NEW RELEASE An Elemental Husband: The King's Weaver Book 4 (Ebook)

My name is Morgan, and I came to the palace in Barella to embrace the man I am and join the king's guard. But a few years ago, I had a one night stand with a man I can't forget...the king's best friend, the notorious rake, Lord Valtair.

And he's now the Prime Minister and absolutely unavoidable.

When the king orders me to guard Valtair and the king's sister, Elsira, on a secret mission to another kingdom, I'm not happy about upsetting my orderly guard's life. Or having to travel in close quarters with Valtair.

But the mission...does not go as planned.

Suddenly, I'm trapped in a fake marriage.

And on the run because of forbidden magic.

And though I'm trying very hard not to think about Valtair at all, it doesn't help that we have to share a tent. 

And I think I might be falling for the king's sister, too.
All while trying to save the kingdom from enemies who would do everyone harm.

None of this bodes well for my future in the king's service, does it?

An Elemental Husband is the sequel to The King's Weaver and A Weaver's Heart, with a trans man guard who's falling for both the king's best friend and the king's younger sister. 

We’re at peace, I tell myself, even if it’s an uneasy peace. Lord Nikolai Metrial has been dead these last two months. The borders have been quiet. 

So why is my king summoning me to his study on my day off from guard duty? He never summons on my day off. 

My boots pound on the stone floors as I hurry toward the royal apartments, still buckling on my sword. 

And what if it’s my king’s husband? What if Caleb, who is seven months pregnant, is having his child early? 

I’m not the best elemental healer, but I’m known to have the healing of water magic, and maybe I’m the closest at hand. 

I might not be the best, but I will always do what I can to protect my kings.

I hasten my steps, nodding to my fellow king’s guard, Reveyan, as he crosses the palace entry hall toward me. He’s tall in his green and gold uniform, with his long blue cloak. His dreadlocks are tied back to show his handsome brown face, which just now is tense with alertness.

“Is it Caleb?” I ask. “Were you summoned by the king?”

“No, I was going to ask why you’re running.”

“I’m not—” I slow my pace, just a bit. “The king called me in.”

Reveyan shakes his head. “I don’t know why. But maybe it’s weaver business.” He raises his brows, and I give a shrug as I speed up again.

If it was weaver business, it would have been Caleb who’d called me in.

“Let me know?” Reveyan calls after me. 

I give a wave and pound up the broad stairs.

I’ve lived in this palace for eleven months. I know these halls like the halls of my family’s home growing up. 

I know my king. And I know he doesn’t summon without reason.

Caleb wasn’t at breakfast in the Great Hall today, but that’s not in itself significant. He’s often training the other weavers, both his own court mage apprentices and the Akrean weavers who stayed after we fought Nikolai. Or, training me, when my duties allow it.

Or, dealing with his mother and her own Galendan visiting mages, which he doesn’t complain about, but not for lack of wanting to, I think.

And he’s been studying more, I’ve seen that. If he’s not training someone, he’s buried in his books. He has been since we defeated Nikolai after the Harvest Festival. He’s given me a pile of books to read, too, that I haven’t even managed to get halfway through the first.

I turn into the corridor that leads to the royal apartments, my steps softening on the carpet. 

I pass the door on the right that I know will be where the new child will stay when they’re older, I heard King Torovan talking about it, because he still isn’t giving up his own rooms, even though they are the rooms of a prince.

If my father died in the apartment I was supposed to move into, though, I wouldn’t take it, either. If my mother killed my father, I wouldn’t want my husband to take over her apartment, either.

But it’s too early for Caleb to give birth, I know that. But the fear still clenches inside me. He might be a king and a master mage, and I’m only a guard, but he’s become my friend.

I stop outside the king’s study just long enough to rap on the door, then push inside.

Torovan is standing behind his desk as I enter, which isn’t usual, either. His black hair is tied back with a gold clasp, but it’s messy on the sides, like he’s been running his hands through it, or at least trying to. His mouth is a hard line in his light-brown face as he glowers down at something on his desk. He’s shoved aside the stacks of books and papers that always seem to be piled up, and as I enter, I see they’re now holding down the corners of a map.

Torovan looks up and frowns at me.

And I draw up, force my mind to re-gear, my cheeks going hot at not waiting for him to respond when I knocked.

This doesn’t have to do with Caleb, then, if Torovan is frowning at the map.

I shouldn’t have barged in.

“Sire,” I say, and make a quick guard’s bow. Just a dip of my head. 

Torovan taps the map.

“Morgan, good. I’m sending a delegation to Akreal. To the border.”

And then I really have to shift the track of my thoughts. This isn’t about something urgent here. Not in the palace, anyway.

I do my best not to shift in place as I wait for him to say more. He’s tense, but tense in a different way than I’d feared. But still, his tension is catching.

“My sister will be leading the diplomatic delegation, along with Valtair, who’s going as the prime minister, too.” He takes a breath, stops. He was distracted when I came in, but he’s really looking at me now. And why does that attention now feel more unnerving than his distracted frown a moment before?

“How is your weaving lately?” he asks.

I stiffen, and I’m not quite sure why.

My king is a weaver. Like his husband is, too. And wife, when Caleb is Irava.

I can weave reality, yes. I have been learning. But I’m not anywhere near as skilled as Caleb, or any of his other apprentices turned court mages, or the Akrean refugees, even, or Torovan himself.

I eye the mage’s medallion that hangs over Torovan’s heart, glittering with its intricate patterns.

I’ve only been weaving for two months. I don’t have the medallion of a court mage yet.

Not that I would want one, I tell myself. Not that I would want to draw more attention to myself than I already have lately. I’m drawing far too much attention to myself.

“It’s…coming along,” I say cautiously, shifting weight from foot to foot, making my leather armor creak at the movement.

I stop.

I’m not sure I like that he’s asking about my weaving right after telling me he’s sending a delegation to an enemy kingdom that hates weavers.

Torovan drags his fingers along the top of the map, and I cautiously take a few steps closer, looking at where he’s pointing.

“The Metrial trade caravans did not continue to Akreal after Nikolai’s—well. The Metrial family’s business ventures have imploded.”

Wasn’t that a good thing? Nikolai Metrial’s family raised a dark soul weaver, and Nikolai was trying to corrupt both Barellan nobility and commoners alike to his cause. He tried to kill my kings. More than once.

“Lady Denya has said that a prince of Akreal, a cousin to the Akrean queen, wishes to meet with a delegation from Barella at the border. She has assured me that this meeting will be cordial, because Akreal is getting desperate—they’re facing food shortages if they can’t get our caravans into their kingdom.” 

Torovan’s mouth tightens. “And the Akreans have been making border raids that look like they might escalate if we don’t do something. I’m not inclined to send them caravans unless they stop making their aggressions toward Barella, and toward weavers, but if sending caravans makes them stop…that might be worth it.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this. As one of his guards, I’ve been in the room in many strategy meetings, in Council meetings, in private conversations. I know most of what’s going on in the kingdom.

Akreal is the kingdom Torovan’s mother fled to after he arrested her for killing his father. Akreal is the kingdom which had ties to Nikolai Metrial, who took Torovan captive two months ago and tried to force Torovan to bend to his will.

Torovan and Caleb defeated Nikolai. Torovan killed him. I was there.

I felt Nikolai’s threads trying to reach into my soul, too. To tell me that I was nothing. To tell me that he was my guiding light, not my own soul.

It didn’t work. I have spent the last year listening to no one’s opinions about myself but my own.

But Akreal has been making trouble for months, I know. Torovan’s mother is still there, and still a threat.

Torovan rarely speaks to me directly about anything other than guarding him, though. If I’m going to speak to one of the kings about anything, that’s always been Caleb.

So why is he telling me this now?

“I’m sending Kas,” Torovan says, and I shift uneasily. That would make sense to send the captain of his guards, yes. I would send Kas, too, on an important mission.

But what does that have to do with me?

“Just Kas?” I find myself asking. Because I also wouldn’t send the king’s sister and his best friend to the border of a hostile kingdom with anything less than two full troops, no matter if the Akrean delegate says it will be okay.

Maybe they won’t be up against weavers, or likely even elementalists, with the Akreans hating magic like they do. But Akreal with its army is its own threat. It’s not a small kingdom.

Torovan grimaces, a pained smile. “Lady Denya suggested that a large contingent of guards will not be met well, and will tip the meeting out of friendly.” He taps the map again. “The Akreans have got it into their heads that, since we rode out to face Nikolai with elementalists and weavers, that all Barellan guards are trained mages, too. So, I’m sending Kas, who is definitely not a mage of any sort. And two others—I’ll let Kas choose. But I want you to go, too.”

I fold my hands together in front of me to stop them from fidgeting with my uniform. “But…I am a weaver. Sire.” And a known elementalist, too. Even if I never use those magics in public if I can help it.

He nods. “Kas and those he picks will go as my sister’s visible guard, which is as many as I dare. But yes, you are known as a weaver in this palace.” He pauses, watching me. “So I want you to go as Elsira’s steward instead. Not her guard.”

I’m good at controlling my reactions, I am. I have to be, as one of the king’s guards. But I know something is showing through because he frowns again.

“I know you’re educated, Morgan, you can certainly act the part of a royal steward. And you were able to convince everyone you were Caleb during the attack two months ago in the Great Hall. Caleb was impressed with your quick thinking.”

I swallow. “Yes, Sire.”

A steward. Stewards are almost always noble’s sons. Lesser nobility, usually, but nobles all the same.

My stomach churns, my palms getting clammy. I let my hands drop back to my sides.

Torovan’s attention is back to being riveted on me. Even before he was a court mage, even before his willpower was honed to a fine point, his glare was something to make high nobility shrink back. 

“If you’re a steward, and if you, maybe, cut your hair a little, wear what a steward would wear, no one will suspect that you’re the weaver guard unless you give them a reason to suspect. You’ll blend into the background because the Akreans will be watching the guards more closely, not you. And you know what soul weaving feels like. If Nikolai had any other allies in Akreal that can soul weave, if the Akreans try to use that to control my sister or Valtair, you can protect them, or at least alert them. You know how to weave their souls back to themselves.”

I swallow. I’m not the man for this job, I know I’m not.

If Lady Denya, the Akrean delegate who is also secretly a weaver, asked Torovan to send this delegation to her kingdom, why can’t she go instead? Why can’t she be the weaver at hand to protect the king’s sister, and his best friend if it comes to it?

If he’s sending me as a secret weaver, why can’t he send her?

I’m not a good enough weaver to have the life of his sister riding on my weaving skills.

Or…or the life of Valtair.

I lock my jaw, take a slow breath.

And I’m not a noble. I’m not. 

I can’t be a noble. Not ever again.

I open my mouth—close it.

But he is my king.

Gods dammit.

“Is there a problem?” Torovan asks.

“No, Sire.”

He’s not buying it, so I straighten and do my best to wipe any emotion off my face.

Be a guard. Just be a guard.

But that’s the problem—I won’t be just a guard if I go on this mission.

I swallow against the rising lump of a past I’ve done everything to shove behind me. And I try to tell myself that this won’t be that. Even if people think I’m lesser nobility as a steward on this mission, they won’t be thinking I’m lesser nobility, not as myself.

“You won’t be identified if you’re careful,” Torovan says. “Not if you play it right. Morgan—I can’t go myself, of course I can’t go. Caleb can’t, even if he wasn’t set to have our child within a few months. None of his court weavers can, either. They’re all too visible. And they’re sending one of their royals, so I have to send one of ours.”

I nod, in tight frustration with myself that he thinks he has to explain all of this again. 

“You’re known to be a weaver, yes,” he goes on, “but you’ve never shown your weaving publicly in the court. Even if they know you’re training, most people don’t think of you that way. So you’re the only weaver I know who can go and make sure there was no one else that Nikolai trained who can take over my sister’s mind—”

I know I’m not supposed to ask. But I find myself blurting, “Why not send Lady Denya?”

His lips compress. “It’s not safe for her—most in her government know she’s a weaver. That’s why she’s still in Barella, even if the rest of her delegation returned. And I want someone I trust, Morgan. I trust you with my sister’s life. And Valtair’s.”

There’s a weighted pause after the last. He knows that Valtair and I have had…something going on for most of the last year. Maybe he only caught on a few months ago, maybe he was just better at hiding it before. But, he knows. He’s never said anything, even though I know my hooking up with the prime minister is less than professional. Or…fighting with the prime minister, more often than not. Gods.

I don’t quite meet his eyes again. And breathe as slowly as I can through my teeth.

Valtair going on this mission too is a problem, yes, but not the one I’m most worried about.

That Torovan wants me to pretend to be a noble has pulled my emotions all out of true.

It’s not that unreasonable of an assignment, it isn’t. I even get the logic of it.

And it’s not my place, it’s never my place, to question my king. So why can’t I just accept this assignment and roll with it? Why can’t I be glad, even, for the chance to serve the kingdom? That’s all I’ve ever really wanted. 

Except for Valtair.

I’ve also wanted Valtair.

And I’m not going to think about that now with the eyes of my king on me.

But my past is a year behind me now. Being a palace guard has been my life, and…and my armor. And my family certainly won’t be on this mission to recognize me. If they even could now, with my reality and body rewoven to be the man that I am.

I’m a palace guard. I’m one of Torovan’s personal guards, and I know he only draws those he trusts around himself. I should feel honored that he’s asking me to do this. That he trusts me enough to protect his sister.

“Please, Morgan.”

Oh, gods, that plea in his voice twists my insides. I’ve shown too much.

“Of course,” I say, my voice hoarser than I’d like. But I say it all the same.

I can’t deny my king. Any more than I could deny my own name.

Maybe he thinks I’m afraid of being discovered as a weaver at the border, and the Akreans doing…what to me?

It turned out that Nikolai was behind the kidnappings of other weavers from the border, not the Akreans themselves. But the Akrean weavers we brought back to the palace with us, and those who stayed to become court weavers, have told us all how difficult it is to be a weaver in Akreal right now. How impossible.

Torovan’s mother, the Dowager Zinara, has a foothold in Akreal, and I wonder if that’s part of Torovan’s choice to send his sister for this delegation, too.

I know all of this. Because I have been in the background while he’s had some of his strategy meetings.

Does he think that his mother would hesitate to make a move on the delegation with his sister involved?

I keep my mouth shut now. It’s not my business to question his reasons for sending his sister.

And he isn’t sending her alone. He is sending three guards, he said, which doesn’t sound like enough to me, but it will have to do. 

And, apparently, he’s sending me.

I raise my chin and hold my posture steady. My reasons for not wanting to go as the princess’s steward are not Torovan’s business, either. And not my excuse.

I will suffer this, for my king. I will have to.

And it will be four guards. I tell myself I’ll still be a guard on this mission. He’s not asking me to give that up—I’ll just be guarding in a different way.

Even if it won’t be in my armor, and even if my whole body tightens at that thought.

“Good,” Torovan says, “You’ll leave tomorrow morning. I don’t want any time for word to run ahead of you. Go do what you must to prepare. Kas will have more of the particulars. And Valtair said to send you to him when I’m done talking with you here—he has what you need to go unquestioned as a steward.”

That…makes my stomach flip a little, too. Valtair is the very last person I want to see right now.

But I don’t tell Torovan that, either.

I only nod my guard’s bow again and say, “Yes, Sire,” before turning on my heel and marching out.