He smiled. “You should. And you will. But you must know I have questions for you—you must know ever since I met you, I’ve wondered about you. And now, since this afternoon, when Deatrice spoke to you, I’ve wondered even more. Won’t you sit?”
She wet her lips and sank down before the fire, tucking her skirts carefully around her legs. The fire blazed hot and high, and the light shimmered on the polished grate, gleamed softly on the tiles of the hearth. The tiles were creamy shades of peach and rose and green, arranged in an intricate design, and fleetingly she wondered how much such things cost. She was reminded of her father’s house, where she had not even thought to notice such things as how the fireplaces were made, and a lump rose in her chest.
Eral sat across from her. He poured a little liquid into one of the silver goblets and sipped. “Has she spoken to you?”
“Deatrice? No—not since this afternoon.” Juilene felt herself flush.
Eral watched her with narrowed eyes. He licked the wine off his lips. “You know you should have told me in the beginning. It wasn’t fair of you to put the rest of us in jeopardy.”
“But you weren’t,” she said, her voice quivering just a little. Was he about to turn her away? “You weren’t, ever.”
“How can I know that?” Suspicion was set in every line of his face. “Can you tell me?”
She hesitated. Would it matter? Would it change or alter anything? And didn’t she owe this man and the troupe something, after all? He had taken her out of Sylyria, provided a refuge and a means to earn her bread. Surely the truth and the assurance it would bring was the least she could give him. She took a deep breath. She searched her mind for the proper way to begin, and the words came, slowly, faltering from her tongue. “I—I was born in a house near Sylyria.”
“So you are noble.”
She nodded, staring into the flames. How to tell him, she wondered. The easiest way was the simplest, she supposed. She took a deep breath and began. “There is in that district a master-thurge, who is cruel and cares nothing for the people within his domain, and nothing for the authority of the Over-Thurge, or the Conclave. He lets his men do as they please, and the whole district speaks of nothing but how to be rid of him.” She paused, realizing how true that was. She could scarcely remember a time when the people had not grumbled about Lindos.
“Go on,” he said, turning the goblet slowly in his hands.
“I was to marry a young thane of a neighboring house. But his sister was attacked and beaten by the thurge’s men, and so Arimond swore revenge. He went to the thurge’s house—” She broke off as her throat closed.
Eral leaned forward. “I can guess what happened next. This master-thurge didn’t look kindly upon the challenge, I take it? This is what has sparked the situation in Sylyria, isn’t it?”
Miserably, she nodded.
“But what made him think he could handle the thurge? Especially one with such a reputation?”
Juilene raised her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “He thought he was the thurge’s doom.”
“Ah.” Eral sat back with a low whistle. “I see. But how were you involved?”
“I helped get him into the castle. I pretended to be a songsayer—it was the night before Festival, you see.”
“Ah.” Eral nodded. “And so you brought down the thurge’s anger against you?”
She looked away. “He gave me a choice. Either marry him or be cursed. But he had killed my love. I could have nothing to do with him.”
“What’s the nature of this curse?”
“I can accept nothing save that which I earn by my own hand, neither kindness nor charity, not even the smallest crust of bread without having first earned it. And it can only be lifted by someone who loves me for myself alone.”
Eral raised an eyebrow and sat back. He put the goblet down. “I see. Quite a predicament you found yourself in.”
Juilene nodded. “Yes.”
“No wonder you had such a scared lost look about you. And no wonder you are so very different from the others.”
“I’ve learned a lot in the last weeks.”
He laughed. “Yes, you have. Who else knows about this?”
She shook her head. “No one, except my old nurse. She tried to help me, you see, and she was horribly, terribly hurt. The curse is real. I dare not—”
“Hush.” He held up one hand. “Your secret is safe with me. It certainly explains everything. No wonder you keep to yourself. I’d be frightened, too.”
She turned away to stare into the fire. Frightened. She had been so frightened these last few weeks. Could he even begin to understand? She heard the rustle of fabric behind her, and felt his arm go around her, drawing her close. She stiffened, started to pull away, and then relaxed in spite of herself.
“Poor little songsayer,” he murmured. “Poor little sister.”
His shoulder was strong, his arm comforting. It felt so good to be held, to be touched and soothed. It had been weeks since she had been hugged. She gave a little sigh.
“Ah, there, that’s better.” He smoothed her hair back, his fingers sure and steady. She felt her eyes grow heavy. His arms tightened around her, and she felt herself shifted and lifted, so that he cradled her against his chest. She sighed once more, and opened her eyes. He smiled into them, and lowered his mouth to hers.
She gasped.
“No, no, sweet, hush,” he murmured against her throat. She felt her hair tumble down her back and over her shoulders, and he twined his fingers in the curls, his fingertips brushing against her body. She gasped once more, shocked a little by the sensations he was rousing in her, and tried to turn away. But he only smiled and forced her face up to his. She opened her mouth to protest, and his lips came down on hers. It was nothing like Arimond’s kiss, she thought, and she tried to struggle, tried to close her mouth shut against his probing tongue. But his arms were too strong, his mouth too insistent. Involuntarily, she clung to him, as his fingers skillfully slipped through the lacings of her bodice, and found the warm, heavy weight of her breast.
Fire shot through her, a burst of heat that made her turn in his arms, and he drew back, stroking and caressing the round flesh and pebbled tip that suddenly seemed as though it were made of something far more hot than flesh could ever be.
“I can’t break your curse,” he whispered in her ear, and his breath sent little sparks down her spine. “But I can make you forget, for a little while, at least. Shall I?”
“N-no, please,” she said, her hands plucking fretfully at his wrists, trying to displace his fingers from the opening of her bodice. He was kneading her breasts now, moving back and forth from one to the other, claiming both of them.
She tried to force his hands away, but he only chuckled and held both of hers in one of his, while he rolled one nipple gently in his fingertips. “So sweet. So very, very sweet.” He raised her in his arms and kissed her then, hungrily, while his hand worked at her dress. Somehow, despite her struggling hands, he got it off her shoulders, exposing her to the waist. She gasped, shrugging and twisting as she tried to cover herself.
“No, little love, you’re much too beautiful.” He moved her hands out of the way, holding them above her head in one hand while with the other he fumbled with the lacings of his breeches. She felt him push her skirts out of the way, felt his fingers probe the swollen flesh between her legs. She screamed against his mouth as his tongue probed her mouth once more, stabbing deep as he moved her legs apart and lowered himself between them. Suddenly the implication of his intentions penetrated her tired, wine-fogged mind. If he took her virginity, here and now, she lost all hope of ever marrying. A thane’s bride must be virgin—she would be disgraced, even more outcast than she was now. She pushed up with her body, clenching her fingers around his arms, digging her nails into his flesh. “Eral, please leave me alone—I can’t do this—not like this—I’ll scream—”
“Ah, but you can.” He tightened his grip on her wrists. Something thi
cker than his fingers pushed against her, something harder and more insistent. “Scream all you please—I’ll like it just as much.” He lowered his face to hers and she twisted her neck away.
“I don’t want you to do this, Eral,” she pleaded more insistently. “Leave me alone—please—”
“Let me do this for you,” he whispered against her ear, pressing harder. “Let me show you this—” He raised his hips and thrust. She cried out, as loudly as she could and tried to move her legs together, but his weight pinned her firmly, and he covered her mouth with his, so her loud protests were swallowed by his tongue. Pain radiated, a blinding stab that made her shudder and lie still. She screamed and he covered her mouth with one hand.”
“That’s better,” he whispered. He raised his hips and thrust again as she turned her face and closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to fight him off. But he pressed forward, driving into her struggling body with short stabs. Finally, she felt another sharp stab of pain and something gave way. “There,” he murmured. She bit her tongue to quell the nausea that rose in her throat. He raised his chest and smiled down at her, pressing her hands above her head. “Now—” He thrust back and forth three times, his eyes glazed, his breathing ragged. He tensed above her, grimacing, as she willed herself to lie still. He rolled off her, panting.
She drew a deep shuddering breath, and slowly backed away, drawing her clothes into some semblance of order. He sat up, pulling his breeches together. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Her whole body felt dirty, the tender flesh between her legs was wet and sticky and so horribly sore she wondered how she would walk.
“Look.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “In your situation, it was going to come to that, you know. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to sell yourself. And don’t you think it’s better to have someone like me the first time? Someone you know? Would you rather have had a stranger?”
She could only stare at him. She had trusted him, told him her story, and he had taken the cruelest advantage of her. What a fool she was. No wonder Mathy was bitter. But never again. She would bear this violation the way she was learning the bear all the other burdens—with silence and with strength. She pulled her bodice closed, holding it tight with one shaking hand, and extended the other.
He raised his brow. “Are you expecting me to pay you?”
She narrowed her eyes and hated him. She nodded.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Nervy little thing, I’ll give you that.” He reached into the purse he wore at his belt, and flipped a brass coin at her. “There you go. You really weren’t too bad for a first-timer.”
She stumbled to her feet, feeling fluid trickle down the inside of her thigh. She twisted her hair in a loose knot.
“But, sweetheart—”
His words made her pause with her hand on the doorknob.
“You’ve got to learn to intensify your protests a little more if that’s how you like it. Really kick and squirm. There’s plenty who’ll pay you highly for that kind of performance.”
She shuddered, scarcely believing what she heard, and fled, his laughter ringing in her ears.
Chapter Seven
They left the castle as a grey dawn broke over the towers three days later, a cold wind whining in the trees. Winter was hard upon them, and even Eral looked worried as he bowed a jaunty farewell to Lady Deatrice.
“Might snow,” he said, to no one in particular, as he flapped the reins and the cart jerked over the drawbridge.
Juilene huddled in the back, her cloak pulled tightly around her. She wasn’t sore anymore, but both her body and her mind were numb. Mathy avoided her eyes. They all knew, she was sure. They all had to know. She had sold herself for money, had allowed Eral to take the very thing that made her so precious to the men of her own class. He was nothing but a cruel opportunist who had taken her innocence with no more thought than he might help himself to a morsel of food. What would her father say, now? Even if she could go back to him, even if by some miracle she found a way to return so that she was no longer a danger to him or to anyone else who lived on his estate, there was no way any thane would have her. The life of an unmarried, unwanted disgrace loomed before her. There was nothing left for her but this life upon the roads.
She raised her head, and stared at towers of the castle as they disappeared behind the tops of the leafless trees. The grasping branches were like skeleton claws, reaching blindly in all directions. She shuddered. Eral behaved as though nothing had happened. So would she, she decided. Let Dramue give me strength.
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and peered past Nuala and Mathy through the opening in the front of the wagon. Beyond Eral’s broad back she could see the high mountain peaks looming on either side of the road. On the other side of the pass through which they traveled now lay Khardroon.
The name shivered down her spine. The ancient city of Khardroon was shrouded in legend. It was said to be the oldest of all the city-states, with the exception, of course, of Eld. But Eld lay high in the mountains, inaccessible much of the year, a center of religion and learning. Hardly anyone went to Eld. But everyone, everyone Juilene had ever known, spoke of Khardroon. It rivaled Sylyria for riches, and only its position between the Great Desert and the Parmathian Sea meant that it was squeezed smaller than Gravenhage. It was said that one could find anything in the world in Khardroon. Maybe, thought Juilene, as a little bitter smile raised the corners of her mouth, maybe she would find what she was looking for in Khardroon. And she had heard snatches of conversation in the hall and among the servants. War between thane and thurge was imminent in Sylyria: even Deatrice had looked uneasy when Eral broached the subject with her one evening after dinner. Better that they all put as much distance between themselves and Sylyria as soon as possible.
She glanced at Eral, at the dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck and spilled over his collar. He whistled something tuneless under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear, and the sound grated on her nerves. She unwrapped the harp and cradled it between her knees. Gently, she ran her fingers over the strings. Nuala lifted her head and smiled.
Juilene only met the old woman’s approval with a quick upturn of her lips she hoped could pass as an answering smile. At least no one could take her music away from her. Eral turned around and winked at her over his shoulder. She ignored him. Let him think what he would. Somehow, in Khardroon, she would find a way to get away. Mathy had said lots of traveling troupes went to Khardroon for the winter. Surely she would be able to find another position for herself. The weight of her money sack had grown over the last weeks. She had many more than the six coins with which she had fled her father’s house.
She concentrated on the music. It was easier than ever now, to give herself over to the music in a way she had never been able to do before. Where once she had played to amuse herself, to impress her teacher or her family, now she played to soothe herself, to escape. The fragile threads of sound were like a blanket, protecting her from the world in which she found herself. As long as she could weave the music around herself like a protective web, she would be safe.
It was just before dusk when the little company lurched to a halt outside a roadside tavern on the other side of the mountain pass. The air was warmer, the light softer, the shadows deeper. Juilene raised her face and sniffed. The smell of something cooking was on the air, and the scent was flavored with unfamiliar spices. Eral leaped out of the cart, and spoke to the young stablehand who came forward to take the reins. Mathy and Nuala stirred, and Juilene climbed out of the wagon, without waiting. A soft puff of air caressed her face, gentle as old Neri’s touch.
The tavern was built of some white stone, the windows wide and open to catch the breezes. Long benches on either side of the door invited patrons to lounge. To the right of the main building, an earthy odor announced the stables, while to the left, clangs and bangs and a woman’s shrill voice indica
ted the kitchens.
“Good to see this place again.” Nuala climbed down from the wagon, her face drawn and tired. She had slept most of the way from Deatrice’s castle. “These bones are too old for that cold. I say next year we hightail it here before Festival, Eral.”
“Ah, but what excuse would we have to snuggle?” Eral chucked her under the chin.
Nuala playfully slapped his hand away. “My days for that are long over, you rogue, and you should have respect for such an old lady.”
Eral pressed a kiss on Nuala’s cheek. “Never too old, my love, ‘til the goddess calls you home, right, my Jewel?”
Juilene stiffened. No one had used that name for her since Arimond. She pressed her lips together and turned away from the byplay. “Right, Eral. Of course.”
She reached into the wagon and grabbed her money bag, which had grown to a comfortable weight. She was too hungry to stand and watch his performance.
Later, Juilene sat before the hearth, her hands loosely in her lap. For once, she was content to sit and watch the patrons. They were for the most part darker-skinned than the natives of Sylyria, their faces lined and browned by the sun. More than a few wore the flowing robes and cloth headdresses and spoke in the liquid accents of the desert dwellers. More than once she had been the object of scrutiny, for her auburn hair was rare in Khardroon, and more than once, she had seen men nudge each other and stare. The few women who had come into the tavern were accompanied by men, kept their heads down, and their eyes lowered.
On the other side of the hearth, Mathy yawned. The hour was not so very late, but Nuala had already disappeared up the stairs to a room above, and Eral and the men were gaming in the yard outside the tavern. Once in a while, she could hear the voices raised in cheers or jeers, and once, Juilene was sure she had heard Maggot’s excited cry.
Mathy stood up. “I’m for bed,” she said. “You?”
Juilene nodded. “I’ll be up. I just need to get my things from the wagon—I should have brought them in with me before, but I’ve been so comfortable by this fire—”
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 13
