The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom, #1)(34)
Focus on that, she told herself. Focus on what this means for your people.
But no amount of deep breathing steadied the rapid pulse in her throat. Rising from the bed, she went to the doorway to the antechamber. Jumping, she caught hold of the frame, her nails digging into the wood as she pulled herself up and lowered herself down, the muscles in her back and arms flexing and burning as she repeated the motion thirty times. Forty. Fifty. Imagining her sisters doing pull-ups next to her, urging each other on even as they fought for victory.
Dropping to the ground, Lara lay on the floor and moved on to crunches, her abdominals fiery beasts as she passed one hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. The Red Desert was hotter than Ithicana, but the humidity here was murder. Sweat dripped down her skin as she moved from exercise to exercise, the pain doing more than any meditation to drive away unwanted thoughts.
By the time Clara knocked on the door with a tray full of food and a steaming cup of coffee, Lara was ravenous and beyond caring if the servant noticed her red face and sweaty clothes.
Drinking the coffee, she mechanically shoveled food down her throat, then bathed before donning the same clothes she’d worn during her last trek through the jungle, including the heavy leather boots. She belted her knives at her waist and wove her hair in a tight braid that hung down the center of her back. Light was beginning to glow around the heavy drapes on the window when she left the room.
She found Eli sweeping the hallway. “He’s waiting for you out front, my lady.”
Aren was indeed waiting, and Lara took a moment to watch him through the glass window before making her presence known. He sat on the steps, elbows resting on the stone behind him, the muscles of his arms bare beneath the short sleeves of his tunic, vambraces buckled onto his forearms. The rising sun, for once not obscured by clouds, glinted off the arsenal of weapons strapped to his person, and Lara scowled at her lone pair of knives, wishing she were similarly armed.
Pushing open the door, Lara took a deep breath of the humid air, tasting the salt of the sea on the soft breeze and smelling the damp earth. A silver mist drifted through the jungle canopy, the air filled with the drone of insects, the call of birds, and the screeches of other creatures for which she had no name.
Aren rose without acknowledging her or her nightmare, and she followed a few steps behind so that she could watch him without scrutiny as they walked down the narrow, muddy trail. He had a predatory grace about him: a hunter, his eyes roving the ground, the canopy, the sky, his bow held loosely in his left hand rather than slung over one shoulder the way her father’s soldiers carried them. He would not be caught unaware, and she idly wondered just how good a fighter he was. Whether, if it came down to it, she’d be able to best him.
“You always look like you want to kill someone,” he remarked. “Possibly me.”
Kicking a loose rock, Lara scowled at the muddy pathway. “I hadn’t realized the dowager queen still lived.” Indeed, she’d been under the impression that all who remained of the royal line were the king and his sister.
“She doesn’t. Nana is my father’s mother.” Aren turned his head as something rustled in the bushes. “My mother, Delia Kertell, was the one born to the royal line. My father’s family was common-born, but he rose through the military ranks and was chosen to join her honor guard. Mother took a liking to him and decided to marry him. My grandmother . . . she’s a healer, of some renown. Although others might use different words to describe her, my sister included.”
“And why does she want to see me, exactly?”
“She’s seen you,” he said.
Lara narrowed her eyes.
“When you first came and were still asleep. She checked to ensure your health was good. What she wants is to meet you. As to why . . . She’s meddlesome and everyone, including me, is too terrified to say no to her.”
The idea of a stranger inspecting her body while she was unconscious felt profoundly invasive. Lara’s skin crawled, but she covered the reaction with a shrug. “Checking to see if my father had sent a pox-ridden girl to send you to your grave?”
Aren tripped and dropped his bow, swearing as he reached down to retrieve it from the mud.
“Not the swiftest method of assassination, but effective, nonetheless.” She added, “And some might say the repugnance of the victim’s final years, hours, days, is worth the wait.”
The King of Ithicana’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “If that’s how you intend to do me in, you’ll want to move quickly. The pustules and skin rashes will reduce your appeal, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm,” Lara hummed, then clicked her tongue against her teeth in mock disappointment. “I’d hoped to wait until the dementia had taken over so as to spare myself the memory. But one must do what one must do.”
He laughed, the sound rich and full, and Lara found herself smiling. They rounded a bend and came into a clearing dominated by a large building, a group of Ithicanian soldiers loitering in the sunlight.
“Midwatch barracks,” Aren said by way of explanation. “Those twelve are my—our—honor guard.”
The stone structure was large enough to house hundreds of men. “How many soldiers are here?”
“Enough.” He strode through the clearing toward those waiting for them.
“Majesties,” one of them said, bowing deeply, although there was amusement in his tone, as though such honorifics were rarely used. Tall and corded with muscle, he was old enough to be Aren’s father, his close-cropped brown hair laced with grey. Lara stared into his dark brown eyes, something about his voice familiar, and after a heartbeat, she recognized it as that of the man who’d conducted the Ithicanian portion of her wedding.