by Megan Crane
At least the fire was warm.
And now that she was alone, and there weren’t guards here who could rip her life apart the moment they laid eyes on her, Kathlyn drifted closer to the warmth of the flames and—almost against her will—let the full impact of what had gone on here earlier slam into her.
The truth was she didn’t quite know how she was standing upright.
But she was cold despite the fire and it was getting late. And Kathlyn knew that no matter what lies she might have told herself about why she’d come here—that she was taking something from her father, that she was making the only choice available to her, or that she’d simply been swept away by all the talk of a storied raider king appearing in the flesh in the middle of real life, like the rest of the palace—she couldn’t risk an extended absence from the wives’ quarters.
Wulf had been right, people would be looking for her. They probably already were.
Kathlyn retied the closure of the cloak, tighter this time in the hope it covered more. She pulled the spacious hood up and over her head. Only then, when her face was in shadows and concealed, did she cross the outer chamber of this stone prison and slowly, very slowly, crack open the door to the hall.
A quick glance showed her that the hallway was empty. She stepped out into the hall and started down it, her breath tangling in her throat as all the precariousness of walking around like this hit her again. Earlier she’d crept down this hall, marveling at how the marble beneath her feet had felt so soft, so sensuous, as if it was urging her on to the loss of her virginity.
But now it was only cold. A shock against her feet with each step, while inside of her there was so much fire and so much need it almost hurt, and a rawness she couldn’t begin to understand. She only knew it burned.
She needed to get to her chamber. Quickly.
Her mind veered away from the image of herself being caught out and about, dressed like this instead of in the typical armor of her gold dresses that marked her as not only a virgin princess, but the particular property of the king. There were any number of men who would have taken advantage of a girl in gold, just because they could, and who would believe a ruined girl’s claims? But there were far fewer men who would dare risk the ire of the most powerful king in the western highlands.
Kathlyn stuck to the back way through these parts of the palace she wasn’t supposed to know anything about, much less visit. But she’d grown up here, winter after endless winter. And she’d learned a long time ago that it was wise to know alternate routes through this place. Because the more she could avoid her father, or his ambitious subjects who loved nothing more than to call Kathlyn out on any perceived misbehavior and report it back to him for her own good, the more likely she was to make it through the day without having to see King Athenian.
And the less she saw her father, the better. Too bad if that made her pretty much the opposite of brave.
That female raider flashed through her head then, the way she often had since Kathlyn had met her last fall. She’d seemed like magic. Sleek and deadly, her arms made of smoothly-shaped muscle and her gaze a dark invitation to pain. Like a man, Kathlyn had thought, except no man was as compelling as the light, deadly raider woman as she’d easily knocked out two princesses and had looked as if she might treat Kathlyn to the same quick trip to unconsciousness.
The raider woman hadn’t simply been offhandedly, shockingly strong and, yes, brave, the way all the raiders seemed to be. Matter-of-factly imbued with all that physical prowess as if it was normal. Natural. She’d also been pretty. Shockingly so. Long dark hair and dark eyes and a face that had been much too serious to be anything like sweet, but was remarkably pretty all the same.
It had never crossed Kathlyn’s mind before that a woman could be more than one thing.
And something kicked at her then, deep inside. But she couldn’t take the time to investigate it. Instead, she picked up her pace.
The palace was much warmer the further she got away from that lonely little wing set aside for her father’s enemies. Maybe it was the fact that she was moving again, running down forgotten stairs and creeping around dark corners. Once she drew close to the wives’ quarters, she could hear that most of the women were partaking of their evening meal out in the center courtyard. She could hear the buzz of voices and the clanking of plates. This was the time of day when King Athenian and the other men sent their summonses. Which wives they wanted to attend them that evening and in what order, all of which was parsed and discussed—in minute detail and with varying degrees of triumph, tragedy, and pure spite—by every woman in the courtyard. Some men only had the one winter wife, of course, and their summonses were rarely the subject of much scrutiny unless the requested time was so early that it indicated he was simply going to do his duty and then get on with his evening—likely involving the company of courtesans—or so late that there was a high chance he’d be drunk and draw the whole thing out.
King Athenian’s summonses were usually tiered. He always summoned at least two wives and often three. One to start him off, another for fun, and the third for the rest of the night. His choices were pored over and discussed with avid attention to every detail by every last woman in the courtyard. His winter wife was always one of his choices, because that was his duty to the earth and church, and he was nothing if not sickeningly pious about his compliance. But the other two choices varied widely. A new wife or an older one? Were the wives chosen now in favor or was it more of a punishment?
The courtyard was always the same, Kathlyn thought, as she avoided the main entrance with the guard station, which was mostly for show. She headed down a service corridor that snaked along the side of the women’s quarters, still able to hear the chatter from inside. The guards might not have noticed her absence, but the women would have. They’d be staring at the door to her rooms, whispering to each other and concocting stories to explain Kathlyn’s unusual absence.
She would have broken into a run if she could have done it without drawing too much unwanted attention.
You’re almost there, she told herself when she got to the end of the corridor. She was almost safe.
She could see the entrance to her rooms not five hundred feet down the hallway. A powerful relief washed over her, making her eyes feel too full while her body felt hot. She’d made it.
But before she could slip back into safety, one of the other doors along the back hall opened, leading out from the other women’s rooms on this far side of the complex—allocated to those who’d fallen out of favor.
Kathlyn’s heart stuttered in her chest. And it couldn’t have been worse, she saw, when a woman stepped through the door and into the back hall with her. Because of all the women in the wives’ quarters, there was no one who had more of a grudge against Kathlyn than Lorna.
Something Lorna made clear every time they laid eyes on each other, one way or another, and no matter that she was old enough to be Kathlyn’s mother. That had never prevented Lorna from treating Kathlyn like a rival.
Kathlyn didn’t know what to do. She slowed without meaning to, but caught herself. No good would come of letting Lorna get a good look at her. She kept walking, casting her eyes down to the floor making sure the hood was pulled up and over her head, because that was what had worked before. She’d passed several sets of guards when she’d headed up to the stone tower, and none of them had done more than look at the parts of her they could see from beneath her cloak. Her legs. Her feet.
But she should have known that Lorna—obsessed as she was with high protocol in all things because it allowed her to be vicious when someone committed even the smallest infraction—wouldn’t let something like the sight of a courtesan in a part of the palace she should never have been slip her by.
“What are you doing here? These are the wives’ quarters, not the stews.”
Lorna’s voice was nasty. A shrill accusation with an undercurrent of malicious glee that she had a target. This was nothing new. Lorna was one o
f King Athenian’s permanent wives. She’d come along after Kathlyn’s mother, but the fact that Lady Gertrix had died—horribly—had made no dent in the other woman’s jealousy.
On the contrary, Lorna had been taking that jealousy out on Kathlyn for years.
Kathlyn pulled her cloak tighter around her, and went to brush past the other woman in the hallway. She’d passed courtesans in the hallway before. Biyu, the one everyone feared, covered her head but somehow always allowed some part of her face to be seen, flouting the rules because she was Biyu—but even the queen of the courtesans stepped aside and moved out of the way of the aristocratic women. As if the ruined women really were nothing but tawdry shadows in the palace hallways. Kathlyn tried to do the same.
But Lorna was having none of it. She reached out with her fingers like claws and grabbed hold of Kathlyn’s arm. Hard.
“I’m speaking to you, whore,” Lorna hissed.
Kathlyn jerked her arm away before she thought better of it, because that was how she would have reacted if she’d been dressed in her usual gold. “Don’t touch me.”
And the problem with Lorna was that no matter whether she was in favor or not these days, she was still one of the longest-lasting permanent wives of the king. That accorded her a place in the pecking order. She might not have borne King Athenian any babies save the one that had secured her place here. A son who, like all the king’s sons—including the frustrating N’kosi, who was a general and happened to be Kathlyn’s blood brother whether she liked it or not—waited for his inheritance to come while in service to the palace guard. But Lorna never let her low status get in her way. She was small-minded, eternally angry, and more than happy to take it out on everyone around her.
And Kathlyn had just challenged her while dressed like a courtesan.
Mistake.
“How dare you speak to your betters like that?” Lorna cried, her round, light brown cheeks shaking with outrage while the gray curls she’d slicked back stayed frozen still. “Who do you think you are?”
She angled herself closer to Kathlyn, who had no choice but to duck her head and thank her intermittent luck that Lorna was taller than she was. And therefore could likely see only the cloak, not Kathlyn’s face.
Kathlyn couldn’t answer her. Her voice might give her away and she’d already spoken once. So she only tried to keep her head ducked while she kept edging her way along the wall.
“You’re little better than a toilet,” Lorna threw at her, sounding more incensed with every word. “You have no right to wander here amongst proper people, spreading your nasty poison. This part of the palace is for good, pious women who know their duty, not dirty trash like you. Noncompliant and vile.”
Kathlyn was getting desperate. She went to push past the other woman, but even as she started to move she realized that it was pointless. It would only arouse Lorna’s suspicions further if a random courtesan out wandering the hallways suddenly banked right and threw herself into Princess Kathlyn’s rooms. She might as well paint a target on the back of her head instead.
Her indecision cost her. Even as she faltered, she felt Lorna’s hand on the cloak.
“Stop!” she said, but of course Lorna didn’t stop.
If anything, she pulled harder.
And then everything seemed to happen slowly. Too slowly. As if this moment had been inevitable from the moment Kathlyn had decided to sneak up to the raider king’s rooms in the first place. It was all leading straight here, she could see that now. And she could do nothing to prevent it.
She’d been so sure she’d gotten away with it, that she’d had her little revolution where no one could see it, but she should have known that was impossible. She should have known that there were no revolutions under her father’s thumb, and it meant she was in terrible trouble.
Something that was confirmed as the hood fell back—as Lorna ripped it off her head, exposing her face.
Lorna made a squeaking sound.
And for a moment they both stood there stunned.
The other woman’s eyes were round. Astonished. And for the first time in all the years that Kathlyn had known her, Lorna was struck dumb.
But of course that wouldn’t last.
“Princess Kathlyn . . .” Lorna breathed, malice lighting up her sharp brown gaze. “Dressed in whore’s clothes and out walking the halls when she’s meant to be at dinner. Maybe the king’s favorite virgin isn’t quite so innocent as she claims.”
Kathlyn wasn’t her father’s favorite anything. If he had favorites at all, it wouldn’t involve his only daughter, who he prized for the maidenhead he planned to sell and nothing more. He expected the bragging rights that came with a fully blooded virgin daughter, well-mounted and broken in, come her ceremony. He’d kill her for anything less.
He’d promised her he would more times than she could count. And one thing her father did not do was make empty promises about inflicting pain.
Her pulse was hammering at her now, when it was all much too late.
“I don’t think you understand, Lorna,” Kathlyn said, with as much quiet authority as possible. Her heart was going mad inside of her, but she knew better than to show Lorna that she was scared. She might as well go out in the snow, cut herself so she bled, and then wait for the wolves to come. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, but I don’t appreciate you calling me names.”
She drew herself up as she said it, calling on all the years she’d practiced her comportment. Her poise. All the lessons she’d learned again and again and again about how to be a perfect, untouchable princess, a jewel of the kingdom, worth every outrageous bid that was placed on her.
But Lorna had been waiting for something like this for far too long. Kathlyn could see it in her shrewd, mean eyes.
“I think I understand perfectly,” she said, unmistakable smug satisfaction in her voice. “You’re not wiggling out of this one. I can’t wait to tell your father that his investment has been compromised. That his pretty little virgin is nothing but a common slag. Creeping around the corridors, sharing what’s his with who knows how many men, dirtying herself in the palace stews with all the rest of the whores.”
She moved closer again, and this time when she grabbed Kathlyn’s arm, she held on even tighter. This time it hurt. And Kathlyn knew Lorna was well aware it hurt when the other woman laughed, then clenched down harder.
“Between you and me? I hope he cuts you into pieces and leaves you to rot in the upper square for all the kingdom to see.”
“Lorna,” Kathlyn said as placatingly as she could while sharp pain radiated up her arm, her stomach was sour, and her lips went numb with terror. “Please. I really don’t think—”
But Lorna only laughed.
Then she threw back her head and screamed for the guards.
6.
Wulf let them take him.
They sent a squad of five, which told him they were more afraid of him than they probably wanted to let on, since five men to one would have been serious overkill on some run-of-the-mill cringing, whiny little captive.
He took it as the compliment it was. Backhanded and strange like everything else in this place.
He didn’t look back to see if Kathlyn had done what he told her to do and hidden herself away. He didn’t know much about compliant women, except that they were nothing like raiders. Raider women were tough and strong. Capable and fierce in all things. A raider woman in a situation like this one would already have found some kind of weapon and placed herself somewhere strategic. And Wulf would not have had to tell her to do this; it would have been second nature.
But Kathlyn wasn’t a raider. She wasn’t clan.
Kathlyn was a princess and a compliant and the only thing Wulf knew for sure about compliants was that they subjected themselves to forced marriages filled with stilted, dutiful sex that sounded about as hot as the frigid stone floors in this place. Wulf didn’t think the princess was quite on the same level as Helena, his war-chief’s m
ate, who had spent years of her life running away from mercenary assholes sent by known dirtbag Bishop Seph and Kathlyn’s own father to keep her map of the world and places like this one safe. But there was no time to school Kathlyn. There was no time to do anything but stand next to the couch and watch the guards come in.
Five of them, as expected.
All of them dicks. Wulf would have assumed that anyway given their profession, which as far as he could tell involved kissing King Athenian’s ass and pretending it was a higher calling. But they proved it in the way they threw themselves inside the room, slamming the door back so far it crashed against the wall, clearly hoping to scare Wulf in some way with their dramatic entrance.
Because they were little punk bitches who obviously didn’t realize that he’d heard them coming.
Wulf was ready for them. He was in the act of pulling his trousers back up to his hips as the first douchebag busted in, having thrown the length of wool onto the sofa a moment before. Instead of finishing doing up his fly, he stopped. He rested his hands on his hips and eyed the scraggly group of so-called warriors clustered there before him, all of them so busy eye-fucking each other with entirely too much self-congratulatory bluster that he wasn’t sure they even saw him for the first second or two.
Arrogant posturing bastards, Wulf thought derisively. If he’d ever seen raider men—not even members of the brotherhood, just regular men of the clan—rolling into an enemy’s holding cell with so little strategy or care, he’d have meted out a harsh and punishing justice on the spot. Because this kind of shit put whole clans at risk. There was no telling what kind of trap a man was walking into in this shithole world, stuffed full of so many desperate assholes looking for survival or profit or both.
But these idiots weren’t his problem.
