Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 446
understood her heart, he could never agree with her mind, and
that as her consort he would have been miserable.
Ah! He could tell himself this, it sounded so objective
and neatly encapsulating; the pain was still there. He had not
gone to the throne with her.
The miraculous did happen, though. He was the first,
and as far as he knew the only man she ever invited into her
bed. The first time was at the end of that week’s leave. He had
won over her bodyguards by dint of being disarmingly frank
about his affection for her. They did not interfere when on that
last evening she threw him a significant look and retired early,
and he quickly made an excuse and followed.
The affair endured two years. They strove for utmost
discretion, so meetings were rare and hurried. For all that, or
maybe because of it, their passion was almost unendurably
intense. Then, she conceived of the sea expedition that was to
separate them for the next eighteen years. He learned of it in a
letter she sent the day before her departure. The next news he
had was of her triumphant entry into the capital bearing the
seal of the Winds, there to unseat her father the king. Then
nothing, except a single scribbled note received six months
later telling him Court was dangerous, that she would meet him
as soon as she could escape its entanglements.
They did meet again--once or twice a year at formal
courtly functions, and three times she had allowed him to visit
her privately, to walk in her gardens and halls alone with her
for an hour or two. They never shared a bed again.
Now he rose and went to the flap of his tent. The
summer palace lay in darkness, surrounded by an ocean of
campfires.
Tomorrow, he would meet her again. The letters of
parlay lay on his table now, next to her diaries. She wanted to