Archangel's Resurrection (Guild Hunter #15)(81)

“Alexander, I’m so very sorry.” When Zanaya tugged his head down to her shoulder, he went, allowing her to stroke her fingers through his hair, comfort him as the crisp wind bit at their faces and the seabirds padded nearby. “Did Sharine ever paint a portrait of Rohan?”

“Yes.” Those paintings were his most prized possessions. “I have them in my fort, and I’ll be proud to show you.” He wanted her to know his son, all Rohan had been. “Sharine’s portraits of Citrine were lost when General Xi sacked the palace, but Sharine quietly repainted her from memory—one just of her, and one of her with Rohan and an infant Xander. Those paintings hang in Xander’s rooms.”

“I feel no surprise that your son was brave.” Zanaya kissed his hair in a caress he’d permit no one else. “Courage runs in your blood.”

He shifted to lie with his head in her lap, her beautiful face backlit by the cool blue sky and her fingers gentle as she continued to stroke his hair. “Titus tells me that Rohan became Favashi’s most feared and respected general. I see this in how those who served under him speak of him, how much of their loyalty he holds to this day, and my pride, it knows no bounds.”

“That is as it should be, lover.” She ran her hand over the wing pressed up against her; he’d folded them in neatly, but an angel’s wings weren’t exactly small. Yet they’d taken this position with each other more than once over eternity and it was no discomfort to either.

“Was he a mischievous child?” Zanaya asked.

Echoes of a boy’s impish laughter in his mind, a tiny body “attacking” his as Rohan tried to ambush him, a small hand holding his as big dark eyes looked up at him in a trust innocent and absolute. “The stories I could tell . . .” And because they had time on this isolated piece of rock and shell and grass, he did, pouring out his heart, which would forever bear the imprint of the son he’d loved more than life itself.

He also told her more of Jhansi, a gentle and loving mother whose very being would crumble when she woke.

The one thing he didn’t say was that he wished Rohan had broken faith and revealed Alexander’s place of rest. Because that would be to dishonor both his son’s courage and Rohan’s sacrifice. Never would Alexander do that. His boy had died protecting him, and that act of love was burned into Alexander’s memories, never to fade or be forgotten.





42


“Citrine was a clerk,” he said after he could no longer speak of Rohan. “But not just any clerk—she was the clerk who ran Favashi’s entire court, the person who juggled myriad tiny and important details to ensure the entire system ran without a hitch.” Alexander wished he could’ve known this woman, intelligent and driven. “Xander says she was a general in her own right—only that her field of battle was the court and politics.”

Zanaya’s smile was delighted. “A vivid image. It’s the role Mivoniel played for me when he decided to come out of retirement and join my court.”

Needing a hint of softness, he played with her hair, so luxuriant and thick. “Xander tells me she adored him, and had a streak of mischief in her despite her outwardly quiet manner. The way he colors her with his memories, I can see why my son loved her.” Could glimpse the dancing eyes and playful smile.

“My grandson has the same love in his voice when he speaks of his father.” Rohan had been the firmer hand of the two when it came to parenting, but not in a way that had hurt Xander. Quite the opposite. “Xander is far more thoughtful than Rohan, and says that he was a quiet child—but his father never made him feel as if that was a wrong way to be; Xander grew up knowing he was his father’s pride.”

A single tear rolled down Zanaya’s cheek. “You raised a son with love and respect, Alexander, and he and his chosen mate in life carried that love through the generations.”

Wiping away her tear as his own dried on his cheeks, he said, “It all began with my parents. I dread the day they’ll wake, Zani.”

She didn’t try to tell him it wouldn’t hurt, that their lives wouldn’t shatter at the news that Osiris was dead. Rather, she leaned down to kiss him with infinite tenderness, her hair a perfumed curtain around their faces, the scent that clung to her only of her. It was the same haunting scent with which she’d ascended—and risen.

Cupping the side of her face, he let himself be so sweetly loved, the taste of salt and sorrow in their kiss.

Her breath was warm against his when she drew back, her features soft, and though this was a cold place far from ideal for intimacy, she didn’t rebuke him when he put his fingers on the zipper of her jerkin. Pulling it down, he watched her shrug it off, then remove her sword and associated leather sheath—strapped to her body over the shoulders, and with straps that criss-crossed her upper torso.

She shivered when he stroked his hands under the black of her thermal top, her skin a smooth warmth that he ached to caress, to kiss. Then he felt it, a pulse of her power . . . that created hundreds of tiny windstorms around them, heating up the air. Of all the people in his existence since childhood’s end, Zanaya alone had looked after him.

Feeling broken open, he just held on to her.

She kissed him again, cupping his face with both hands, while he gripped her waist with his. “Alexander, my Alexander.” A murmur against his jaw, along it, down his throat.