Chapter Four
Clara rubbed furiously at her arms in an attempt to stave off the cold seeping through her heavy linen dress, the action mimicked by the other women around her. Morning had come fast to her little tower prison—certainly quicker than she would've liked—but it had yet to warm the cavernous audience chamber. The stone here still clung to the ancient coldness of the mountain. Not even the fires illuminating the room made enough of a difference.
Framed by the amber light of torches and candles, the Great Lord lounged at the far end of the room on a throne the old stories said had been carved from a single chunk of black marble. It shone against its backing of muted red and grey stone, adding vibrancy to the crimson cushions attached to its back. More pillows lay scattered about the dais. Clara didn't wish to think any further on their presence. Perhaps the lord's men truly had thought their new master would've preferred to be attended by several women.
The man himself sat dressed in plain, black leather. The sword he'd threatened her with last night stood bare at his side and the only concession towards colour he seemed to have made was a simple, deep red sash around his waist. Distance could've warped much, but she couldn't help thinking his face bore the polite expression of the profoundly bored.
Before him stood Brenna, planted firmly at the head of the carpet running up from the door to the throne. She'd insisted, quite loudly, on herself being the first to confront their new lord. No one had cared to stand in her way. "I am to become the Countess of Endlight." The words, spoken far louder than rest of her great speech, rang out across the room.
Clara had given up counting just how many times the woman had stated the same fact over the short time they'd been forced to share each other's company. What did she care if the woman was being married off? Arranged. How appalling to have someone else deciding who, and when, you'd be wedded. She'd rather be allowed to make up her own mind on such matters.
"My future husband is expected to arrive within the month. As such, I demand you return me to the village at once."
The sword flickered in the torchlight as he twirled the hilt in his hand, its tip grinding into the stone. "Endlight?" A faint chuckle filled the room. "I didn't realise Farris had gone senile already." The Great Lord leant back in his seat. "He's more than welcome to you, Countess."
Brenna jerked backwards, perhaps catching the hint of ice in his voice. She gave him a low curtsy and hastily made her way through the open doorway at their backs.
Sirius hobbled his way over to stand before them. "You," he said, grabbing Penny by her upper arm and leading her closer. "This one, master, has shown much spirit." He pushed her further ahead with a rough shove. "Tell our most esteemed lord and master your name."
"Ye be sure to keep yer hands off me, ye dog," she snarled over her shoulder. Stepping closer to the steps, she offered the man upon the throne a bow. "I be Penny Tanner, my lord." She straightened with a jerk, her hands flew up to sit on her hips. "And I'd rather be damned than let ye lock me in this cold hole of yers and be yer stinking whore." Her fist waved in the air between them. "And if ye try to lay one hand on me, I'll feed ye yer balls!"
Clara held her breath, expecting the man to explode in rage. She took a step back, vaguely aware of the other two doing the same. Speaking as she did to a mere councillor's daughter—even one who was to become a countess—was one thing, but to do so to the Great Lord himself? Men had died for lesser reasons. Goddess, protect her soul.
He leant forward, his hands coming to rest on the sword hilt. Rich laughter filled the room. "Oh, she does indeed have spirit, Sirius." He sat back in his seat, amusement still playing on his lips. "But the humble flame is rather different to a raging inferno." One hand lifted to flick Penny her dismissal and the short woman stamped out the door. "I've no desire to be burnt."
"Of course not, master." Sirius' arm swung wildly behind him, latching onto the flaxen-haired woman's wrist. Naught but a quick glance was given to who he had seized before he dragged her forward with more haste, and roughness, than he'd done with Penny. "Perhaps his exalted one shall find this young lady more suitable?" He prodded her back, pushing her a step towards the throne. "Your name, girl."
"L-Lillian," she squeaked.
Silence enveloped the room. The air grew thick with it, clogging Clara's ears until she could hear only the swift beat of her heart.
"No." The word pierced the quiet, neatly slicing it in two.
Lillian's booted feet shuffled on the carpet, the susurration they caused leisurely circled the room. "I-I assure you, m-my lord, i-it is."
He sighed, massaging his temples with a single hand. The other shook as it gripped the sword hilt. "Sirius, have you brought me any worthwhile women?"
The old man cringed, half-ducking behind Lillian and looking for all the world like a dwarf standing beside a giant. "Master, please do reconsider." One hand pushed the cowering woman forward, whilst the other stroked the wisps of hair dangling at her waist. "She is docile, sturdy and... Ah, has good, wide hips."
Lillian jumped as the man place his hands upon her waist.
Does he describe a woman or a cow? Clara frowned. Was there any difference when it came to the whims of nobility? What do wide hips have to do with it? The question meandered its way up from the treacherous depths of her mind, hitting her cheeks in a flash of warmth. They don't marry. A well-known fact. She supposed their heirs had to come from somewhere. Please, please, Goddess. Not me. She'd even less desire to bear his child than she did in becoming his mistress.
"My decision stands. Send the girl back to her family."
Lillian collapsed onto the dark red carpet with a squeak. "T-thank you, my lord. Thank you."
The Great Lord grimaced. "Just leave."
She scrambled to her feet. "O-of course, my lord." Taking a step back, she bowed as her foot touched the ground. "Thank you." The words kept spilling from her mouth as she continued to walk backwards, bowing with each step.
Drawing level with the last two of their group, Lillian spun and fled through the doors. No one appeared to stop her.
"I wouldn't think about trying to follow, miss."
Clara stopped watching the woman leave and stared at the old man. I'm next? She'd a vague awareness of Katharina opting to stand behind her when they'd first arrived. The woman hadn't moved since. Dear Goddess, no. I can't be next.
Having no desire to be dragged before the steps like the last two, she brushed off Sirius' attempt to grab her. Staring straight ahead, she mimicked Lillian in taking a step back. The room had one exit. No one guarded it. The old man wouldn't be able to catch her if she ran.
The subtle groan of well-oiled hinges rumbled through the room. A boom followed quick on its heels. The torches hanging over their heads shook in the breeze of the doors' passage.
She gawped at the massive twin doors, suddenly feeling colder than she'd been moments earlier. No one stood near the thick panels on this side. No one could've pulled them shut from the outside either.
She'd heard rumours of how the Great Lords were also great sorcerers, using their magic to hold back the kingdom's invaders. But her mother had always said rumour was only gossip in another coat. And sometimes gossip spreads because of its truth.
"Come." The Great Lord's voice lashed across the room as cold, and as fast, as a serpent.
Clara took an involuntary step towards the dais, her leg moving by some unseen force. Another, less jerky, stride swiftly followed heedless of her wishes to stay put. Then another and another, until she stood at the foot of the stairs, her gaze steadfastly refusing to lift from the first block of stone. Fully illuminated by the torches, the stone adopted a faint yellow hue.
Now whatever held her fast had positioned her where she didn't want to be, it suddenly let go. She staggered forward, righting herself before she could topple. If he thought she could be made to kneel, she was happy to prove him wrong.
A barely audible intake of breath came from the man sitting atop the thr
one. "It was you I saw last night." He descended the steps in a sure-footed clatter of boots, his darkly-clad form dancing on the edge of her vision. "I wasn't certain with the low light, but your hair... It's so red." He circled her, his boot heels tapping out a slow, measured beat. "Like—"
"I know," she muttered, cutting him off before he could spout whatever syrupy dribble he'd conjured to flatter her. Did he think no one had ever remarked on its colour before? "It's as red as the darkest of roses," Clara said, quickly rattling off the insipid words men had used in the past. "Like a rich autumn's sunset, or—"
"Blood." He halted before her. One hand held tight to his sword hilt whilst the other twitched as if it longed to reach out and touch her. "It's as rich and as dark as freshly-spilt blood."
Blood? Despite it being the most accurate comparison, if not as poetic, not a single person had ever tried likening her hair to blood. And fresh blood at that. Her scalp itched. She wound a tress about her fingers, half expecting it to feel slick.
"Master," Sirius said. "There is one other young—"
The Great Lord cut the old man off with a wave of the hand. "No need." His eyes travelled down Clara's body, mirroring the look he'd given her last night. "I've made my choice."
"As you wish, master." A muffled cough cracked the silence. "Ah, master? The door. If you don't mind..."
"Hmm?" The Great Lord's head moved, slowly as if reluctant to tear his eyes from her face even for a moment. "What of the door? Oh, of course."
The subtle creak of hinges vibrated through the room once again. Clara glanced over her shoulder to see the old man leading Katharina away. It should've been me. She should've obeyed her first instinct and not have allowed the woman to stand behind her.
"Tell me, dear lady, what is your name?"
"Clara—" Jaw clicking shut on the rest, she hastily bobbed. "My lord." Sure she'd erred in the first curtsy, she gave him another, taking pains to make it more measured and not show her true feelings. Inside, she couldn't help but seethe. How foolish and thoughtless she was to let anything slip out without considering the ramifications. Even having him know her name could be used against her. Stupid. Her mother was always telling her to hold her tongue. Surely she wouldn't be in this quandary if she'd kept her mouth shut and mimicked Lillian's meekness.
"There's no need for you to do that." Clasping her hands, he coaxed her to stand straight. "I don't require my mistress to show such submissiveness."
Surprised to find herself clinging to his hand so tightly, Clara fought to release her grip, his calloused skin scraping against her palms. "As you wish, my lord."
He chuckled, the sound setting her heart to racing. "Also, you may call me Lucias."
Her lips squashed together in an effort to stay silent, she couldn't stop the name rolling around in her mind and she did not at all like the supple way it warmed her thoughts. He wasn't some pretty fop. She certainly couldn't label him as being ugly either. Quite handsome in a way. This close, she could see his eyes were not the black she'd first believed them to be, but a rich brown. Maybe being his mistress wouldn't be too bad. What did she have to go back to? Home had become little more than a life of drudgery for her screeching mother and she could quite happily let such an aspect go.
She shook her head. But what about freedom? she sharply reminded herself. He would keep her here forever if she gave in now. "My lord?"
A spark of displeasure flashed across his face. His lips twisted sourly. "Perhaps in time then," he murmured, seemingly to himself. "Come... Clara." Lucias proffered his arm. "Allow me the privilege of showing you around your new home."
Placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, she gave another bob, trying to mimic the timid curtsy Lillian had made. Would he let her go if she proved herself to be as meek as the fair-haired woman? "If it does please you to do so, my lord." The briefest of glances up at him revealed a flicker of distaste warping his features.
They walked through the halls, passing by the doors she and rest of the women had originally been led through. Sunlight warmed the stone underfoot. It seeped into her clothes, contrasting with the shade on her left side and making her shiver. Her gaze lingered on the empty courtyard lying beyond the unguarded doorway. She caught a glimpse of the black-lacquered carriage trundling through the open gates before it dipped out of sight.
Clara released his arm and, gathering up a fistful of skirt, ran out into the courtyard. Her feet slapped against the cobbles, each step jarring her to the bone. Ahead, the gates remained open. Faster! her mind screamed. She stumbled on an uneven stone, righting herself with a hop, her heart pounding with the fear she wouldn't make it.
She passed through the gap, her legs wobbling as the strain caught up with her victory. Can't stop. Not yet. Never mind no cries for her to halt had come from behind. No one shouted a warning from above, although she felt them watching her. Any moment now and they could rain arrows down on her. Her shoulders prickled with anticipation.
Onwards she pushed, flogging herself down the Road. The carriage would be well ahead of her by now. She'd never catch them on foot, which suited her fine. She wasn't planning on returning to Everdark. There was a whole world out there just waiting for her to explore it.
Veering towards the rising sun, she dashed off the Road. A discarded cobble rolled under her foot. Clara fought to stay upright, wincing as her ankle twisted. She hobbled a few steps, her eyes watering. A few choice curses grumbled through her lips. Ignore the burning. It was no worse than any number of times she'd acquired the exact same injury whilst walking the village's shoddy streets.
An errant tussock, pinned under her other foot, wrapped over her boot. Shuffling along the ground to free herself, she'd almost gotten the toe free when her ankle gave, dropping her face-first onto grass still wet with dew. Rolling unto her back, intent on appraising her throbbing ankle, she slowly became aware of beginning the cold and subtle glide downhill. Her speed increasing with the incline.
Clara scrabbled at the ground, tearing up fistfuls of grass and dirt as she tumbled and slid down the mountainside. One tuft held long enough to slow her down. Another brought her to a stop. She clung to the fragile strands, carefully trying to get her legs under her.
The blades released with a sudden and loud rip, throwing her into a clump of bushes waiting on the slope below.
Hurling the underhanded grass to the ground, she glared up at the towers. Her fingers ached and her knees, no doubt scraped, stung. She wouldn't have felt less sore if someone had whipped her. Granted there'd be more bleeding, but not by much. It's all his fault! If only he'd let her be, as he'd done with the others. She didn't want to be anyone's mistress, let alone his.
Branches snagged on her hair and clothes as she struggled to free herself. Gritting her teeth, she plucked at them, snapping off what she couldn't remove to be dealt with later. In any case, Katharina was a far better fit for such a life than her. If he'd just deigned to look at the woman instead of stopping at Clara, he would've seen it too.
The steady thud of hooves marching along hard ground reached her over the muted rustle and creaking of branches. Halting all movement, she waited for the sound to fade, hoping the plainness of her skirts would blend with the bushes.
"Quite the tumble you took there." The owner to the smug voice soon came into view as Lucias nudged the horse to stand before her. He leant forward, an arm resting on the black beast's neck. "Are you whole?"
Clara glared up at the man. Whilst she'd been attempting to flee, he'd come after her on horseback. And, judging by the sweat-free coat of the animal, quite calmly. The nerve.
"Here, let me help you."
As she reached for his extended arm, the idea of hauling him from his seat and into the bushes flashed through her mind. He didn't appear to be well balanced, but the horse... The way it eyed her didn't match the docile look of the beasts back in the village.
The rustle of twigs pulled her attention back from the animal. She hadn't as much as touched his
fingers and yet she could clearly feel herself being lifted free of the branches. What was holding her?
Her stomach quivering, Clara dared to glance down. She hung in the air with naught to halt her fall. Although, as faint as it felt, she fancied sensing a tendril of something—she daren't think too long on exactly what it was—coiling around her body.
Pulled free of the bush, she could only glower at him as he draped her before the saddle. Even with him near enough to physically keep her in place, he seemed intent on using his magic to hold her fast.
The horse came around at his command. The base of the animal's thick neck moved with an oily grace. She tried to wriggle off.
Her foot twitched in response. What did she care if it meant risking being trampled? Her left hand, pressed hard against the front of the saddle, moved and got caught between leather and horseflesh. Was it not preferable to the sort of imprisonment Lucias offered? Her other foot jerked, the toe of her boot kicking the beast who merely continued its stately pace.
The muted thud of the horse's steps became the clatter of shod hooves. She lifted her head, sweat breaking out on her brow. Through the tangle of her hair, she spied the dark walls of the Citadel gateway, then the gates themselves. Her gaze dropped to the cobbles and the play of shadows as the horse carried on.
"Ah, master," came the wheedling note of Sirius' voice. "You caught her."
The horse halted. Lucias remained quiet.
"Men!" Sirius' voice bounced off the stone. "The gate!"
Clara caught the scuffle of feet scurrying about the courtyard like giant rats and the subtle creak spoke of the gates swinging shut. There would be no escape today. She would have to bide her time and wait for the right moment.
Whenever such a moment may be, one thing was certain. They would not catch her next time.
Chapter Five
The aroma of roasted beef and lamb wafted up from the table. Swallowing, Clara struggled to keep her focus on the far wall. The scent mingled idly with the fresh bread sitting before her—the golden crust promising to be crisp—and the lesser, vaguely soapy, perfume emanating from her skin.
Dark One's Mistress (Dark One Trilogy Book 1) Page 4
