Battles of Salt and Sighs by Val Saintcrowe

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FAE CAME INTOMagdalia’s chambers and began packing her trunk full of clothes. They did not speak to her. They never did.

They took the trunks out and they dressed her, all wordlessly, barely acknowledging her.

Then they came and took her by the arms to escort her out of her chambers.

She refused to go. She sat down on the floor and squealed like a child. “I will not go anywhere unless someone explains to me what is happening.”

It took two of the men to pick her up.

They carried her out of the room and down the stairs, and all the while she shrieked and struggled.

Outside the palace, the sky was white with the promise of snow. She was tossed into a chariot. She would have fought the driver, but it was cold, and the freezing air stole her fight from her.

The chariot stopped at the train station.

They put her in a compartment like the one she’d traveled in before—plush and lavish. Still a prison. She could not open the door.

She was in the compartment alone for hours as the train made its way through the countryside before Duranth arrived.

“Why can’t you tell me anything?” she demanded of him. “Why must the fae who serve me refuse to speak to me?”

“You want to be told things? You want them to talk to you?” He smiled. “Well, cooperate, then, Magda.”

She glowered at him. “Never.”

He shrugged. “I hope it won’t matter. You were… quite overtaken by the magic when I came to your bed.”

“We both were.”

“Yes,” he said. “We were. I lost control, but so did you.” He smiled. “I’m going to use that.”

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, and then he kissed her.

She shoved him off of her, putting magic into it, magic she pulled from his body.

He collided with the opposite side of the compartment and he laughed. “Isn’t it just too bad you can only do that if I’m around? Wouldn’t it be easier if you had some magic with some bite to it?”

“I hate you.”

“Oh, that’s the thing. You really don’t.” He yawned. “Well, it’s going to be several more hours’ journey. Might as well take a nap.” He stretched out on the seat opposite her and he really did fall asleep.

She went to him, pulling magic out of him, trying to make it work on the doors of the train, but they were all made of metals and the magic wouldn’t do anything to them.

Why wasn’t Duranth affected by the metals as he should be? Why were the fae so strong now? Why didn’t she hate him?

Finally, she did nothing, defeated. She stared out the window at the countryside moving past them. She watched as the sun set, as the sky turned orange, and then red, and then violet. Finally, it was dark.

He awoke again, and though he spoke to her, she refused to speak to him for the last leg of the journey.

Eventually, the train stopped.

They disembarked onto a train station out in the midst of the woods, somewhere to the south. It had snowed here recently, and everything was covered in a layer of sparkling white. It gleamed in the moonlight, and he led her down a trail through tall evergreen trees, their boughs coated in snow.

It was cold.

As they walked, Duranth spoke to her. “The legions are coming back, as I told you. There are several legions advancing, getting into skirmishes here and there with my forces. Some haven’t seen any action yet. There’s a legion lead by Naxus Albus, for instance, further south, close to your sister. Isn’t that a funny coincidence?”

She furrowed her brow.

“Oh, yes, Magda, yes, I know all about you. Anyway, never mind that. We’re much closer to a human encampment, and there was a battle here, only two days ago.”

And then they broke through the trees into a clearing.

The moonlight spilled down on a wide open field full of bodies.

The air smelled of rot and copper and she whimpered at the carnage.

He took her hand, pumping his magic out—some of it into her, some of it out into the dead bodies.

“No,” she said, trying to pull her hand out of his.

He tightened his grip, pulling her close. “Yes,” he hissed.

She tried to struggle, and he abruptly let go of her. She was momentarily too stunned to do anything at all.

Then he had his arm around her waist, the one that ended in his artificial hand. He pinned her against him, holding her fast. His good hand crawled over her clothes to close over her breast.

She gasped.

Her magic surged.

ONIVIA’S SKIRTS WEREheavy with snow, and she didn’t have proper boots for moving through it.

Larent had offered to continue to carry her, as he had when she’d been pretending to be a dead body wrapped in blankets, and she had insisted she would be fine walking, but she almost wished she had taken him up on it.

The lights of the human encampment were in view now. She could see them.

Larent had stopped walking. “Well, this is as far as I go, domina.”

She licked her lips. “I am going to try to get him to go to the capital.”

“I assumed you would,” he said.

“Even if I do lie about your whereabouts,” she said.

“You can try to convince him of that, but I don’t think he’ll believe it,” said Larent.

She considered this. If Albus thought she was lying to manipulate him, he likely wouldn’t be pleased. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise. She wasn’t sure what she would do.

I’ll have to see how it plays out.

She’d do whatever she could to get him to attack the Night King and free her sister. She needed his army, and if they had to stay here and put Larent’s army down first, so be it. She didn’t particularly want Larent to die, but if it was necessary to save her sister…

She swallowed. “You… it was pretend, centurion, all of it, everything I did with you, but I… I would like you to be careful, if you don’t mind. Try to take care of yourself.”

He let out a long, noisy breath. “You’ve been much better to me than I deserve, you know?”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“I…” His face twisted.

“Don’t apologize again,” she said. “What do you want me to do with all those apologies?”

“All right,” he said. “No apologies.” His feet jerked through the snow, and he seized her and tugged her against him. “Tell me not to touch you.”

“You never listen to anything I say,” she said.

“I will this time.”

She pressed her body into his hulking warmth. She reached up and traced his bottom lip with her forefinger. “You’re my enemy, centurion.”

“Tell me,” he ordered, his voice gravelly.

She kissed him instead.

He claimed her mouth, parting her lips, and their tongues tangled.

They kissed for far longer than made any sense.

Then he just let go of her without another word and took off through the snow.

She watched him disappear into the darkness before she started for the lights of the encampment.

There were men prowling the perimeter and one of them found her. He took her roughly by the arm and demanded to know what she was doing.

“Please, I need to see Legatus Naxus,” she said. “He knows me. Tell him it’s Cyria Onivia.” She gave her maiden prima name, because it was what he would know, and because she had barely been Prantia. Maybe she still was technically that, Prantius’s widow, but that hardly felt real, that identity.

Even so, she supposed that Larent had made her feel quite used to being called domina.

“If you’re a woman who knows the legatus, what are you doing out here?” said the man.

“Please, just tell him.”

So, the man dragged her through the encampment, through rows of tents with smoke traveling from metal chimneys poking through their tops, to a very large tent.

“Legatus, permission to enter?” he called.

There was nothing from within, and so the man repeated the request.

“Who the fuck is waking me up in the middle of the night?” came the sleep-ravaged voice of Albus. She was stunned at how easily she recognized it. Her stomach turned over.

The flap of the tent opened and Albus peered out, bearded, ragged, wrapped in a quilt.

“My apologies, legatus, but this woman—”

“Nivvie,” breathed Albus, gaping at her.

“Albus,” she said. “I’m sorry to come to you this way, but I need your help, and I know you might be—”

He reached out and pulled her into the tent, cupping her face in his hands. “Nivvie, Fortune’s favor, what has happened to you?”

MAGDALIA RESTED HERhead against Duranth’s chest. They were up on some rock outcropping, and she didn’t quite know how they’d ended up here, but it was good here, because they had a better view here.

Duranth had a his mouth to her neck, kissing her at the place where her skin curved, making her gasp. He had his good hand under her skirts. He’d easily found the core of her pleasure there, and she knew it was because he could feel her reaction through the magic. They were bonded together, and their magic was strong. He knew exactly where to touch her, how to touch her, and it was good.

Her pleasure—their pleasure—made the magic even stronger.

The magic furled out, like flags shook out from a great height, and every one of the dead things it touched stood up.

Duranth panted, rubbing her between her thighs.

She undulated against his fingers, groaning at each rush of hot liquid pleasure that worked its way through her.

And the dead marched.

She vaguely remembered that she hadn’t wanted to do this, that it was a thing she had thought was repulsive.

But she couldn’t remember why.

For one thing, whatever Duranth’s hand was doing between her thighs felt like paradise on earth, and it also made their magic stronger. The strong magic made everything feel better as well. The pleasure and the magic fed each other, a perfect circle, just like that time they’d touched over Csaer for the first time.

The magic felt good, and it was good.

Below them, the dead men picked up the weapons they’d abandoned in death. They marched forward, and as the magic grew, so did the surety of their movements. They were quicker than when they’d first stood up. They were better able to wield their weapons.

From this vantage point, Magdalia and Duranth could watch their army wending its way down the mountain.

Below, there was a human encampment.

The army of the dead advanced.

The humans had seen them, and they’d already started opening fire on approaching masses. But of course, it didn’t matter, because the dead men did not stop when the bullets burst through their skin. If the cannons blew off their legs, they crawled with their hands. They were inexorable and fierce, and they never stopped.

As her pleasure crested, the first of the dead men reached the encampment.

The slaughter began.

And she convulsed in Duranth’s arms, crying out her climax at the night sky.

This was power.

This was pleasure.

This was intoxicating.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! Rise of the Death Fae is planned to be a four-book series.

Find information about book two here.

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