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“I thought I might find you here,” Cardan’s familiar voice says from behind me, startling me and breaking my concentration. I lower Nightfell and turn to face him.
“You could have tried to make a little noise when you entered the room. It isn’t wise to startle someone with a sword in their hand,” I say, pushing my sweat-dampened hair out of my face.
“Perhaps. But you didn’t so much as point it at me, so perhaps I needn’t worry whether you’re armed or not,” he grins.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t stab you,” I retort. He merely hums in response, and I wonder what the truth is. Whether he believes I would or I wouldn’t, he’s unwilling to say.
He takes a step closer and I notice that his face is bare of it's usual golden shimmer and he’s wearing a plain black cloak. He must have had some time to wash and change before heading down to the Court of Shadows, where I’ve been practicing my swordsmanship since I left the brugh after dinner. Leaving Cardan to the revelry on his own.
“Are you planning on sneaking out this evening?” I ask, sweeping the tip of my sword up to point out his attire.
“Only if you wish to. I came to see if I could lure you away. You’ve been down here for quite some time,” he says.
That makes me smile. That he missed me.
“I didn’t realize,” I say honestly. “I’m having a hard time unwinding.” Despite having no immediate threats, court politics are always stressful. There are always dangers lurking throughout Elfhame, and I worry that I cannot anticipate them all.
“Why aren’t you sparring with The Ghost?” he asks.
“I sent him home. I knew he’d rather be spending time with Taryn. And every time we spar lately, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s probably old enough to be our father but he’s also my sister’s... boyfriend? It’s distracting. And kind of gross,” I say, making a face. He laughs.
“Then why not just drink some wine to ease your tension like the rest of us do?” I know he is teasing. I still haven’t developed a taste for alcohol, and do not drink beyond making toasts at feasts and revels.
“I needed to burn off some nervous energy. Wine doesn’t really help with that,” I answer.
“I know something that can help burn off that nervous energy,” Cardan murmurs, voice all honey and silk. He raises a black eyebrow and gives me his most mischievous grin. A sudden spike of heat rushes through me, and I know my face is flushed.
It has been months since I returned to Elfhame, since Cardan was cursed and then restored, since we began ruling together. Since we began sleeping together, and sharing the royal chambers. Since it became public knowledge that we are married -- something that is definitely still weird if I think about it too hard. The better part of a year has passed, and I still get a little flustered whenever he’s particularly forward. It probably encourages him, actually.
Not that I mind it. Not really.
“How about… I’ll try your way if you can disarm me.” I nod at the rack of weapons on a wall of the training room. My training room.
The Roach told me that it was something Cardan had insisted on for the new Court of Shadows. For me. Cardan and I had never actually talked about my training habits, but he must have made some assumptions about them based on what he had seen, what he had known. Those assumptions had made me feel truly and completely seen.
“My way?” That mischievous grin seems to grow wider. “Very well, Jude.”
Cardan goes to the rack, removing and hanging up his cloak before retrieving his sword -- his own sword, made for him by the newest resident smith at the palace. I was a little surprised when he had recruited my help in having it commissioned for him, as I knew he wasn’t partial to swordplay.
He had responded by telling me that perhaps he would find it more interesting with an instructor he was fond of looking at.
He turns back toward me and slices his sword through the air in large, sweeping strokes and then smaller ones. I catch myself looking him up and down as he moves. He is wearing plain black clothing, but it is still perfectly tailored to his frame. He catches my eye and I know he caught me staring, that he knows I wasn’t even thinking about critiquing his form. He grins at me again, and I glare back at him.
“Are you ready, then?” I ask, trying to sound detached.
He takes another few passes with his sword, these ones more purposeful. His skills with a blade are improving, but he still has a long way to go. He seems to sense the same thing in those few movements.
“I may have been a little overconfident in agreeing to your terms. How about we spar until I get under your guard, rather than disarming you?” he asks.
You’re always under my guard. The thought comes to me unbidden, comforting and startling in equal measure. Rather than say that, I try to appear as though I am considering his proposal.
“Alright,” I finally respond. “As a reward for your humility in acknowledging my superior swordsmanship, I will accept your terms.”
“Very generous, my queen,” he says, giving me a small bow and taking up a ready position.
I step toward him and raise Nightfell. His gaze sweeps over me slowly, his face full of determination and desire. I feel the force of his attention like a caress, intimate and possessive. I find my cheeks heating, unsure if his reaction is sincere or if it is an attempt to throw me off balance before we even begin.
I clear my throat.
“Are you quite done ogling me?” I raise an eyebrow as his eyes meet mine.
“I wasn’t ogling. I was. . . admiring your form.” He grins and lets his eyes wander again. I’m pretty sure there’s a blush all the way to my toes, but I refuse to be distracted by it. I hate that he knows how to use his charm on me, and that I’m responsible for the fact that he views it as a weapon to be wielded.
“Let’s begin, then,” I say.
Because his sword is at the ready, I don’t give him any other warning before I advance. I take a cautious swing to test his reflexes, neither as fast nor as strong as I know he is capable of deflecting. He blocks it effortlessly and I am pleased that he was still paying enough attention to be ready for my attack.
He does not return to a defensive position as I expect, but immediately presses into the offense. He swings quickly, but I parry. I see him ready to strike again and step out of his reach, allowing him to waste the effort. There are two ways I usually win with Cardan: I either let him tire himself out with repeated attempts to land a blow, or I tire him out by putting him on the defensive until he makes a mistake.
Since we have been practicing regularly, he has the skill to hold his own in a sparring match, but not the stamina. He has gotten strong, but he still moves a half a beat too slowly, still having to think about what he will do before he moves. My own body reacts more reflexively, a lifetime of training and practice informing my steps without conscious thought.
He swings and jabs and strikes, over and over again. I deflect and parry and avoid his attacks, watching as the effort begins to take its toll on him. His breath is coming more rapidly, and his face is beginning to slip just a little. While he never wears the haughty expression I am used to seeing him deploy in public, he tries to keep his face cool and neutral when we spar. Now he looks intently focused on our battle, his eyebrows furrowed just a little in frustration.
“You seem to be tiring, my king,” I say, twisting away from him as he tries to press me backward toward the wall. “Are you ready to concede?”
His movements have become slower, his strike not as powerful as it was when we began. To his credit, I am also moving more slowly and my hair is damp with sweat. Each of his movements seems to be taking more and more concentration.
“Perhaps, my queen.” He strikes, and I block his blow but he continues pressing, our blades locked together. He presses forward and brings his face in as close as possible while avoiding the path of our crossed swords. He gives me a coy smile. “But I will save enough strength to ensure you’re properly spent before we’re finished.”
He withdraws his sword and readies to strike again. I automatically move to avoid the blow, but I am surprised to find myself falling backward. I bring my sword arm up instinctively in defense as I hit the hard packed earth of the floor. My free arm and hip are going to be bruised from the impact. I look down and see a vine coiled around the toe of my boot.
A cheap move, but effective.
Much like some of my own best moves.
He is turning out to be a much more apt pupil than I anticipated. He may have a lot to learn about swordplay, but he is an excellent strategist.
I look up, trying to school my expression away from wide-eyed shock to something more menacing. He is advancing on me slowly, his sword still raised, but he isn’t moving quickly enough to press his advantage. If he thinks he can best me by tripping me, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.
I point my toe and begin to pull my foot out of my boot, but as I go to move my body, I realize too late that there are more vines sprouting up from the floor. I try to scramble backward, but there are too many and I am caught around my legs, my hips, and the arm I landed on when I fell.
Cardan wasn’t being cocky with his slow advancement, he was using my moment of confusion to continue focusing on using his magic. I’ve never seen him do that before, invoke his connection to the land without his full attention.
I move to cut myself free from the encroaching vines with my sword, but the creeping plants have finally reached up my side and are beginning to pull even my sword arm down. I am well and truly trapped. Cardan tosses his sword to the side and stands above me for a moment, one side of his mouth lifting in a rakish grin that is taunting and beautiful. I am propped up on my elbows, vines covering my body, holding me in place. My hand still grips Nightfell uselessly.
“Clever,” I admit. “The initial maneuver was a distraction to buy you enough time for the finishing move. You’ve been paying attention.”
His grin widens, bright and mischievous.
“You haven’t seen my finishing move yet,” he says, kneeling over me, one of his legs between mine. He pulls Nightfell from my hand. To his credit, he doesn’t toss it aside the way he did with his own, but gently places it behind him, far out of my reach.
He turns back to me and my heart speeds at his proximity.
“I seem to have won,” he says, eyes dragging down my pinned form and then back up. Then, movements slow, he leans over me and the moment stretches until his soft mouth brushes mine. A ghost of a kiss.
“This hardly feels like losing,” I breathe against his lips. He lets out a laugh as he kisses me again.
I feel the vines around my arms loosen, although the ones around my torso begin to tug at me. Cardan slips his hand beneath my head and he lays me down gently, using his magic as an extension of himself. His mouth continues to move against mine as I yield, my back against the floor. His kisses are still soft. A question. A plea. He pulls back momentarily and searches my flushed face.
My arms fully freed, I trace a line from his hand to his shoulder then sink my fingers into his curls. I look into his black eyes, his pupils blown wide with desire.
“Is this okay?” he asks in a whisper. He knows how much I dislike being out of control, and his asking makes me feel safe.
I nod, and tighten my fingers in his hair, pulling him back to me, kissing him hard. I bite his lower lip and I feel his arm move underneath me, clutching me tighter, pressing my body closer into his. The vines are still coiled around me from the waist down, rendering me unable to shift my hips against him the way my body wants to.
As he trails kisses down the column of my throat, I glance down and see flowers budding and blooming everywhere. Tiny, fragrant blooms in every shade of red, from crimson so dark it is almost black, to the faintest pink. I can feel them now. Not just the physical touch against my body, but the sensation of them brushing up against my own connection to the land.
Cardan can sense that something has changed, and he begins to pull away and rise to his knees. His breathing is ragged and his hair is a mess.
“Don’t stop,” I say, fisting a hand in the front of his shirt and yanking him back toward me. He looks briefly surprised but allows me to tug him down, bracing his hands on either side of my head. “I was just. . . distracted by the flowers. I’m okay.”
His eyes scan the floor around me, the vines still holding me around the waist, pinning down my legs. He looks surprised to see them covered in blooms.
“I didn’t even mean to do that,” he admits. That makes me give a short laugh.
“You do that on accident kind of a lot,” I say.
My hand is still clenched in the fabric of his shirt and I pull him down further, our mouths sliding together again.
“You seem rather unperturbed by being rendered defenseless,” he whispers between kisses. His mouth moves back to my neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses down to my collarbone “You must like being at my mercy.”
I hum noncommittally and angle my chin to give him better access. I focus again on feeling him, feeling his magic through the connection we both share with the land. I peek down at him briefly, and see that he is totally lost in the moment, eyes closed and cheeks flushed.
“You know what I like even better?” I ask, unclenching my hand from the front of his shirt and slowly raking it down his chest, brushing my fingertips down the flat plane of his stomach. After a perilously long descent, I finally hook a finger inside the waist of his pants. His eyes flash up to mine and I feel the heat, the intensity like a physical blow.
“Tell me,” he demands, voice rough.
“Winning,” I say with a grin.
With my other hand, I swiftly pull the dagger from my boot and hold the flat of the blade against his throat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe as the vines fall away from my body.
“Your distraction was better than mine,” he says, grinning. “Although a different opponent would not be able to escape so easily.”
“I’m glad you thought that was easy. I still have difficulty calling on the land. And it doesn’t like to work against you,” I say.
“It doesn’t like to work against you, either. But I, unlike you, always have the purest of intentions.”
I raise an eyebrow and open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“I merely sought to disarm you. You’re the one holding a knife to my throat,” he points out.
“This is just a reminder that you didn’t disarm me. I’m not even touching you with any of the sharp parts,” I protest.
I begin to pull the knife away, but his hand shoots to my wrist and holds it there.
“Don’t,” he says, his head dipping down again, his forehead coming to rest against mine. He turns my hand and brings the razor-shape edge into just the barest contact with his skin.
“This,” he whispers, letting go of my wrist but not pulling away at all as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, “the glint of your blade, the edge of your dagger against my throat . . . it brings back a very fond memory.”
“You really do have depraved tastes.” I kiss him then, remembering that first kiss as our mouths collide and I hold my blade still against his neck. It is different now, of course. It doesn’t feel as dangerous, but the desire is still just as potent as it was the first time. Maybe more potent now that he knows exactly how to kiss me, exactly where to touch to elicit the fastest and most powerful responses from me. I expect him to make one of those moves now, but his kiss remains gentle.
A little frustrated at being one-handed, I stab my knife into the dirt floor. Cardan chuckles at the sound and pulls back. He looks at me with a kind of reverence, bringing a hand to cup my face and brushing his thumb back and forth across my cheekbone.
“Are you ready to go tire yourself out my way?” he asks softly. I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod and plant another kiss on his soft mouth before he rises.
He offers me his hand, and I allow him to help pull me to my feet. I pluck my dagger from the earth, and put it back in my boot, then retrieve Nightfell and return it to the scabbard at my hip. Cardan has returned his sword to its rightful place and pulled on his cloak. He holds up another cloak, as though to help me into it.
“That seems like overkill when we have direct access to our chambers,” I say.
“We aren’t going to our chambers,” he responds, mischief lighting his face again. I know he wants me to ask, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I let him envelop me in the dark fabric.
We pull up our hoods and I follow him out of the Court of Shadows and through the secret passageways beneath the palace. I know these tunnels just as well as he does, but I am surprised to find him leading me to a secret entrance to the Great Hall. Cardan cracks the door and peers out. I can hear music and chatter, the revel still carrying on in the hours since we left.
He grabs me by the hand and pulls me out, but we stick to the shadows as we make our way around the back of the dais. I try to move as silently as Cardan as I follow him to what I now think of as our secret room, the doorway covered in ivy. He barely brushes it aside and opens the door only far enough for both of us to slip inside.
Before I can even react to what I assume he’s brought me here for, he grabs me around the waist and pulls my body close to his. But instead of pulling me in for a kiss, I realize he's pulled me in for a dance. His other hand is grasping my own and his feet are already beginning to move to the sound of the music from outside.
I lift my eyes to his and find him grinning down at me.
“ My way,” he says as he leads me gracefully around the little room.
For as long as I have been teaching him the sword, he has been teaching me skills I thought would be useful to me as the queen. Dancing is one of them.
I have found that knowing the steps to a dance makes it easier to stay a little more in control, even when I get swept up by the compulsion of faerie music. Although I still cannot pull myself out of a dance once it has begun, I can choose my own steps rather than feeling as though the music is making them for me. When I do so, I am able to feel more of the exhilaration of the dance, and less of the dread.
At revels now, Cardan always looks for my signal at the end of any dance for which he is not my partner. If I touch my ruby ring, he will make his way toward me, cut in to dance with me, and pull me out of the crowd. Knowing that he is watching, knowing that he will always get me out if I am overset, is yet another way Cardan has helped me overcome some of the powerlessness I have felt all my life.
The music that I hear coming through the wall now is faint enough that it has hardly any pull on me. I could stop if I wished, but instead I try to feel the dance the way I felt the steps when we were sparring. Our skills are reversed here, Cardan gliding through the motions without any thought at all, while my movements are just slightly delayed -- the product of my having to consciously think about what comes next.
For a while, we continue dancing without much conversation. He says nothing when I make a misstep, simply leads me through it with the poise of someone who has done this his whole life.
The music outside grows quieter and slower, even the revelry beginning to die down. Cardan pulls me in close enough for me to lean my head against his shoulder.
“Jude?” his voice is soft, and I feel him running the tip of his finger along the rounded top of my ear. I open my eyes and look up at him. I hadn’t realized they’d drifted closed.
I realize suddenly that I love this room. It feels as though no matter what is going on outside these walls, only we exist within.
“Shall we go back to our chambers?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. I pull him with me to the low couch where we lie down together, his arms wrapped around me, my head on his chest.
“Let’s stay here a while.”