by Susan Forest
She pulled him closer, rising to her knees so their bodies touched. He caressed her neck below her death token collar, her shoulders, her skin soft as silk across her collarbone, fire plunging through his groin.
And then she did the most amazing thing. She took his hand and guided it to cup her breast—
A rustle and a gasp—
“Oh! Excuse me, My Lord—Your Highness—” A boy stood behind Anwen, a pitch fork in one hand, a look of dismay on his face.
Anwen turned, squealed, and jumped to her feet. Huwen rose beside her, his face heating.
Anwen bobbed a truncated curtsey and fled.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
Huwen straightened his doublet. Speechless, he stalked away, trying his best to maintain his dignity.
But when he reached the courtyard, Anwen was not to be seen. Huwen scanned the empty compound, at once frustrated and angry with the stable boy, ecstatic and floating, and urgently in need of a release.
Something was happening—there was news—in the castle, and perhaps he would find Anwen there, but he would not be able to touch her, to talk to her. To stand at her side, or more likely, to stand across some crowded room trying to catch her eye, could only frustrate him further.
He needed to be alone.
He ducked into the great hall through the kitchen entrance and took the deserted servants’ stairs to the royal wing. His suite was empty—everyone was listening to the news—so he bolted the door and flung himself on the bed, stripping out of his Aadian breeches to touch his throbbing penis and release the flood of pleasure pent up there.
Then he lay panting on the bed, exquisite visions of Anwen dancing in his head.
But he could not stay. Soon, the servants would return to their posts and his tutor would notice he was missing. And he was anxious to hear Uther’s news. He cast about the room for something with which to clean himself. He found a towel, but his pitcher was missing. By Kanden, what a nuisance.
He didn’t want to walk into his tutor’s room in nought but a shirt and stockings—the man could be back at any minute. But a door opened to Eamon’s adjoining room. Surely, his brother would be listening to whatever news Uther had brought.
But Eamon could never be counted on to go very far from his suite of rooms. Huwen eased the door open and peeked in.
By the Gods.
Eamon stood by the window, shaving knife in one hand, shallowly cutting his bare arm. A flagon of red wine, well drunk, stood beside an empty glass. Blood trickled to his elbow and onto the floor from multiple wounds.
Eamon’s head snapped around.
Huwen let the door between them drift open. “Eamon.”
“Go away.”
The last thing Huwen would do was go away. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
His brother’s knife hand lowered, a look of exasperation on his face. “Leave me alone!”
“What are you doing?”
“None of your business!” He nodded at Huwen’s groin. “What were you doing?”
“Not trying to kill myself.”
Eamon slumped back against the sill of the window. “I’m not trying to kill myself.”
“No? If your hand slips you might succeed.”
His brother glared at him and then glared at the floor.
Huwen reached out and took the knife from him. He breathed, and rested it on a table. “What are you doing?” he asked softly.
Eamon shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Why?” Huwen shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
He shrugged. “It makes me feel...” He shrugged again. “Better.”
“Feel better?” Huwen almost shouted. He lowered his voice. “Feel better?”
Eamon’s face closed. Huwen sagged back in disbelief.
“Don’t tell.”
Tell? That’s what worried Eamon?
His brother bit his lip. “Don’t tell Mother,” he said softly. “With Father still away. She doesn’t need—” He waved generally at himself and the blood. “—this.”
It was true. Mother fretted.
“And if you tell, well, anyone, it’ll get back. You know it will.” Eamon poured water from the pitcher onto a cloth. Huwen’s pitcher.
“How can I not tell Sieur Daxtonet? Or Uncle Avin?”
“Uncle Avin doesn’t need to know. It’s not his business. I’m not the heir.” He began to sponge his elbow and forearm, wincing a little.
“Is that what this is about?”
Eamon turned his too-knowing eyes on Huwen. “No.”
Huwen found a second towel and bent down to rub the blood from the stone tiles.
“Sieur Daxtonet...he’s tired of all this.” Eamon found a clean towel and dried his arms.
Huwen scrubbed at the last spot. “How can I not tell? You’re my brother. You...” He wanted to say, “you might be a pain, but...” Instead, he said offhandedly, “I love you.”
“I’ll stop.” Eamon rolled down his sleeves. “I’ll take care of it.”
Huwen eyed him.
Eamon reached for the wine and smiled brightly, as he hadn’t done for as long as Huwen could remember. “I’ll stop.”
The half-timber house at the edge of the village had a jettied second floor, large enough to block its chicken coop and pig pen from both the stars of Ranuat, and the eyes of passers-by. Meg crawled through the frozen garden, scavenging an occasional pod of woody peas, and digging hopelessly with a stick into icebound earth around the carrot or two that had been missed during harvest. Janat was back in the shrubbery with Rennika, with a stomach that would keep nothing down, a curse upon her from some tainted morsel.
They hadn’t gone home. The Gods had not restored the world. Meg hadn’t married Nevin, and Janat had not got her bath and bed and silk gown. Instead, they’d found themselves scraping for food, for warmth, for shelter, running from sticks and boots. It was all Meg could do to keep them from freezing and starving.
Meg crept back, and the three of them huddled just within the pig pen, sucking on the half-dozen woody peas Meg found, dozing a little, and watching smoke rise from the chimney.
“I miss Faris.” Rennika huddled close to Janat.
King Ean’s youngest, three years younger than Rennika.
“Faris.” Janat’s bitter words came from the dark. “Do you think she’s still in the castle with her nurse and sisters? Playing with her dolls, safe and warm?”
Meg was reluctant to answer. But Janat had been wheedling, more and more of late, to give themselves up to the kind protection of King Artem’s men. “Or is she dead?” Meg asked. “Everything I hear holds that bearing royal blood is a crime, unless your name is Delarcan.”
“You don’t know that,” Janat accused.
“You don’t know it isn’t,” Meg retorted.
Rennika began to whimper.
Meg pulled her ragged shawl—a stolen blanket—over Rennika, resting her cheek on the girl’s dirty, tangled hair. How could she explain to her why Nanna had taken them away from all that was safe and good, why couldn’t they look for clemency from the king—especially when Janat kept insisting they could?
“I miss Cook.” Janat’s voice was quiet in the dark.
Faint candlelight glowed behind the waxed linen coverings on the house’s windholes.
“I wish we had a real shrine where we could pray.” Meg needed hope and strength more than she needed food. “Remember the shrine at King Artem’s castle in Holderford?” As simple an act as naming the Gods in their Heavens gave her solace. “I think that was the most beautiful shrine I ever prayed at. The candlelight on all those gold and amber panels. And King Larin had the best seamstresses. Remember the honey cakes—”
“Don’t talk of food,” Janat said softly.
Meg acquiesced. But she could not surrender the comfort of her memories. “The best shrine was the old one off the road from Silvermeadow to Zellora,” Meg said. “You could feel the holiness in every ston
e.”
And, she had been infused with a feeling of peace in the shrine when they escaped, where they paused for only a few candlemarks before their flight down the terrifying cliffs below the ridge. That sensation of contentment had borne her a long way on their journey.
A bitter breeze nibbled at them from the north.
Presently, Meg clucked at her sisters. The windows in the house had become dark.
They crawled across the pig pen.
The pigs were well-fed and sleepy, snuffling and snorting a little as the three made their way to the trough. There were still good-sized lumps of turnip and something slimy that tasted of meat, laced with crunchy bits that might’ve been carrots. Meg shoved as much of the cold slop into her mouth as she could, Janat elbowing her into Rennika to snatch a few chunks, despite her uneasy stomach. The pigs snorted.
The door to the house slammed open, and a brilliant candle lantern swung into view. “Here! You!” a voice cried.
They ducked and scrambled back from the light.
The man shouted and his hard boots clattered on stone. The light flickered wildly. Moving lumps beneath their feet squealed in terror and bucked out of their way. Meg pushed Rennika over the wall where Janat had heaved herself, and the three of them plowed through the snow on numb feet toward the woods.
But this time, luck was not with them. A handful of growling dogs sprang up from nowhere and chased them down a lane, back toward the village. They rounded a corner into an alley and a form loomed up out of the dark.
Meg skidded to a halt and, grabbing Rennika’s hand, scrambled a quick retreat to the lane. But the way was blocked by the semi-circle of growling dogs. She dropped Rennika’s hand and pushed her behind her skirts.
Janat screamed.
Meg turned.
The dark shape was a man, and Janat was caught in his arms. She shrieked and struggled, her hood fallen back from her face. Her shifting magiel skin—
But it was night and Janat’s skin was not very capricious, and she and the man who held her were in shadow. “Hold on, now,” he said.
Meg pulled a stick from the nearest shanty and whipped it over her head, one eye on the dogs, and Rennika scrambled to a crouch behind a frozen rain barrel. The shanty collapsed against the side of the wagon that formed one of its walls. “Hey!” cried a voice within.
The man held Janat by her upper arm. His body was hard like an ironmonger’s, like the apprentice who pushed the bellows for King Ean’s smith. “Hunter. Down,” the man commanded one of the dogs. The beasts cringed, snarling. “What do you run from?”
Meg rushed forward with her stick, but the strong man ducked back and Janat wound up between them.
The second man extracted himself from the remains of the shanty. His nose was crooked above a straggle of beard. He was young and slighter than the other man, not yet fully muscled, but he bore himself with ease and confidence.
The house owner wheezed up the lane behind them and seized Janat’s other arm in pudgy hands. “Young Finn Kichman,” he said to the strapping man who’d spoken to the dogs. “I thank you. These thieves were in my garden,” the house owner accused, his accent thick but his words recognizable. “In my pig pen!”
“Refugees from the fighting, I’ve no doubt.” The man who’d crawled from the shanty appraised them with a look, then turned to reconstruct his tent. “Let them eat with your pigs, old man.”
Meg backed off, the stick ready, eyeing all three men and the dogs. Not promising.
“Thieves?” the house owner cried. “It’s not your place—Lad—to tell me how to deal with thieves.”
With a crank of his wrist, the wagon man surprised Meg and wrested the stick from her, nodding politely. “Be thankful you’re not turned out of your home in this weather, Sieur. Suppose soldiers took your house?” He waved the stick at Janat. “This might be your daughter. Have pity on them.”
Janat looked exhausted by her struggle and unsettled stomach. Could she run?
“I have no wife, nor daughter,” the house owner spat.
The wagon man shook his head and repaired his shanty.
“Are you Sulwyn Cordal?” Finn, the strong one, turned to the shanty man with respect. “From up valley, near Archwood?”
Cordal. Meg had heard the name. Somewhere. She peered at him in the dark. He’d been unwavering in demanding his stick back, but he’d spoken with kindness.
The wagon man looked up from his work. “That’s me, yes.”
“Oh!“ Finn dropped Janat’s arm. “Your cousin’s been expecting you. Colm told me what you’ve done.” He regarded the young man with admiration.
They could escape. Meg nodded at Rennika and tried to catch Janat’s eye.
“Colm!” Sulwyn Cordal gave his shanty a disgusted shake of the head and abandoned the task. “I was about to look for him.”
But Janat was by the glazier’s shop, leaning on the wall as if she would be sick.
“I was headed for the tavern, but I’ll take you to him,” Finn offered. “What about them?” He nodded at Janat.
“Give’m to me.” The house owner snatched Janat’s arm again.
Rennika slipped to Meg’s side. Ready. The girl knew.
“Please, Sieur,” Janat squeaked, using the low accent they had been practicing. She swallowed, and Meg wondered if she would vomit. “I’m a refugee, turned out by the king’s men, just as he said.” She nodded at the shanty man.
The three men halted at Janat’s words and stared at her.
“Colm’s with some others,” Finn said slowly to Sulwyn, “by a cook fire in the square.”
Sulwyn looked at Janat curiously. He removed the farmer’s hand from Janat’s arm and took her, himself. “Good, then. We’ll sort it out there.”
“Please,” Janat said again. “Just let us go.”
But the man, Sulwyn Cordal, guided her with a quiet authority toward the village square. Meg, loath to remove her hood from her face, stumped after them, holding Rennika at her side. The house owner, suddenly quiet, followed.
CHAPTER 8
A cook fire in a square where three roads met had melted a patch of snow, exposing the cobbles. Some scary men sat on stumps or stood warming their hands and holding mugs. The smell of roast goose tormented Rennika’s stomach so she wanted to cry, but Meg stopped her beyond the reach of the fire’s light.
“Sulwyn!” One of the men came forward, arms outstretched, his hood falling to his shoulders.
Sulwyn Cordal—the nice one, who’d built a shanty next to his wagon—clapped this new man on the hand. “Colm. Good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
Colm gestured to the stumps. “Sorry for the rough welcome, and no place to stay. I’m sleeping on the tavern floor, myself.”
Would he give them food?
Sulwyn accepted a mug from one of the men, and Colm nodded to the others around the fire. Sulwyn wasn’t as old as the others, but still they looked at him like he was.
“These are all reliable men,” his cousin Colm said. Everyone they’d met in the last weeks seemed to be someone’s cousin or brother-in-law or aunt.
Finn, the one who’d grabbed Janat, pulled a spit from the heat. He sliced Sulwyn a portion of dripping goose meat, and it was all Rennika could do to keep from rushing forward.
“Who’s them?” A man jerked his head in their direction.
“Thieves,” the house owner said, giving Janat a shove into the firelight. Janat had her hood up again.
“Spruce Falls has no thieves,” the man said, biting into his dripping meat.
“No? What of the man who was robbed of two hens just last week?” the house owner said.
“Stolen by a fox, old man.” Finn laughed at him. Good.
“I tell you,” the house owner with the pigs warned. “Orumon isn’t as safe as it was last summer.”
Sulwyn took a barley dumpling from a pot beside the hearth. He spoke to Meg but held the dumpling out to Rennika. “Come, girl. For the child. Tell us your st
ory so we can decide what to do with you.”
Rennika was a bit insulted to be called a child, but she looked to Meg for consent, then darted into the warmth and snatched the dumpling, cramming the sticky lump into her mouth, barely chewing.
Janat slumped onto a stump by the flames, holding her stomach. Rennika huddled close by her, licking the oil from her palms. Meg came forward and reached for the offered food.
“Wait.”
Rennika stilled, watchful, holding Janat’s fingers.What did Colm want?
Colm’s hand clapped on Meg’s exposed arm. The men eyed her hand, their meal in abeyance. Colm tugged Meg’s hood from her head. He pushed Janat’s hood back as well. “Magiels.” He pulled Rennika’s hood back, too.
He said it like it was bad.
“Just village magiels, Sieur,” Meg said, and Rennika knew she was trying to speak the way the others spoke, but not very well. “Only refugees turned out when our home was burned.”
Colm held out the pot of barley dumplings to Meg but peered at her closely. “You talk odd, for a village magiel from these parts.”
Meg shrugged and lowered her eyes, taking a dumpling.
The tightness in Janat’s hand told Rennika running would come soon and suddenly.
The nice one, Sulwyn, narrowed his eyes and studied them more closely in the firelight. “Three sisters.”
“Gah! What are you after?” Colm said, giving the nice man a mug of beer. “A magiel and a half-magiel. The young one’s a worldling.”
Sulwyn waited as though his words were a question.
“No, sir,” Meg mumbled after a moment. “What he said.” She nodded at Colm.
“You all have a semblance.” Sulwyn considered them carefully. “Narrow faces. Oval eyes.”
Meg said nothing but looked down. Rennika watched the men’s expressions for a sign she’d be sprinting again.
“High-talking magiels,” Finn said, putting a stick on the fire and giving it a stir so the flames leapt up, making light. “Probably servants for a lord.”
