by C. N Lesley
“More.” Her voice wavered, sounding strange to her ears.
“Wait a few moments, or it will revisit.” He held the goblet out of her reach, frowning. “I thought I’d have to build a funeral pyre for a while, but my priest informs me that your fever has run its course. We were too late for him to prevent scarring, I’m sorry for that.”
Ashira ran her tongue over cracked lips. Outcasts had scars. “Has the merchandise been spoiled?” Her voice croaked, an ugly sound.
He knew her for a War Maid and scarred. What happened to discarded possessions? Why did he bring her to his home?
“Someday, when you choose to be pleasant, I might show you all my scars.” A quirky smile lit his stern features. He eased her back against soft pillows. “Meanwhile, there are clean garments on top of my clothes press. When you feel stronger, bathing facilities are through the entrance to your right. Try to get some more sleep.”
Standing, the duke clicked his heels to execute a short, formal bow before marching for the door. Disappointment flowed through her at the sight of his departing back. Why didn’t he shout at her for concealing her battle skills? His clothes press, he had said, his rooms and not the women’s quarters. He wanted her to sleep. Her eyelids drooped already. What manner of man could permit her to live after the cruel trade her father had enforced? He hadn’t tried to hurt her. He eased her pain. Why? Despite her questions, Ashira welcomed sleep’s dark wings.
Consciousness returned by degrees. Warmth and then light made her aware of a throbbing ache in her arm. The room spun when she opened her eyes. She reached for more water, but the duke’s advice made her sip rather than gulp. She’d no wish to have a return visit of the fluid, not with her throat already raw.
The smell of blood and sweat offended her nose. She became aware of her naked body under the bedding. A clean nightgown lay on top of the duke’s clothes press. Lights danced in her eyes when she tried to stand and seek the bathing room. Walls slipped sideways. She crawled, ignoring the pain radiating from her shoulder to her wrist. She refused to look at the damage.
The cleansing room surprised her with a tub against one wall, but no pitchers of heated water nearby. Wheels attached to metal tubes seemed to hang over the structure. He wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t have lied about this. Minutes later, she had her answer: one wheel, when rotated, provided hot water, and the other spewed out cold. A bench by the tub offered a selection of aromatic unguents in haphazard order, drying sheets stacked neatly on a shelf underneath. Ashira enjoyed the first hot bath she could remember.
Sliding back into bed wearing a clean nightgown represented bliss for her. Warm, comfortable and very tired, she slipped almost immediately back into slumber. A touch on her face wakened her to the duke by her bedside.
“Feeling better?”
“I thank you, yes.”
His hand strayed to her tangled hair. “Will you let me make repairs? It would be a shame to hack all this off.” Smiling, he reached to a shelf beyond her range of vision for a comb. A muscular arm snaked under her to lift her to a sitting position. She fought to stay awake as the walls began to move. “Just relax.”
His voiced soothed her as he got to work. He didn’t pull at her hair the way servers did, but held each lock while he teased out the tangles. Ashira marveled at his patience as she inhaled the faint hint of musk and leather coming from him. She closed her eyes.
“How many other Gold Band ladies are there at Menhill?” he asked. “Or were you the one and only?”
“My half-sister Syril.” His closeness began to make her feel uncomfortable despite their now married status. It wasn’t being alone with a man; War Maids held that privilege, deemed competent to guard their own honor . . . no, more embarrassment at the thought of why he visited.
“Younger?”
“Older by three years.” Ashira answered, wondering at his interest.
“Did she receive beatings too? I took a good look at the damage while you slept. Hald’s a cruel man.”
Blood rushed to her face. He’d inspected the merchandise thoroughly when she couldn’t object. “Syril is his favorite. As for me . . . it was almost as if I didn’t belong to him.”
“Were that the case, you would have been a Silver Band at best, if he had even let you live. So she wasn’t pretty enough to attract admirers?”
“I am the plain one.” Shame burned through her. “Syril has nice, straight hair, a lovely light red color.”
Uther studied her face. One eyebrow quirked up as he turned her head to inspect her profile, making her blush again.
“Rusty hair, a beak big enough to make any goose envious and a dark mole by her mouth?” He laughed when she nodded. “I wouldn’t give her bed room if I were a Bronze Band. I saw her spying from a doorway just before Hald turned up. She ruined her disguise as an unveiled Silver Band by making an important-looking server bow.” He released her to finish combing another tangled strand.
“They all say I’ve got a commoner’s face, and they’re right.”
“Different, in a very feminine way, but not coarse by any standards.” He rotated her face to study it from every angle. “Tell me, did you always meet your lover at dawn, away from Menhill?”
“I am a maiden.” Ashira met his eyes in angry challenge, daring him to deny her, and puzzled by his placement of her movements when his time inside Menhill had been so brief.
The duke frowned. “I saw a sight I will never forget on the day of our bonding, a War Maid charging through mist like a legend out of time. Know that I didn’t connect a sad little girl with the earlier vision until I saw you fight. I might just decide to discipline you, since I gave you an order to run for cover during an attack.” He glanced at her arm, his mouth forming a hard line of displeasure.
“Oath breaker.” Ashira tried to pull away. “You swore no hitting.”
“That was then.” He put aside the comb, satisfied with his efforts. “I came to tend the wound.”
Ashira bristled at the suggestion. “I wasn’t meeting any man that day. I just like riding.” She settled back to endure the area being treated. His hands applied the ointment in the same gentle way he had administered liniment to her bruises.
“For the present, rest here until you feel the need to explore. I grant you free run of my fort, but no going outside without my permission.” He fingered the neckline of her thin nightgown, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I ordered you a dress to be made by the morning, so no pilfering of my clothing, War Maid. Is this clear?”
“Yes, my lord.” Ashira caught her breath. She was not confined to women’s quarters. She could go where she wished as long as she stayed inside the fort. Where was the worm in this apple? “Am I required to wear a veil, in case I should want to sneak off for another assignation?”
The duke laughed, standing to pack the healing ingredients back on a tray. “Half my people know what you are and have seen your face. They know better than to incur my anger. Shall I harvest a crop after winter has blighted it? Sleep well, lady.” He bowed and left.
Perhaps he had a woman warming his bed. Relief warred with humiliation. Most rulers raised one daughter as a War Maid to protect sibling honor during a raid. Most also chose a docile partner as mate. He showed no interest now that he had found out her status. Perhaps she was only still alive to enhance his dread reputation.
The promised dress arrived with morning. Timid serving girls, their hair covered by caps, laid it on her bed and handed her a tray with a bowl of porridge and a beaker of milk. They glanced slyly at her as they sidled out.
After finishing breakfast, Ashira discovered how well the gown fitted. With a low neck and flaring three-quarter length sleeves, it showed her wounds. The pastel blue color added to her dislike. One tiny spark of gratitude for freedom prompted her to leave her hair loose, since Uther didn’t appear to like braids. She had wondered at the absence of the pins and clips she needed for styling her hair.
Legs like wet cloths slowed her norm
al stride. Bored and curious, Ashira wanted to see her new home even if it took her all day. Outside her rooms, the corridor bustled with busy workers, but unlike Menhill, this royal level didn’t swarm with guards. Servers hurried by without that hangdog cringe, and yet their eyes held a wary appraisal rather than kindness. The scent of stables came from below, calling to her of freedom. He said she had free range of the fort, not outside. At the head of a stairwell, she resolved to go up, clutching at the railing with grim determination.
This fort had smooth cladding on all exposed walls, making it seem brighter than Menhill. Ashira wondered why no mirror shafts lighted the levels. Very unusual, according to her brother’s detailed accounts of every fort he visited, detailed to Syril while Ashira listened in the background. He possessed a lively eye for people, particularly possible husbands for his adored sister, trying to bring them into focus in case one should offer for her.
As Ashira wandered past the main entrance, a stiff breeze brought a fresh smell with a trace of salt wetness: a call from outside. Breathing deeply, she started forward, wanting to see the sky again. A guard stepped into her path, blocking off the light.
“My lord is away at Tregelly mine. He left orders.” The man met her eyes in steady challenge.
“I wish to inspect the compound. You may escort me,” Ashira said, going for a pompous approach Bronze Bands usually found intimidating. She moved forward with confidence. The guard spread his arms to block her passage, while another soldier hurried over to give backup. When they both faced her down, Ashira gathered her shredded dignity and turned away.
Feeling much better the next morning, she made another attempt to reach the outside compound. The young man standing watch called for help, defeating her plans. When told where the duke was, Ashira decided to challenge her beast in his lair. The duke sat at his desk, engrossed in the task of relocating colored pegs on a large, irregular shaped board fixed to a wall. He turned around to face the intrusion.
“Ashira, what a delightful surprise.” He gestured to a chair facing him. Once she settled, he went to the door, bellowing orders for breakfast. “Now, what can I do for you? Has someone been impolite? Is the service not to your liking?” He resumed his seat.
“When I wanted to go out, your guards wouldn’t let me. I wished to see daylight.”
“I’m free after lunch. Come back then, or be quiet while I work, I don’t mind which.” His mouth tugged up at the corners, as if fighting amusement.
“Am I a prisoner? What is my fate to be?”
“What it is already.” He drew his brows together, ignoring the first part of her question. “When you’re healed you will become my wife in more than name.”
The duke turned back to his pegboard, meticulously shifting the colored pegs. Ashira watched him, turning over his words in her mind. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be a wife, since she thought he might make restrictions on her time when he decided to exercise his rights. She studied him as he continued to ignore her. There seemed a purpose to his actions.
“What are you doing?” she asked, forgetting his request until the words left her mouth.
“Ashira, I’m busy.” He took three pegboards from his desk and a box of free worker symbols. “Change all individuals on the third shift and redistribute the others. Put fresh workers from the pool on the first shift, and do it quietly.”
He had given her kitchens, laundry and household judging by symbols on the boards. Ashira started by sorting the pool into genders, then experience, and finally age. She studied the assortments already in place before rearranging, just finishing as a plate of cold chicken appeared in front of her, placed there by a silent server. Incredibly, time had flown, the morning gone already with the arrival of midday meal.
The duke inspected her work before he started his own lunch. “Excellent! I would make one amendment—you put a man on the same shift as his wife’s mother, but they can’t stand each other. Better acquaintance with the people will eliminate the chance of bad placements.” He smiled, as if to take the sting out of criticism.
“I am to continue this task?” Ashira paused, fork halfway to her mouth, not daring to believe his words.
“I don’t waste potential. Start with the three areas you have, and I’ll add the tailor’s shop and stores when you’re familiar with our people.” The duke looked over at her. “Lady, I didn’t ask if you wanted this task.”
“Yes. Thank you, my lord. I’d appreciate a useful occupation.”
Uther threw back his head, laughing in genuine amusement. “Ashira, you know not your worth. I have worried how to keep you occupied, never thinking of work until this morning. I can’t confine a War Maid to quarters, doing whatever it is women do, and yet I didn’t want you wandering bored, and getting into mischief.”
Ashira finished her meal in silence, embarrassed by his kindness. He had just given her unimagined freedom, coupled with incredible responsibility. As far as she knew, no other ruler’s wife had ever had such privileges.
After lunch, Uther escorted her around the compound of his fort. Light rain fell from a matte-gray sky as they hurried from one workshop to another. The tanner’s cave stank from curing hides, but the smithy intrigued her. Not only weapons of war rested on shelves, but also cooking pots, and in one corner, copper jewelry. Beyond the smithy, the compound ran down to the sea over a rocky shoreline. Ashira walked toward it, fascinated despite the rain.
“Never seen the sea before?” he asked from her side.
Ashira shook her head. “It’s so restless.”
“Frightened?”
“No. It’s comforting . . . like a homecoming.” She gazed at the glisten of light on water, the white crests of waves crashing onto rocks. Out of the corner of her eye, Ashira saw his hand reaching for her. The movement paused and fell away.
“Come see my stables,” he suggested.
Most of the animals were ordinary workhorses, some larger for farm work, and then a small selection of well-bred mounts. The duke stopped in front of a stall holding an exquisite chestnut mare.
“This one is called Amber. I thought you might like her. Will she suit?”
The deep brown eyes flashed fire; the mare tossed her head proudly. Taken by surprise, Ashira turned to hug her stern husband. For an instant, his arms closed around her, and then he released his hold, as if burned.
“I ordered a riding outfit for you, which should be ready by now. If so, will you ride with me tomorrow, health permitting?” His eyes ran over her, searching, quizzical.
“I’d love to, my lord.” A chance to ride again! Her chest contracted as she waited for the catch. “Are there matters you wish to oversee?”
“I thought I’d ride out to my nearest tin mine. They complain of losing stock to predators, but I’d see the evidence myself before I organize a hunt. And no, if I do, you can’t come. Despite the fact I’ve never seen anyone heal so fast, I’d prefer you to regain full strength.”
“I’m—”
“Ashira, I’ll make my point the easy way this time. In future, I don’t expect argument.” The duke took her good arm in a firm grip. “We are going to my weapons practice hall where you will prove to yourself your need to recover.”
The room took space from the royal level situated, she guessed, over the soldiers’ barracks. Fixed against one long wall, a sword rack displayed various sized weapons with assorted grips. Unlike Menhill, where planking had raised the floor of the training room, this surface showed the wear of usage on rock making the ground uneven. To fight here meant using every ounce of skill she possessed.
The duke grabbed both her hands in a swift, shocking maneuver. He raised one eyebrow at her clenched fists. Ashira blushed remembering the last time she hid her hands from him. He’d demanded the kiss of peace from her then. She opened her hands, letting him run the ball of his thumbs against the calluses on both.
“More secrets? A fighter who can trade sword hands at ease is an asset.”
He release
d her, marching to the wall for a short, light sword. Watching his easy stride, Ashira had a sickly feeling that his discovery was not new. If he had seen her hands before, then he must have looked at them while she slept. She couldn’t meet his eyes when he handed her the weapon. The whisper of his sword drawing called her back into the moment.
“The weapon you have is yours to keep. It belonged to me as a boy.” He raised his blade, taking up a battle stance. “Prepare to fight.”
She didn’t want to fight with sharp weapons. Her arm ached, even though she held her sword in her left hand. She struck. The shock of connecting with his blade sent waves of red hot needles through her injury. Again, she pressed the attack, and once more, he blocked her blows until she stood trembling, helpless before him.
“I order you to rest in your rooms for the remainder of this day.” The duke returned to the weapons rack for a sword belt and attached short knife. He took her sword to slide it into its scabbard. “I’ll have a meal sent down.”
“I’m not tired,” Ashira lied. “I just need to get my breath.”
The duke wound his arm around her waist, forcibly marching her to her rooms. He pushed her over the threshold, following behind. Ashira whirled to face him.
“Lady, you tried to disobey my orders yesterday, and again, I suspect, this morning. Don’t back me into a corner you’ll regret when I’m trying very hard to keep the peace. Please have the decency to meet me halfway.” He executed a curt bow, dumped her weapons on a side table and left her to reflect on his leniency.
Chapter 5
Earth Date 3874
A neat stack of clothing rested next to the armaments when Ashira awoke in the morning. On top lay a daisy, overblown, wilting, and giving off that sharp tang of a blossom not meant for picking. It wasn’t much of a flower, yet he must have searched for it outside the barren compound. A frisson of unease ran through her.
