Teren Santoro
Late afternoon in Estenzia.
Teren waits behind a pillar lining the palace’s main courtyard, his heart in his throat, the white of his Lead Inquisitor cloak blending in with the marble. Shadows and sunlight play on his face. Farther up the courtyard’s path and partially hidden from view by rose vines, the queen of Kenettra walks alone, her dark hair piled high on her head in a tumble of curls, her skin a warm hue under the sun. Her Majesty, Queen Giulietta I of Kenettra.
Teren waits until she’s close enough. When she walks past, he grabs her wrist and pulls her gently into the shadows behind the pillar.
The queen lets out a soft gasp, then smiles at the sight of him. “You’re back from Dalia,” she whispers. “And up to your boyish antics, I see.”
Teren presses her tightly against the pillar. His lips brush against the skin of her neck. Her dress seems cut particularly low today, emphasizing the swell of her breasts, and he wonders with a surge of jealousy whether she wears it as temptation for the king—or for him. The king is a grown man, well into his forties. Teren is nineteen. Does she like me for my youth? Perhaps she sees me as a boy, four years too young for her. He marvels again at how lucky he is, to have drawn the attention of royalty.
“I returned last night,” he whispers back. He kisses her deeply. “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?”
The queen lets out a sigh as he kisses the line of her jaw. Her fingers run along the grooves of his silver belt, and he arcs toward her in longing. “Yes.” She stops him for a moment to give him a level look. Her eyes are very dark, so dark that sometimes they seem wholly empty. Like he could fall to his death in them. “So. Did they take her?”
“They did.”
“And will you be able to find her again?”
Teren nods once. “I don’t know what curse the gods have brought down on us, to give us demons like this, but I promise you—she will be our advantage. She’ll lead me to them. I’ve already gathered five patrols of my best men.”
“And the girl’s sister? You mentioned her in your report.”
Teren bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Violetta Amouteru is in my custody.” He smiles briefly. “She’s unharmed.”
The queen nods in approval. She reaches out and undoes a clasp on his uniform’s collar, exposing the hollow of his throat, then traces it with one slender finger. A breath escapes him. Gods, I want you. I love you. I’m not worthy of you. She tightens her lips, lost in her own thoughts, and then meets his eyes again. “Let me know when you find the girl. I dislike the embarrassment these Elites are making of the crown.”
I would do anything for you. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
Giulietta touches his cheek affectionately. Her hand is cold. “The king will be pleased to hear it, as soon as he climbs out of his mistress’s bed.” She emphasizes her last words.
Teren’s mood darkens at that. The king is supposed to be meeting with his council right now—not frolicking in bed with a lover. He’s no king. He’s a duke the queen was forced to marry. A loud, arrogant, disrespectful duke. He lowers his lips to hers, then steals another long kiss. His voice turns tender and aching. “When can you come to me again? Please.”
“I’ll come to you tonight.” She gives him a careful smile, one full of calculated secrets. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly what to say to a boy soldier madly in love. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you too.”
There are four places where the spirits still wander . . .
the snow-covered Dark of Night, the forgotten paradise of
Sobri Elan, the Glass Pillars of Dumon, and the human mind,
that eternally mysterious realm where ghosts shall forever walk.
—An Exploration of Ancient and Modern Myths, by Mordove Senia