Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (51 page)

She nodded for all she worth. “But how can you ever forgive me?” she wrenched out.

“Darling, you saved me. With the sacrifice you made for a dying man all those weeks ago, asking nothing in return, I’m all right. It’s over now. Dry your tears.”

“But I can’t. I nearly k-killed you.”

“Shh.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“Oh, Thaydor, I’m so sorry. You deserve so much better than me.”

“Don’t say such a thing. You are my love, and you always will be.”

“The awful things I said… I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know. Shh, don’t cry, sweeting. Everything will be well. None of this was your fault.”

“Even so!” she cried, furious at herself. She pulled back and stared at him in tears. “It’s too horrible. I can’t believe I stabbed you a-and poisoned you. You could have me hanged!”

“Never,” he whispered, wiping away a tear.

“Y-you should shun me! Or b-banish me or throw me in the dungeon!”

He tilted his head with a fond gaze. “Then who would be my queen?”

“Don’t smile at me,” she said wretchedly. “I don’t deserve it.”

“But I must, when I’m looking at my happiness.”

“Oh, Thaydor.” She hung her head as she gripped his hand. “You can’t possibly still want me after that. You have every right to hate me. I really wouldn’t blame you.”

“Ah, you know me, demoiselle.” He wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek, then lifted her chin on his fingertips. When she met his gaze, his cobalt eyes were full of love, his voice slightly choked with emotion. “I am nothing if not steadfast.”

A shudder of devotion racked her at his sweet, familiar words. She’d heard them before.

At the cave the night he had first insisted she become his wife. He had lived up to every heartfelt promise he had made to her that night, and by now it was clear that though their love might’ve been born in the
Kiss of Life
spell, this magic they shared was never going to wear off.

If it could survive this, it could survive anything.

“I love you so much. You are…everything that’s wonderful, Thaydor,” she whispered. “Please, never, ever leave me.”

“Leave you? Are you jesting, woman?” He firmly wiped a tear off her cheek, then gave it an affectionate pinch. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, now that I know you have this penchant for rushing off to perform noble deeds that only land you in trouble.”

Her tears stopped abruptly as he arched a teasing brow at her.

“Well, you do the same thing,” she pointed out.

“And that’s why we’re perfect for each other.” His dazzling smile widened. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “So, are you ready to be my queen? Because if you don’t want this, Wrynne, I’ll step down. Believe me, I don’t mind. I don’t need a crown. I could be happy anywhere as long as I have you.”

For a moment, she couldn’t even answer, amazed at the sheer size of his golden heart. His generosity. His ability to forgive and forget. She had nearly murdered the man, and yet he was doing all he could to comfort
her
.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Of course…if that is what you want. If you’ll still have me.”

“I can’t do it without you,” he said earnestly, which she very much doubted, but
he
seemed convinced that this was true.

She lowered her head. “Then I’m all yours. Do with me as you will…my king.”

“Hmm.” A wicked sparkle glinted in his eye.

He suddenly jumped to his feet and swept her up in his arms with a roguish laugh. Breathless, Wrynne clasped her fingers behind his neck and kept her stare locked on his handsome face as he crossed the room, kicked the door open ahead of them, and marched out of her chamber, carrying her out into the golden sunshine and long shadows of the early evening.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” he said. “I seem to recall promising you a palace before all this was over, and, you know, I always keep my promises.”

“Yes, you do,” she whispered.

He paused and kissed her soundly before setting her upon Avalanche’s back. Then, joining her in the saddle, he wrapped his arms around her waist, grasped the reins, and urged the stallion into motion.

Riding at an easy canter through the rosy light of sunset, neither of them spoke for many miles. Just being together was a balm for both their battered souls.

Wrynne laid her head on his shoulder, still feeling unworthy, but lulled by the horse’s rocking gait. In truth, she was dazzled. What
wouldn’t
this man do for her? With Thaydor’s arms around her, she had never felt more loved and protected. Indeed, cherished…

Prized.

Epilogue

Elysium

P
ealing carillons proclaimed the occasion of the new king and queen’s coronation.

The Golden Master conducted the ceremony in the great Ilian cathedral of Pleiburg. Wrynne and Thaydor were dressed in sumptuous finery, from the white satin brocade of her gown and his belted tunic to their long, red ceremonial robes of ermine-trimmed velvet.

Thaydor knelt before the altar with Hallowsmite at his side and one hand on the holy book as he swore the vows of kingship—to uphold the Charter, be subject himself to the laws of the land, and to defend the realm from all enemies, both within and without.

The aged prophet anointed Thaydor’s head with oil while the attendants sang the chants to procure divine protection upon him and swung censers of frankincense.

The Golden Master asked him a series of ritual questions, ending with the oath from Thaydor. “On my eternal soul, all this I solemnly vow. So may it be.”

“So may it be,” the congregation gave the solemn refrain.

Wrynne whispered it, too, her heart pounding as she then watched the old man set the thick, jewel-encrusted gold crown on her beautiful husband’s head.

“King Thaydor of Veraidel,” the old man proclaimed.

Cheers erupted from inside the cathedral, so loud they could have shaken the building to its massive stone foundations. The bells rang louder.

Thaydor rose and sent her a discreet wink as he moved aside.

She was next.

The ceremony was repeated, though the vows were slightly different. She was trembling with terror, or at least awe, the whole time, knowing how fallible she was. But she swore to herself she would never let evil darken her thoughts as it had during her enthrallment by the fire thistle. And she would certainly never pass judgment on anyone else again, especially not the Fonja girls, because now she knew personally how the wicked suffered.

Yet for all the noise outside, within her, the deep, profound stillness of the Light had returned, washing her with the inner peace that had always sustained her. True, her healing power had been lost, possibly for good, but it was a small price to pay to have at least got
herself
back.

Besides, what more could she ask after her sacrifice in the
Kiss of Life
had paid off in the most vital and unexpected way?

She had not lost Thaydor. If her murder attempt on him could not put a dent in their bond, then nothing could, she supposed, as she watched him with a private smile.

He looked more kingly by the second. He truly had been born for this, whether he knew it or not. Clearly, everybody else did.

Then the Golden Master lifted the queen’s crown off the velvet pillow and said the prayers over her. Her crown was fashioned on slimmer, more graceful lines, with diamonds inset all around, but light as it was, the weight of it on her head gave her pause and made her stand a little straighter.

“Queen Wrynne of Veraidel,” the prophet announced her to the people, as though she were a bride.

Thaydor took her hand and helped her rise, then they turned to face the congregation side by side. They gazed at each other as the official proclamation was made.

“Their Majesties, King Thaydor and Queen Wrynne of Veraidel!”

From that first moment of their shared rule, the cheers resounded from one end of the kingdom to the other. Thaydor leaned down and kissed her cheek, then smiled at the people.

In the front row of the church, Wrynne’s mother was weeping. Their beaming fathers shared an illicit toast from flasks hidden in their pockets. Their sisters were holding on to each other and jumping up and down in excitement, while behind them, the three young squires flirted with the two pretty girls, leaving off only to join the company of knights in sending up hip-hip-hoorays.

One voice—a particularly deep and melodious one—could be heard above the others cheering. Jonty blew Wrynne a kiss, then pressed his hand to his heart with a courtly bow to them both.

Brother Piero was clapping so loudly he could’ve been heard in the Bronze Mountains. Even Novus was there, frowning in distraction. The solitary sorcerer glanced around, looking a trifle uncomfortable in the throng—not the least because he was a follower of Okteus sitting in an Ilian church. Perhaps he was looking out for lightning bolts.

Well, she thought, he might feel that he didn’t belong here, but he was wrong. The man had saved her life. She wasn’t sure if the brooding sorcerer quite realized he had just become the most important mage in the kingdom.

The only one who wasn’t there was Reynulf.

Wrynne still cringed when she thought of him, though the red knight had laughed off her apology for her wanton propositions.

“You think a woman’s never thrown herself at me before?” he had teased. “Please. It happens every day, and who can blame them?”

Though he’d had the grace to spare her pride, his past crimes were a more serious matter. Given his role in letting the Urms through the North Gate and killing those poor sentries, Thaydor knew that as soon as he took the oath of kingship, he’d be required to bring charges against Reynulf. True, the red knight had only been following orders from King Baynard’s own lips, but he still bore culpability.

On the other hand, Reynulf’s actions in helping to expose the machinations of the Silver Sage
and
his skillful fighting on Thaydor’s side against the Urms in the Battle of Pleiburg, as it was being called, were mitigating factors. Not to mention he had personally saved Thaydor’s life when Sana had moved to stab him in the back.

For his part, Thaydor had not wanted to send him away—Reynulf was a valuable ally to have on hand—but justice had to be answered. He could not start off his rule by making special exceptions to the law for his friends.

So banishment for a period of eight years had been suggested by the Crown’s lawyers as a fair compromise in weighing Reynulf’s good deeds against his wicked ones.

Reynulf seemed to understand and accept the court’s judgment. He was too proud a warrior, and honorable in his way, to deny what he had done. Instead, he took the blame for his actions with his head held high.

Wrynne was rather surprised but very relieved he wasn’t angry. They had already had a taste of what it was like having Reynulf for an enemy, and she did not want him out there somewhere on the loose in the world holding a grudge against her husband.

Where he would go or what he would do from this point, not even Reynulf knew, but one thing was certain. He had abandoned his worship of the war god. He had told them he no longer believed that Xoltheus even existed, and if he did, Reynulf said he’d like to put a dagger in the god’s lying heart.

“Kill a god? Leave it to Reynulf,” Thaydor had murmured after they had bade him goodbye.

Wrynne just hoped the world out there would be safe from Reynulf without Thaydor on hand to keep him on the straight and narrow.

At least he hadn’t gone alone. Some of the other red warriors had followed him into exile; taking orders from Reynulf was apparently too strong a habit to break. Wrynne had heard that a dozen or so of the Fonja girls had wanted to tag along with them as camp followers, but they weren’t invited.

Wrynne and Thaydor had watched Reynulf ride off at the head of his caravan, heading for the coast and a ship to take him who knew where. He had waved farewell with a promise to let them know where he landed, but had scoffed when Wrynne had asked him to promise that he’d stay out of trouble.

Just then, a few officials beckoned to her. Her recollections of the past few days whooshed away as she and Thaydor were hurried on to the next phase of coronation day.

When they stepped out of the cathedral, the broad avenue was teeming with humanity and resounded with the deafening roar of the crowds. They got into a gilt-trimmed open carriage pulled by white horses and went in a grand processional to Lionsclaw Keep, waving to the people as they went. Their fellow citizens littered the road before them with flower petals.

“This is a lot to live up to,” Wrynne whispered.

“Tell me about it,” Thaydor muttered, then sent her a sideways smile. He was used to such attention and all the pressure that came with it.

When he took her white-gloved hand and raised it to his lips, the people went nearly mad with cheering. After the last king’s betrayal of his wife, seeing how much the two of them loved each other seemed to hearten the populace somehow.

Later, they again waved to the crowds from the balcony overlooking Concourse Square, where King Baynard had been rescued by his executioner. Before they retreated to the great salon behind the doors, it was time for the release of a hundred white doves.

All the cages were opened at once. The people watched the white birds go fluttering aloft and agreed it was a beautiful sight and a good omen.

At length, the sea of humanity took to their own feasting, and all those in the palace crammed with guests did the same.

Across Veraidel, from Mistwood to the coast, songs and celebration filled the pubs and village squares. Bonfires burned. Games and contests abounded. Even the smallest hamlets had costumed performers reenacting Thaydor’s past exploits as paladin.