The Sin Eater's Daughter

by Melinda Salisbury

  “Shall I send it?”

  “Yes … before I lose my courage.”

  His smile is wide as he leaps to his feet. He departs with haste and returns as quickly.

  “Dimia’s taking it to her brother now. He’s one of the queen’s men and he’ll be able to get it to the prince.”

  I feel a sharp pang in my chest when he says Dimia’s name. “How long do you think it will take for a reply?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Shall I wait downstairs?”

  “No,” I say swiftly. “We’ll wait here. It might be a while yet.”

  “As you wish.” His voice is low.

  But we don’t have to wait for long. Less than an hour has passed before there is a timid knock at the door. Lief and I look at each other and he draws his sword, motioning for me to stand behind him.

  When he throws open the door, a small, curvy, dark-haired girl stands there, gazing up at him.

  “I waited downstairs,” she addresses him quietly, “but you did not come, so I thought …”

  “Dimia, you must never come here,” he chides, though his voice is soft.

  “Forgive me,” she says as she looks at me. “My lady, my brother was asked to deliver a reply immediately.”

  She’s very pretty. I don’t like her. “Thank you, Dimia. You may go.”

  She dips her head before looking at Lief and smiling shyly. He returns her smile, gifting me with another sharp jab beneath my ribs before he closes the door.

  He brings the note to me, waiting for my eager nod before he opens it, frowning before his face splits into his familiar wide grin.

  “Lief! What does it say?”

  “The prince has challenged me to a duel. Tonight. For your freedom.”

  My stomach churns, the wine heavy inside it, as we make our way through the torch-lit corridors to the Great Hall. Lief, on the other hand, is glowing with delight and I wonder why he’s so happy. I know Lief proved himself a formidable fighter during his trial, and for Dorin to be openly impressed with his skill speaks volumes, but Merek has been trained since birth in swordplay, has been tutored by the finest in the land. If Lief thinks he’ll be easy to beat, he’s in for a shock and I tell him so.

  “Have you ever seen the prince fight?” he asks.

  “No, but I expect he’s good.”

  “You’ve never seen me fight, either.”

  “Lief, he’s been taught by the best the kingdom has to offer.”

  “But he’s never fought for his life, my lady. His tutors won’t have been as hard on him, because he’s the prince. I doubt he’s ever been bloodied at all.”

  “And you have?”

  “I have.” He grins. “The Lormerian guards did not go easy on me at my trial. They aimed to disarm me, even wound me. And I beat every single one of them.”

  “Just … don’t be too sure,” I say. “He’s not a novice. He wouldn’t challenge you if he didn’t think he could win.”

  “Why challenge me at all?” Lief says. “Why not simply tell the queen he thinks you should be allowed out with one guard?”

  “No one ‘simply tells’ the queen anything, Lief. Not even the prince.”

  “I think it’s for your benefit,” he says slyly. “I think he wants an opportunity to show you what a fine husband he’ll make, beating your loyal guard in combat as you watch.”

  “Being the best at dueling isn’t all that high on my list of qualities a husband should have,” I say tartly.

  “Then you’re in luck, as he’s going to lose.” Lief smiles, and in the torchlight it’s sinister, distorted by the play of light and shadow on his face.

  “Don’t hurt him,” I say, and Lief pauses.

  “I wouldn’t,” he says slowly. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  I flush, and nod. “Come, we’d better not keep him waiting.”

  * * *

  Merek is waiting in the Great Hall when we arrive, the sleeves of his tunic rolled up and a sword slung from his belt. He bows as we enter and I pause and bow back, Lief doing the same at my side.

  “How are you, Twylla?” Merek says as he approaches.

  “I’m well, Your Highness. May I ask how you are?”

  “I’m well, though it’s been a strange day.” His eyes glitter as he speaks. “We can talk more of it another time. Thank you for your note. I thought you said you had not learned to write.”

  “Lief wrote the note. I dictated it,” I say.

  He nods and turns to Lief. “You are charged with protecting the lady, a role that you currently undertake alone?”

  Lief bows again. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “You are Tregellian, are you not? Where did you train in combat?”

  “I’m not formally trained, Your Highness.”

  “Then who taught you to fight?”

  “My father, Your Highness,” he says stiffly.

  “And who trained your father?”

  “His father.”

  “Were any of your family formally trained?” Merek asks, incredulous.

  I will Lief to keep his temper. “No. My father was a farmer. As was his father,” he says, his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

  Merek looks him up and down. “I hear you bested everyone at your trial.”

  “I did, Your Highness.”

  Merek nods. “The rules are simple. If you best me, then I’ll grant Lady Twylla permission to leave her quarters with you as her sole guard until the other one is able to return to his duties or other circumstances intervene. I must be able to assure my mother that you’re able to protect her.” He turns to me and I dip my head.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but who will judge if I’ve bested you?”

  Merek raises an eyebrow. “We fight for first blood.”

  My eyes widen in surprise and even Lief looks astounded. “I can’t accept the terms, Your Highness,” he says slowly. “It’s treason to wound an anointed member of the royal family. I can’t win either way.”

  “I give you my word no harm will come to you should you beat me,” Merek says solemnly. “These are my terms and my guards will be my witnesses.” From the shadows two men step forward and bow. I hadn’t known they were there. “But you have to beat me first.”

  I can see Lief puffing up at the slight. “And if I lose, Your Highness?”

  “Then the lady will remain confined to her quarters until the other guard returns to his post or another one can be found for her. I have to be confident that you are able to take sole charge of my future bride’s safety. And I can only be confident in that if I see for myself that you are as good as I’m told. Or not, as it may be.”

  Lief’s face hardens and his fingers curl into his palms. He looks at Merek for a long moment, then finally he nods once and jerks his head in the smallest of bows. “I accept the terms.”

  Merek turns to me. “If I could ask you to clear the floor, Twylla?” he says, and I curtsy, making my way to the dais and taking a seat before it.

  Lief and Merek take their places in the center of the room, bowing, Lief deeply and Merek with a nod of his head. Merek draws his sword and Lief does the same, both keeping them pointed toward the floor. Then, without saying a word, they raise their swords at the exact same moment and begin to circle each other, their footsteps crossing over as they take the measure of each other, stalk each other like prey, their eyes only for their opponent.

  Then Merek breaks the circle and attacks, Lief swings his arm to block the strike, and the fight is on.

  Merek feints at Lief, who darts away, whirling around and thrusting his sword toward Merek’s left arm. Merek manages to parry the attack, making a jab of his own that forces Lief back. To my eyes it seems they’re equal in skill; neither one has more than a split-second advantage on the other before an attack is thwarted and they have to retreat before pushing forward again.

  The room rings with the sound of steel against steel, swords swinging high, then low, then high again. Merek makes a sudden stab at Lief and ag
ain Lief whirls away, but not before Merek’s sword has caught his tunic in the shoulder and made a small tear.

  “Almost, Your Highness,” Lief calls cheerfully, twisting around to see his shoulder, and Merek snorts.

  Merek moves again, swinging his sword across his body at Lief’s middle, and my heart is in my mouth but Lief swings his own sword and smashes it against the flat of Merek’s, and I see Merek move back and grip his forearm with his other hand.

  That is when I see how good a warrior Lief is.

  They’re not equal in skill, not by a long shot. Lief was toying with him, taunting him as a cat does a mouse, allowing him to make jabs and attempts, allowing Merek to believe he had a chance. But now he’s fighting back. Lief’s attack is relentless. Merek has no time to try to counter as Lief gives him no choice but to defend himself. Lief’s sword rains down blow after blow on Merek’s, and I can see Merek tiring as Lief backs him across the hall. At my sides the guards stand, their own swords drawn, and I don’t blame them; Lief’s attack is terrible.

  Then Merek drops his sword to the floor and holds up his hands.

  “I yield,” he calls through pants. “I yield.”

  At once Lief lowers his sword and bows, and after a moment Merek makes a slight incline of his head. Both men stand, breathing heavily. Lief sheathes his sword and Merek lifts his from the floor and does the same.

  I stand and approach. “Are you well, Your Highness?” I ask.

  “I’m fine. Unbloodied, but given your guard’s skill I decided I’d prefer to stay that way.” He nods sulkily at Lief, who bows again. “As per my terms you may leave your tower with him as your sole guard. I have no fears for your safety with him.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Will I have Lief write to the queen to thank her?”

  Merek looks embarrassed. “It might be best if I talk to her.”

  “Merek”—I forget we’re not alone—“you said you had to be able to assure her I’d be safe. Assure her, not tell her. Does she know about this?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s rather busy with my stepfather. So I took the bull by the horns, as it were.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ll try to talk to her tonight, but in case I have no opportunity, you’ll need to be discreet in your travels. I won’t ask you to stay in your room any longer.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  He bows to me, his eyes lingering on mine before he turns to Lief.

  “I enjoyed that. I confess I spent some of my time in Tregellan sparring with their soldiers. Your people fight well. Perhaps we could fight again sometime?”

  “Your Highness.” Lief bows.

  “I’ll see you soon, Twylla.” Merek dips his head and then sweeps from the room, his guards marching after him.

  Lief and I walk back through the corridors, my heart still hammering in my chest, and it’s not until we’re well clear of the Great Hall that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  “I thought you were going to be a farmer,” I say as we approach my tower.

  “It doesn’t hurt for a Tregellian to be battle ready. Since the war, every father has trained his son to fight with sword and knife and bow, whether they’re in the army or not.”

  I nod as he opens the door of the tower for me. “You’re good,” I say as we climb the stairs to my room.

  “He was, too. It surprised me.”

  “But not as good as you.” I lift the latch on my own door and cross to the bureau, pouring myself another glass of wine, determined to calm myself.

  “My lady, would you agree I have earned a glass of your honey wine?”

  “You’ve earned the carafe,” I say, pushing it toward him. “And you’ve earned me my freedom.”

  “All in a day’s work.” He winces as he lifts the carafe to his lips, drinking deeply.

  “Are you well?”

  He smiles strangely. “I believe I may have been cut.”

  “What? When?” I take a large gulp of wine, horrified.

  “When he caught my tunic, he may have nicked my skin. I can’t be sure until I look.”

  “That would mean you lost. Lief, you have to tell him, it’s dishonorable …”

  He looks at me with a closed expression. “If I tell him, you’ll be confined here again.”

  I open my mouth to speak but no words form on my tongue. I don’t want to be confined.

  “It might not be a cut,” Lief says, trying to peer over his shoulder. “I need to go to my room.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “I can’t see properly because of my tunic, my lady,” he says. “I need to look at the wound.”

  “I want to see it, too. I—oh.” I redden when I realize what he means. “Well—but I mean—I don’t—yes, I see. Of course.”

  “I’m happy to do it here, my lady, if you wish to bear witness.”

  I can only nod, my cheeks blazing.

  “Very well,” he says. He turns away from me and pulls off his sword belt, dropping it to the floor. In one swift motion, accompanied by a grunt, he pulls his tunic over his head.

  “Well?” he says. “Do I bleed?”

  But I can’t answer because I’m not looking at his shoulder.

  I can’t stop staring at the shape of his back, the line of his spine. He’s much broader than I am. How can he look so different without a tunic on? How can that one simple piece of fabric alter him so much?

  “My lady?” he says, twisting to look at me, and my whole body burns as I notice the way his muscles move under his skin.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, too embarrassed to meet his eye. “Turn around.”

  I have to stand on tiptoe to look, and when I do the relief at what I see is overwhelming. Though there will be a bruise, and the skin has been scraped, there is no blood. He didn’t cheat.

  “No blood,” I say huskily, hurriedly clearing my throat. “It’s grazed, but it didn’t bleed—though you’ll have quite a bruise by morning.”

  He turns to the looking glass, peering at the wound, and I blush again as my eyes fall on his collarbones. I cross the room, keeping my back to him as I drain my glass and then refill it. The room feels too hot and I push the window open, breathing in the cool night air.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, unsure what I’m apologizing for.

  I can’t look back at him until I hear the rustling as he replaces his tunic.

  “No harm done. It means I didn’t lie or cheat. That’s good. You won’t have to report me.”

  “I wouldn’t have,” I admit.

  Lief’s face is surprised when it emerges from his tunic. “But it would have been a lie, a sin.”

  “A small one,” I say, my heart thrumming, and when I raise the glass to my lips and drain it for a second time my fingers shake.

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Twylla,” I say quickly. “When we’re alone you may call me Twylla. You’ve earned that, too.”

  “Twylla,” he says softly, and it makes me shiver to hear my name on his tongue. “You should rest, Twylla. We have a busy day tomorrow. After all, it’s your first day of freedom.”

  I look at him. When he pulled the tunic over his head he loosened the ribbon that holds his hair back, and I wonder how it would feel to touch the freed strands, to wind them around my fingers. Like a sleepwalker I walk toward him, and my hand rises and hovers near his chest. We both look down at it, and then it is he who takes a step back as my fingers curl like claws, as though they don’t belong to me.

  “Good night, Twylla,” he murmurs. “Dream of good things.” He dips his head and turns, closing my door gently behind him.

  I look down at my treacherous, trembling hand.

  * * *

  It is a restless, wretched night. All I can think of, dreaming or waking, is his hair and how much I wanted to touch it, his shoulders and his back and how smooth the skin was. I wanted to touch him and if I had, he would be dead now. I can’t find a comfortable way to lie, but whenever I move the roo
m lurches and I have to sit back up, staring into the darkness. It must be the wine. I drank three glasses on an empty stomach, and after the worry of Dorin and the duel, no wonder I forgot myself. But I know it’s a lie, another lie. It’s not the wine, or the shock, that made me want to touch him. When I peered into the looking glass after he’d left, I saw the look in my eye. It was the look of wanting: lust, bright, strawberry-flavored lust. And I can’t allow myself to want, because I am betrothed to the prince and if I touch anyone else, I will kill them.

  In the morning I’m tired and yet restless, my heart fluttering as I prepare for the day, my skin alternating between hot and cold as I remember his chest, the fight, his smile. Then I remember Dorin is still ill and shame fills me; I keep forgetting about him. Everything feels tangled and chaotic, and part of me wants to stay in my room and hide from it all. I realize that would be pointless and ungrateful, given what Lief did to secure my freedom.

  “How’s your shoulder?” I ask when he brings my breakfast.

  “Bruised.” He smiles. “As you predicted. And a little stiff. Though not stiff enough to stop me going another round if need be.”

  I smile weakly as my head fills with the image of his bare shoulders.

  “Now,” he continues, “if you are ready, the weather is pleasant, though there is a chill in the air. You should take your cloak.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement, crossing instead to my wardrobe and removing the crimson cloak. He holds it out as if he plans to put it on me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m holding your cloak.” His eyes glint wickedly.

  “Lief, don’t be foolish. Please give it to me.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” he says.

  I hear an edge in his voice. “Lief, you can’t touch me.”

  “I won’t. Do you trust me?” he repeats, watching me closely.

  I turn away from him, holding myself stiffly, painfully, achingly aware of him behind me, his breath on my hair. The weight of the fabric falls on my shoulders, covering me. He moves to stand in front of me. “I would not risk you. I thought I made that clear last night.”

  I pull at the toggle and slip it through the loop, unable to look at him.