Queen of the Pale Ch. 04

4

Midnight Dalliance

By the time Rohen reached his bedroom in the guest wing of the keep, his stomach was so twisted into knots he could barely keep down his dinner. He still couldn't believe what had happened in the sitting room. The more minutes ticked by, the more the entire day felt like a dream.

Or, if things fell apart like they surely would, a nightmare.

Rohen let out a long, slow breath as he slumped against the door. The bedroom here was easily twice the size of his quarters in Griffonwing Keep, yet he still felt like the walls were closing in around him. If he had any sense, he would take off his armor, lie down on the bed, and pretend that nothing had happened with Delaryn. It was the only way he could perform his duties—hell, it was the only way to keep the hangman's noose from his neck. Besides, there was no way in the bloody void she would actually be down there waiting for him tonight...right?

"Guardian forgive me," he breathed, banging his leather gauntlet against the doorframe. He suddenly wished that he had been sent straight to the front lines. The Chol were far less intimidating than a beautiful woman with a tiara on her head.

If I don't go to see her, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. But if I do go and see her, I probably won't have much of a life. What if King Thedric wakes up to an empty bed? What if that old priestess is a light sleeper? What if the gods themselves decide to smite us for sinning in their chapel?

Rohen forced his eyes back open and turned his head to stare into the hearth beside the bed. The castle servants had helpfully started up a fire before he had arrived; if this had been any other day, he would have gladly stripped down to his smallclothes and crawled beneath the sheets. Dawn would be here before he knew it, and it was entirely possible they could encounter wandering Chol on the road to Rimewreath. He needed to be rested and ready.

Instead, he laid down atop the sheets and stared up at the ceiling, his heart thumping in his chest and his manhood stirring in his trousers. He could only imagine how much Sehris and Zin would be laughing at his discomfort right now. They had probably reached Dorelas already, and they may have even been asleep. Hopefully they were smart enough not to get into any trouble, even if he wasn't...

Shaking away the thought, Rohen turned and forced himself to stare at the painting on the mantle above the fireplace. It was clearly new, given the way it depicted Delaryn's mother, the "Winter Witch," unleashing her dark magic during the final battle of the last Culling nineteen years ago. The painting was meant to be horrifying; the white-robed woman was surrounded by green fire ostensibly harvested from the Pale itself—a feat that should have been impossible for any mortal, even a sorceress, considering that only demons could truly channel the vile energies of the spirit realm.

Rohen had heard a dozen different versions of how the battle had played out, but the one consistent thread was that the Darenthi army had been on the verge of defeat. The Chol had appeared in greater numbers than expected, and they had slaughtered their way across the countryside. Even the Templar hadn't been able to drive them back. Just before the Godcursed had overrun Gareth's Stand, the Winter Witch had revealed her dark power. In an unparalleled act of sacrilege, she had summoned demons from the Pale to possess her own soldiers. The empowered army had turned the tide, however, and the Chol horde had ultimately been broken. For the first time in history, a Culling had been defeated by someone other than the Templar.

The Keepers had promptly executed the Winter Witch for her crimes against the gods, but King Gareth—Thedric's father—had shown mercy to her husband. Duke Haldor had returned here to Whitefeather Hold to care for his young children, Delaryn and Skaldir, though his rage and thirst for vengeance had driven him to plunge the entire country into civil war just two years later.

Darenthi had yet to heal from any of these scars. King Thedric seemed to earnestly believe that marrying Delaryn would finally set things right, but with paintings like his one hanging from the walls of every castle in the kingdom...well, suffice to say that Rohen had his doubts. The people of Darenthi were all too willing to believe that the daughter of the Winter Witch was a channeler of terrible power. Never mind the fact that sorcerous ability didn't always pass through the blood or that Delaryn would have shown signs years ago if she had inherited her mother's curse.

Still, it's yet another reason I should lie here and go to bed. Maybe if I just close my eyes, I'll sleep past the rendezvous and everything will work out...

Rohen didn't sleep a single wink, naturally, and when the small clock on the mantle finally approached midnight, he immediately popped out of the bed and stepped back into the hall. Everyone else staying here in the guest wing had long since retired to their rooms, and the Hold had so few guards that only a small handful would still be awake. With any luck, Rohen wouldn't encounter another soul on the way to the chapel.

Even if I do, a Templar can get away with practically anything. All I'll need to do is tell them that the I'm sweeping the Hold one last time. As long as they don't ask him about it in the morning, everything will be fine.

Taking a final deep breath, Rohen strode down the hall past the pantry and kitchen—

And nearly crashed right into the Lord Protector's chest.

"Sir!" Rohen gasped, stumbling backward. A thousand excuses looped through his head, each one more idiotic and unbelievable than the last.

"You're up late," Lord Kraythe said, arching a gray eyebrow. "I would have thought you'd head straight to bed."

"I-I was going to, sir, but I..." Rohen's voice completely cut out, and he could have sworn he felt a cold, skeletal hand closing around his throat.

He doesn't know what happened—he doesn't know Delaryn is waiting for me. If I just keep my shit together, everything will be fine.

The Lord Protector chuckled softly and smiled. "Still nervous about the Chol?"

Rohen blinked twice, then nodded quickly—too quickly. "Y-yes, sir," he said. "I thought a quick lap around the Hold might help to clear my head."

"It won't," Kraythe said. "Believe me, I've tried the same thing many, many times over the years."

Rohen stood there in place, knowing full well he must have looked like an anxious wreck. But miraculously, the Lord Protector didn't seem to notice.

"It will get a little easier after your first battle, but not much," Kraythe went on. "Before the battle at Gareth's Stand, I spent half the night reading the same page of a book over and over. Eventually, I got up and paced around the keep, but that didn't help much, either. Still...I can hardly blame you for trying."

Rohen forced a nervous smile. "I don't know why, but the fact everyone seems so confident is just making it worse. You've told us over and over that the Chol should never be underestimated."

"They shouldn't. Thedric's father and his great-grandfather made that mistake, and the Templar paid for it in blood. All of Darenthi paid for it in blood..."

Kraythe sighed and shook his head. "The Pact Army won't be enough. Mark my words: the southern tharns will send as few soldiers as possible. There are times when it feels as though everyone has forgotten what the Chol are capable of. All they remember about the last Culling is how it ended, not the countless soldiers who died along the way."

Rohen frowned at the older man's sudden shift in mood. "Sir?"

"Never mind," the Lord Protector said, shaking his head. "The point is that we're going to hit the horde with everything we have before they have a chance to truly organize and push south. We'll crush them at Rimewreath and drive them back into the mountains where they belong."

"I know we will, sir," Rohen said, and meant it. Lord Kraythe really did have an aura of command about him. Crippled arm or not, the man still seemed like an invincible bulwark.

"You really should try and get some sleep, son," Kraythe said. "But I suppose there's no reason you can't take another lap around the Hold first."

Rohen smiled again, and this time it was entirely genuine. "Thank you, sir."

"Just don't take too long, all right?" Kraythe flashed him another warm smile and clapped him on the shoulder before he strode off toward his own quarters at the end of the hall. Rohen watched the man walk for a few seconds before he turned the corner and let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

One crisis averted, a dozen more lurking in the shadows. The gods are clearly telling me to cut my losses and go to bed.

As usual, Rohen ignored them. He wove his way south through the guest wing and back toward the great hall, his stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots every second. He was tempted to use his authority as a Templar and just confront the overnight guard patrols directly, but he ultimately decided to stick to his original plan and avoid them instead. The fewer people knew he wasn't in his room, the better.

He finally approached the great hall a few minutes later, and he took a moment to survey the surrounding area and ensure he was alone. He could barely see anything with most of the lanterns extinguished for the night, but he could hear a few of the servants still cleaning up after the feast inside the hall. Triangular slivers of firelight peeked out through the gaps in the splintered wooden doors, and he tiptoed around them as best he could. He was grateful that the Templar preferred light armor; the clanking of heavy plate would have been impossible to muffle.

The chapel was tucked all the way in the southeastern corner of the keep, past the sitting room and library where Delaryn had taken him earlier. Sister's Jorga quarters were on the way as well, unfortunately, and Rohen took an extra moment to make sure that her door was locked. The chapel itself was open at all hours, though at the moment the adjoining corridor was shrouded in darkness. Rohen was tempted to try and feel his way around to the door, but rather than risk bumping his head into something and making a racket, he drew his wraithblade halfway out of its scabbard and whispered its name.

"Varlothin."

The glow from the runes cast the entire corridor in an eerie blue light, but it allowed him to reach the door without any trouble. After glancing over his shoulder one last time to ensure he was alone, he touched the golden handle and tugged, wondering if it was locked.

But miraculously, it wasn't. Rohen pulled the door open and crept inside, half expecting King Thedric himself to leap out of the shadows. Instead, the young Templar was greeted by the light of half a dozen candles arrayed around the altar to his left. He pushed his blade back into its sheath and closed the door behind him, then panned his eyes about the room in search of Delaryn.

The chapel was about forty feet long and twenty wide, and there were only enough pews to seat about a dozen people. The altar itself was just as humble: it was little more than a rectangular slab of stone atop an elevated platform. The looming statues of the Triumvirate, however, were as impressive as any others Rohen had seen. Escar the Guardian, Shalassa the Moonmaiden, Dathiel the Watcher...the only three gods to survive the treachery of the ancient elves were arrayed in a triangle around the altar, as imposing and inspiring as ever.

Why would she want to meet here, of all places? There has to be somewhere else quiet in the castle where the gods can't literally look down on us in judgment.

Rohen sighed and shook his head. He was already getting ahead of himself. Delaryn wasn't even here, and in all likelihood, she wasn't coming. Perhaps Thedric was making it impossible for her to slip away, or perhaps—

"Rohen!"

His eyes shot open and his head whipped around as Delaryn appeared from behind the statue of Escar. The shadows were so long and deep he could barely see anything besides the candlelight glinting off the golden trim of her white cloak. They both stood still, trapped in a breathless stare, before she dashed across the chapel and leapt into his arms. Her thighs clamped around his waist so tightly he didn't even need to catch her, and she clutched the sides of his head and pulled their lips together.

Rohen wasn't sure how long they kissed, but it felt like an entire lifetime passed before they broke for breath. She was as weightless as a feather and as warm as a summer wind. He wanted to carry her all around the Hold; he wanted to carry her all the way around the damn country. Anything to hold her in his arms as long as possible.

"Thank the gods you came," she whispered, cradling his jaw with her fingertips when they finally pulled apart. "I don't know what I would have done if..."

Rohen pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed at her thighs. She must have been able to feel his bulging manhood pressing up against her, just like he could feel the heat of her quim. "I'm here, but I don't...what are we doing?"

"Being together," Delaryn whispered, smiling. "The only way we can."

"But this isn't going to..." He swallowed and shook his head. "You know we can't—"

"Tonight, we can do anything we want," she told him, lifting up his chin until their eyes were blazing into one another. "And I want to be with you."

She kissed him again, even more frantically than before, and Rohen's cock swelled until it nearly burst out of his trousers. All of his concerns about surviving the coming battle—all of his concerns about surviving tomorrow—melted away on her loving lips. The High King himself could have stormed through the chapel door, sword in hand, and Rohen still wouldn't have let her go.

"Behind the statues," Delaryn breathed as she gently nibbled at his lip. Rohen didn't hesitate; he carried her onto the elevated platform, past the altar, and into the narrow nook behind the statue of the Guardian. There wasn't much space back here—it was little more than a waiting area for acolytes to stand before the priest called them to the altar—but Delaryn had set out a lush fur blanket and several pillows.

Rohen gently laid her out on her back. She pulled him on top of her, her thighs still locked around his waist even as her hands drifted down his shoulders to the sides of his brigandine. He helped her unfasten the straps one by one, and when he leaned up to cast aside the heavy coat, she unclasped the brooch holding her white cloak together and let it fall from her shoulders just like back in the sitting room.

He stared down at the girl—no, the woman—beneath him, his breath catching in his throat. She was so lovely she didn't even seem real. Her platinum blond hair splayed across the furs, and her icy blue eyes glimmered expectantly in the candlelight. He dragged the tips of his fingers across the impossibly smooth skin of her stomach, then leaned down to kiss her belly. Delaryn moaned softly, sweetly, as he nibbled his way from her navel to her breasts. She lifted herself off the furs just enough that he could reach around her back and unclasp the only buckle holding her cropped bodice in place.

Maiden's mercy...

Somehow, her breasts were even more perfect than he remembered. Rohen cupped them in his hands, marveling at the impossibly soft yet firm flesh, while he kissed them one after the other. Delaryn gasped as a delighted shiver cascaded through her, and she closed her eyes and whimpered when he delicately rolled his tongue over her nipples. Her knee pressed and rubbed against his manhood, and she took hold of his right hand and led it down to her skirt.

Rohen had never been more keenly aware of his inexperience as a lover; Delaryn was only the second woman he had ever touched so intimately, and he was far more terrified of disappointing her than he was of getting caught. But he was determined to follow her lead and respond to her cues, and he happily pushed her skirt down her hips and over her legs. Her knees immediately parted, beckoning him to explore, and she gasped when his fingers traced along her inner thigh and up to her quim.

"Oh!" Delaryn gasped when he eased a fingertip inside her. She was so warm, so wet, so inviting...and her body seized in ecstasy every time he pushed deeper.

Rohen plunged, pinched, and rubbed, using her sighs and whimpers as his guide. When she threw back her head and nearly lost control, he kissed his way back down her stomach until his lips reached her folds. The instant his tongue joined his finger, she cried out and grabbed such a firm hold of his hair that he could barely move his head.

Not that he wanted to. The heady taste of her carnal nectar was even more intoxicating than he had imagined. More than anything in the world, he wanted—he needed—to make her spend.

And she did. Delaryn bit down on her lip to stifle her screams as a climax cascaded through her. Rohen smiled when her thighs squeezed his head, elated that his amateurish fumbling could bring her joy. Her heat, her scent, her taste...he wanted to devour every part of her. He wanted to spill everything he had inside her.

"Gods..." Delaryn breathed, her eyelids fluttering uncontrollably. "That was so..."

Rohen crawled up her body to kiss her again. His fingers returned to her quim; they continued massaging her even as her own fingers reached out and pushed inside his trousers to free his aching stem.

This time when their lips parted, they both knew exactly what they needed to do. Delaryn looked up at him, panting breathlessly as her hands guided the tip of his shaft to her slick, yearning folds. The molten fire of her quim nearly set him off as it slowly enveloped his manhood, but Rohen clenched his teeth and fought back the explosive tide as her ankles locked behind his back.

"Oh!"

They cried out together as he thrust his full length inside her. She was so tight, so hot, that he didn't understand how any man could endure such glorious torment for more than a few moments. Just knowing he was buried inside her velvet depths, locked in her most intimate embrace, was nearly enough to make him spill. Delaryn pulled his lips down to hers, but even kissing threatening to push him over the edge.

"Is that...?" Rohen breathed, pressing his forehead against hers. "Is that all right?"

"Yes," she gasped, smiling. "It's perfect."

"I don't know how long...I don't think I can..."

"Just take me," Delaryn said. "Please."

Rohen slowly withdrew before he thrust inside her again, vowing that he would last until she spent again no matter what it took. Her quim was a sweltering paradise, and every time she moaned and squirmed beneath him, he swore he would burst—

"Argh!" Delaryn screeched and clutched at her head as if someone had just stabbed her temples.

"What?" Rohen gasped, freezing in place. "Am I hurting you?"

"No," she bit out, shaking her head. "It's just...ahh!"

She grabbed her head again, and her entire body seized up beneath him. Rohen frantically pulled back and fell onto his haunches, terrified he had done something wrong—

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the familiar glow of his wraithblade seeping out from inside its scabbard. He turned and stared at the eerie blue light, his stomach plummeting through the floor. He hadn't spoken the command word, and there was only one reason the runes would activate on their own.

Chol.

"By the Guardian," Rohen gasped. "How—?"

The words had barely escaped his lips when something slammed into the chapel door from the other side. The wood bulged but didn't break—yet—and Rohen's instincts took over. He rolled away from Delaryn, then swept up his scabbard and drew Varlothin in a single smooth motion. The runes glowed brightly, hungrily, as if they yearned to feed on Godcursed flesh.