore over her womanhood, and the black against her white thighs drew attention to her hips and legs. Embarrassed, Ella hung her head.

She felt her head tilted back up, and the prince kissed her. She felt his hand on her left breast, teasing the nipple between his fingertips, each touch sending a shiver through her body. The warmth beneath her belly was growing so intense that she knew she couldn't stop, could never stop. Didn't want to stop. She felt his left hand now move to her right breast, until the nipple there also turned hard, so sensitive that her breath caught. His right hand travelled down, over her belly, tickling the little dimple there for an instant, before he reached the sheer black undergarment.

He ran his hand down to her thighs, and without meaning to, as their tongues caressed and his touch on her breast gave her feelings she'd never felt before, Ella moved her legs to stand slightly apart.

His fingers ran over her thighs, feeling the smooth texture of her skin, and then even through his kiss, Ella gasped.

The prince ran his fingers over the top of the black material, feeling both over and then underneath, and he pressed in gently. Waves of incredible pleasure flowed through Ella's body.

His other hand left her breast, but the kiss continued. He took hold of each side of the black fabric and pulled it down. Ella broke the kiss and moved away slightly, looking up at the prince and feeling the undergarment fall down her legs, finally kicking it to the side.

He looked down at her, not hiding the intensity of his gaze. A small triangle of hair, sparse and light-coloured, covered the cleft between her legs. Under his gaze Ella felt wicked to be revealing herself, which strangely sent more pleasure running through her. The prince reached down and covered the hair with the palm of his hand, and Ella felt his finger slip inside her.

He resumed their kiss, and she whimpered into his mouth.

Ella made him stop, holding him at arm's length while she removed his clothes. Soon they both stood naked.

Prince Ilathor pulled Ella down, to a place where carpets and cushions lined the floor.

Her legs opened as he found her, and Ella cried out into the night.

35

M
IRO
knew that all people suffered from doubts, but he also knew that not everyone's decisions affected as many people as his. He didn't know if that made his doubts greater, or more important. Were a father's doubts, when worrying about a sick child, wondering whether to sell his tools to pay for a healer, any less important? Miro didn't know.

He knew he was rash, and intemperate, and sometimes too informal both with his men and his superiors. He was often ruled by his heart, a trait he tried to temper with sleepless nights at the simulator and long discussions with Marshal Beorn or High Lord Rorelan. He didn't always know that what he was doing was right, but he believed that doing something was always better than doing nothing.

This time, Miro knew, without a doubt, that what he was doing was right.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Marshal Beorn said.

"Undoubtedly," Miro said, feeling the wind sting his eyes as he gazed out at the great city, far away, but unmistakeably in view.

"Can you see the spires of the Terra Cathedral?" Beorn asked.

"The four tall towers, near the dome in the north?"

Beorn laughed. "Your eyes are better than mine. But yes, that's it. Ralanast lies before us."

"Lord of the Sky, we've come a long way."

"That we have, Lord Marshal." Beorn peered intently at the horizon. "That we have," he said again, scratching at his beard.

There were three factors, without which, they would never have been standing here.

The ironmen had proven to be invaluable, tough enough to push through places where the explosions of prismatic orbs made the approach of men in light armour suicidal. At Carnathion, the glowing constructs smashed through the enemy, preventing a near-disaster when eight imperial avengers tore through Miro's pikemen, and at Goldhaven the walls that the Black Army boasted were unbreakable were broken.

More decisive still were the archers. Miro used his two divisions — one comprised of Dunfolk with hunting bows, the other made up of Alturans with rail-bows — like pieces in a war game, the lines and strategies of the simulator constant in his mind. He destroyed the enemy's mortar teams at Norcia, and routed the legion — the imperial legion! — at Cortona Gap. He quickly realised his bowmen's weakness was close combat, and invented new tactics as he went along: the running line, the forked envelopment, and the rearguard folly.

The third factor was the greatest of all, and without it the liberation of Halaran would have come to naught, no matter Miro's skill or that of those under his command.

The people of Halaran were rising up.

For many in Miro's army this wasn't a journey, it was a homecoming. The Halrana who had fled their home at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta were now making good on their vows to return. Many were from Ralanast, but many were also from the towns the allied army was liberating: Carnathion, Norcia, Goldhaven, Lonessa, Sallat…

As the Black Army fled before them, Miro's men entered each town to a hero's welcome. Flowers were thrown in the streets and people openly wept tears of joy. Singing and dancing carried on into the dawn, and as the Halrana under Miro's command were reunited with their families, even Miro felt tears come to his eyes.

He always gave these Halrana the day and night to spend with their families, and to Miro's pleased surprise the soldiers always returned to his command. Miro always gave a speech to the townsfolk, in particular directed to those men who had survived the depredations of occupation.

When they left each town, every man who could hold a sword came with them.

Miro's ranks swelled, so that he soon sent word back to High Lord Rorelan in Altura for more weapons and armour. Soon Miro's new recruits were armed with sharp swords and leather armour, unenchanted but durable. Rorelan even sent two hundred more rail-bows; it seemed he'd found a little more essence tucked away.

The most emotional time for Miro was when they reached the small town of Sallat.

Once, not long ago, but far back in the events of the war, Miro had been a bladesinger recruit billeted in Sallat while Prince Leopold awaited orders. Miro had met a woman there — in fact, she was still the last woman he'd been with — but when the orders came, the Alturan army had left Sallat behind. Less than a day later, the army received word that the Black Army had hit the town. They hadn't turned back.

Now, nearly a year later, Miro walked alone through the streets, his mind recalling Varana, the sweet Halrana woman who had taken him to her bed. Half of the town had been destroyed, and Miro was sad to realise he didn't recognise any of it. He took a bearing at the remains of the town hall, confirming in his mind only that Varana's house was one of those blackened hulks. The survivors — who still eked an existence, taking each day one at a time — told him she was almost certainly dead, killed when the legion came through. Miro felt a small sadness; he'd always known she was gone. He had been another person back then.

"What orders, Lord Marshal?" Beorn asked, bringing Miro back to the present.

"Marshal Scola will need to take his three divisions towards Mornhaven, to head off any attack at our rear from the Ring Forts. He won't have enough men to attack; we just need him to secure our rear from the enemy."

"What about us?"

"Have the scouts returned?" Miro asked.

"Yes. There's a place between here and Ralanast. It's high, and well-protected. The enemy know we're here, so there's little risk in being so visible."

"Good," Miro said.

"Lord Marshal?" a courier said, coming up the hill with a piece of paper in his hand. "A message from Ralanast."

Miro swiftly broke the seal and read the note. "It's from Rogan," he said. "The signal is a plume of green smoke."

Miro looked at Beorn, who nodded his understanding. Miro then turned his attention back to the distant spires of the Terra Cathedral, and the one hope he had never dared to mention, not even to himself.