The Midsummer Bride (The Dead Lands Book 4), page 1
The Midsummer Bride
Kati Wilde
THE MIDSUMMER BRIDE © 2023 Kati Wilde
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.
This is book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For copyright inquiries, please contact kati.wilde@gmail.com
Cover design by Kati Wilde. Stock photos licensed from Adobe Stock and iStock.com. No AI generated artwork was used to create the cover.
No AI generated content was used to write this book.
CONTENT WARNING (May Contain Spoilers)
This book includes: a heroine suffering from a chronic illness and wasting disease, political intrigues and murder, fantasy style/sword-and-sorcery violence, poisons/drugs and the effects of withdrawal. Mentions of grief and depression, parental death, an attempted forced marriage, gruesome ghosts and bloody vengeance.
Contents
The Midsummer Bride
Map
Elina the Cursed
Warrick the Chained
Elina the Breathless
Warrick the Overturned
Elina the Betrayed
Warrick the Trusted
Elina the Wedded
Warrick the Bedded
Elina the Heartless
Warrick the Glowing
Elina the Widow
Warrick the Ghost
Elina the Strong
Warrick the Radiant
Epilogue
Also by Kati Wilde
Newsletter
The Midsummer Bride
A Dead Lands Fantasy Romance
A Barbarian Who Must Lie
When a prideful queen comes to his prison cell with an unbelievable proposal of marriage, Warrick of the Dead Lands is quick to accept … but not merely to secure his freedom. Because he recognizes the powerful jewels the queen wears — jewels pilfered from the temple of a goddess, who unleashed her wrath upon a kingdom. His plan? Pretend to go along with Queen Elina until he can steal the jewels back, then use them to lift the goddess’s curse.
Except the queen isn’t who Warrick assumes she is at first glance, and his deception might cost him everything…
A Queen Who Must Die
Betrayed by everyone she’s ever loved, trusting no one, Elina has spent years searching for the warrior prophesied to overthrow the sorcerer who stole her throne … and Warrick is the one warrior she’s found whose description matches the prophecy. She doesn’t want to marry a barbarian, but she’s running out of time — the sickness ravaging her body means she’ll be dead long before she sees home. Only the enchanted jewels she wears give her the strength to continue on … and her new husband’s touch offers the only pleasure she’s ever known.
But after a life spent running from those who betrayed her, Elina doesn't know whether to trust Warrick with her kingdom … or her heart.
The Midsummer Bride is part of the Dead Lands series but can completely stand alone. For content warnings: swipe or scroll back to the copyright page.
Elina the Cursed
Here we are again, weaving tales of barbarians and queens, picking up a thread spoken of long ago during a midwinter celebration. But the seasons have turned—so quickly, too quickly—and midsummer is finally here. In the days between, we have told stories of a kind queen, an ironskin queen, a champion queen, and a stonehearted queen.
Now comes a dying queen.
The time is anotherwhen, a date unknown but on the cusp of a curse’s end. The place is anotherwhere, a world unnamed but too near our queen’s destined grave. And this story begins, as many stories do, when all hope is nearly gone—
But, no. No time do we have for another rambling start! Quickly, let us begin. For we know that love is the strongest of all true magics…but what use is love if she is dead? Hurry now, turn the page.
It might already be too late.
Torrath
“The queen’s face is cracking,” said Chardryn after bustling into the royal tent and getting her first look at Elina in her finery. The old nurse clucked her tongue and continued, “Not even the promise of freedom will tempt an imprisoned barbarian to follow her if that is the visage he lays eyes upon.”
Dara’s narrow shoulders hunched slightly, but her steady strokes never faltered as she brushed gold paint onto Elina’s chin.
The maid did not come to her own defense. So Elina did.
“The mask is too old, Chardryn.” So thick and heavy as it dried that Elina dared not make more than the smallest movement of her lips to speak. “It was but a lump of paste in the bottom of the jar when Dara began. She salvaged what she could with the oils at hand.”
The nurse nodded in resigned understanding. “Those at hand are not as refined as Aleron oils, I suppose.”
Aleron. A pang of longing struck Elina’s heart, as it did every time someone spoke the name of her kingdom. It had been far too many years since she’d left home. Since she’d fled from home, in truth—pursued by assassins sent by Soren, her sorcerer of an uncle.
“Well, no use fretting over what we can’t change.” Brusquely Chardryn moved to the heavily embossed chest sitting at the end of Elina’s curtained bed. She hauled open the bejeweled lid. “No more of the queen’s face can be procured—”
“—until we all return home,” Dara finished with a wistful sigh. Abruptly her dark eyes widened and shot to Elina’s. “Forgive me, Your Highness! I didn’t mean to speak of—”
With her naked fingers, Elina gently touched the wrist that hovered near her cheek, the steady brushstrokes interrupted by the maid’s dismay. “You’ve said nothing to forgive. The illness my uncle cursed me with will likely kill me before I return home. This we all know, and we need not pretend otherwise. But you will return, Dara. You will see your family again.” Pulling back her hand, Elina smiled—though the stiffness of the paint only allowed a faint curve of her mouth. “Soon, if this barbarian is the warrior we seek.”
And if the barbarian was not, Elina might take him anyway. She had no more time to search for the warrior spoken of in the witch’s prophecy. Better to return to Aleron with any warrior at her side than die far from home, having never attempted to remove her uncle from his ill-begotten throne or free her people from his tyrannical rule.
“Best not do more of that, Your Highness. Talking,” Chardryn clarified when Elina gave her a questioning glance. “Smiling, too. Your face cracks all the more when you do.”
“What of frowning, Nanny Char?” she teased the old nurse. “Or scowling? Yes, exactly in that way,” Elina said when Chardryn demonstrated the same scowl that she’d often worn when Elina was a child, during those early mischievous years in the palace. Just as in those days, the nurse turned away to hide her smile, all the while muttering about disobedient and unruly charges.
“Once I’m outside, I’ll not be able to help squinting under the bright sun,” Elina added, only partially teasing now. Midsummer in the kingdom of Torrath brought with it a blinding heat.
“You’ll not see a hint of the sun, child. We’ll not let one ray will touch the queen’s face, lest it melt away. Here, now. Drink your tonic before she paints your lips.”
Elina took the small cup, thinking that if not for the two attendants waving their enormous feathered fans to circulate the air within the tent, the paint would have already melted away…and, weak as she was, Elina might have melted away with it. But the nurse’s medicinal restorative would hold her together for a little while longer.
Though never long enough.
Made with water taken from a cold stream only that morning, the tonic was cool and sweet and utterly refreshing. Elina downed it in a few swallows that soothed her perpetually raw throat and instantly made her tender stomach protest. Blast it all. She battled the queasiness, breathing shallowly until the draught stopped trying to come back up.
“All right, then?” Chardryn took the cup, all the while examining Elina with a sharp eye.
Not yet completely trusting the tonic to remain inside if she opened her mouth, Elina nodded. But it was just as well. With her lips closed, they were ready to be painted. She looked at Dara—who in turn was looking at the three jewels that graced the fingers of Elina’s right hand.
Again the maid gave a wistful sigh, though this time she said nothing.
Nothing needed to be said. Elina knew well what Dara was wishing. She’d often wished it herself. But the enchanted rings could not save Elina from her uncle’s curse.
They did help her, however—just as Chardryn’s tonic did. And they had already extended her life. Only two years past, she’d been on the cusp of dying, so weakened that her fingers could not hold a spoon and her belly could not hold a bit of food. Then the rings were delivered to her. Whatever magic was instilled in the jewels had bolstered her strength. Not enough to cure her, but enough to continue on…and later, when a bandit’s arrow had bounced off Elina’s chest instead of piercing her heart, she’d also discovered the enchantment protected her from any outside harm. The rings could not prevent inner harm, however, and the illness was already within her.
In the slow battle between the enchanted rings and the wasting disease, her uncle’s curse was winning. All too soon, he would have
But not yet.
Finished with her lips, Dara stepped aside so that Elina could examine the result in the tall looking glass. The Radiant Queen of Aleron stared back at her, more resplendent and imposing in her traditional garb than Elina herself would ever be. Her long sickness had pared deep hollows and sharp angles into her features, yet when covered with the gold paint, those hollows and angles seemed sculpted instead of gaunt, regal instead of sallow. Her dark hair had been piled atop her head in an intricate arrangement of curls and braids, then liberally dusted with sparkling gold powder that concealed how brittle and limp her tresses were. The height of her hair was exceeded by a tall, stiff collar that framed her head in a nimbus of gold brocade, as if Elina carried the sun behind her instead of a curse within. From the collar draped a brocade robe, the thickness of the fabric disguising the frailty of Elina’s frame; beneath the robe, an underdress of glistening gold silk gave to her movements an illusion of fluidity that her illness had stolen.
And Elina dreaded every movement to come, necessary though they’d be. She was already exhausted, her neck and shoulders aching from bearing the weight of the queen’s traditional raiments.
She turned her head slightly, studying the queen’s face in the mirror. The mask had cracked. Though not badly. Not yet. The gold wasn’t fully smooth around her mouth and eyes, as if each smile and word left small wrinkles in the paint. Nothing could be done about that. Except to keep her expression as blank as possible and speak only a few words.
Fortunately she had someone to speak for her. “Please inform Serjeant Iarthil that I am ready.”
Only a few minutes passed before her loyal man-at-arms entered the tent. His stride hitched when he saw her in the queen’s regalia. His throat worked and Elina espied a tearful gleam in his eyes before he blinked it away—yet not before his emotional response filled her heart.
Ten years past, Serjeant Iarthil had awoken a fifteen-year-old Elina in the middle of the night, a similar glistening in his eyes that the darkness hadn’t been able to hide. But those tears had been from grief, not pride. He’d led her to the queen’s bedchamber, where her mother was gasping her last breaths—poisoned by her own brother, Soren. With her final words, the queen urged Elina to flee from the palace, while Serjeant Iarthil swore an oath to the dying woman that he would guard her daughter with his very life.
It was he who’d gathered together a retinue of dedicated soldiers and faithful companions to protect and accompany Elina—the true heir to Aleron’s throne—until she could overthrow Soren’s rule. It was he who’d led them from kingdom to kingdom, negotiating for asylum and forging alliances, until Elina was old enough to lead the negotiations herself.
In time, with a look here, a memory there—Elina came to understand that Serjeant Iarthil had not only served her mother but had loved her deeply, fiercely. Nothing had come of it, of course. Though the queen’s highest ranking guard, he was but a royal man-at-arms, and duty had compelled her mother to marry the prince of a neighboring kingdom. Whatever their feelings, the honor of each had kept their passions bent toward serving Aleron.
But it meant that when he looked at her now, Elina knew not whether he was seeing her mother, who’d often worn this ceremonial garb, or if he saw Elina herself. Yet it hardly mattered. Either way, everything Serjeant Iarthil had fought for this past decade stood before him. She only lacked one thing.
Two of the knights charged with guarding the royal strongbox had followed him into the tent, carrying between them a small chest emblazoned with Aleron’s seal. Elina gave to Serjeant Iarthil the key she kept chained around her waist. He produced the second key. With a flourish, the double locks were opened and the lid lifted.
Her crown lay upon a bed of silk. No mere circlet, the Crown of Aleron was an ornate headpiece studded with precious jewels and made of pure gold.
And so very heavy.
Sudden weariness threatened to sag her shoulders. Instead Elina straightened her spine. She reached for the crown—and was stopped by Serjeant Iarthil’s upraised hand.
“If I may, Your Highness?” he asked quietly. “Allow me to use my strength so that you may preserve yours.”
Gratitude closed her throat, and she nodded.
Lifting the crown from the chest, he stepped in front of her. In the years since they’d fled Aleron, his hair had become fully gray and their travels had worn new creases into his face. In her more fanciful moments—and especially after realizing how he’d loved her mother—she’d imagined that Serjeant Iarthil was her true father, because he’d cared more for Elina than her mother’s king consort ever had. The pale silver of Elina’s eyes had been unmistakably inherited from the Prince of Tagdon, however, so those fanciful imaginings always fell apart.
“You are certain of this, Your Highness?” As he gently set the crown into place, his troubled gaze met hers. “Surely when the prophecy spoke of a barbarian who’d once worn chains, it meant someone other than an imprisoned thief awaiting execution.”
Elina had thought it meant something else, too. She’d thought her warrior would be someone like Kael the Conqueror, who’d once been in chains because he was stolen from the Dead Lands as a child and enslaved in the mines of Blackworm Mountain. When he finally escaped, Kael had then waged a bloody war against Geofry the Child-Eater, the cruel king under whose banner Kael had been taken. He’d killed the tyrant and freed the people of four kingdoms…and those people had begged him to take the throne.
In all the lands she’d traveled through, those four kingdoms had been the most prosperous and the people the most content. And Elina had hoped—hoped so fiercely—that a warrior such as Kael would return to Aleron at her side.
But she had no time left for hope.
“I am certain,” Elina said. Completely, utterly certain that if she didn’t soon return to her kingdom, she never would. The prophecy mattered little now. While she wouldn’t ignore the witch’s words—Elina needed every advantage possible when facing her uncle—she also couldn’t afford to wait for a barbarian warrior to drop into her lap as her enchanted jewels had.
An imprisoned thief would have to do.
Despite her reply, Serjeant Iarthil pressed, “It is not too late to change course, but it will be once the proposal is issued. You will be bound by your vow.”
“The serjeant only humors your quest to retake your throne, my queen. By his own vow, never will he lead you back to Aleron.”
Unbidden, Lady Faraine’s warning echoed through Elina’s mind. Determinedly she shoved it away. Her mother’s former lady-in-waiting had proved herself a treacherous companion, betraying Elina to secure her own comfort. Her words could not be trusted—and Serjeant Iarthil speaking his doubts and urging Elina to caution was not an attempt to prevent her from returning home. Of course he shared his doubts about her marrying an unknown thief. He was protecting her. Keeping her safe. Just as she’d heard him vow to their dying queen.
So Elina would not heed that traitorous woman’s warning. If Serjeant Iarthil was not loyal, if Nanny Char was not, Elina would have no one in the world left to rely on. And surely she could not be betrayed by everyone she loved?
Better that the curse take her first.
“I am certain,” she repeated.
Though worry still darkened his eyes, Serjeant Iarthil nodded. “It will be as you decree.” Then he gave to Elina a faint smile that lightened the heaviness in her heart and the weight of the crown. “Onward, my queen?”
As he’d said every time they’d left a place or encountered a new challenge. Only the increasing stiffness of the queen’s face reminded Elina not to smile back.
“Onward,” said she.
