Nightshade

by Shea Godfrey

  Jacob was the middle child and a scholar of considerable renown. He was a man of quick wit and deep thinking, a diplomat and a member of the King’s Council, his thirst for knowledge and clever mind having made him a confidant to both his father and Malcolm. He was betrothed to the Lady Alisha Pfinster, and their wedding was set for Solstice Eve but some three months away.

  Wyatt was two years older than Darry and her beloved. He was dark-haired and quiet, and he let his sword do the talking. A warrior of uncommon strength and cunning, he had quickly risen in the ranks of their father’s command. When Darry had taken to the sword as a girl, Wyatt had defended and watched over her, and they were thick in their blood and their love. That Wyatt now commanded the Arravan forces along the Greymear border to the east surprised no one.

  And then there was Darrius herself, last in line.

  Bentley observed her with a tilt of his head, his heart full at the sight of her. She was bolder than he ever dared and more generous and loving than anyone he had ever known. When they had met at the age of eight, it had taken but a minute to know that he loved her. And not as many think. He had been under serious attack from four of his eight brothers, and Darry had waded in and started swinging as their mothers had stood on the wide southern terrace of the royal retreat at Lake Aurora. Darry had announced unabashedly that he was not to be harmed. Their mothers laughed as she took his hand and they walked free from the mob, relatively unscathed and heads held high.

  They had sat by the lake for hours and built a fortress of sticks and mud, and Darry had let him decide everything, asking what he thought and if he felt they should have a moat. No one had ever asked what he thought, and when they shook hands at the completion of their magnificent structure, he knew that he would always love her. It was the most wonderful summer of his life.

  He had known that she was backwards before she did, perhaps, and had waited patiently for her to sort through her feelings as they had both tried to understand them. And he had never once wished her to be other than she was, for to him, she was his match in life, not love. “Are you drunk?” he asked again.

  “A little, I think,” she said. “But not much. I feel rather good, actually, aside from the dent in my head…and the teeth marks in my finger.”

  Bentley chuckled. “Much more entertaining than a formal dinner of tight collars to welcome your brother’s Lyonese treasure.”

  That Malcolm had agreed to meet with the only daughter of King Bharjah of Lyoness to explore a proposal of marriage still stunned Darry. Arranged marriages had fallen out of favor over two hundred years ago, when her own ancestor had taken the daughter of a sea captain for his bride and made her a queen. Marriages of convenience and unions for political and social gain still existed but were no longer preferred.

  Lyoness. The flames in the hearth across the parlor held Darry’s attention. What do you want with Bharjah’s daughter, Malcolm?

  Early that morning Darry had stood in one of the far guard towers and watched the Lyonese caravan arrive, careful not to be seen as the covered coaches rolled into the courtyard. She had seen the Arravan flags raised and the banners had caught in the sun, blue and black and silver. Her family had stood in wait, dressed in their finest to greet Bharjah’s children and their small entourage.

  Armistad had first introduced the Prince Trey-Jak Joaquin and a tall man dressed in black that Darry assumed was his councilor. She had heard Jacob comment that he was a Lord of the Fakir and he looked the part, pale and lean and cold, even from a distance. The Fakir were extinct in Arravan, but the cult members had never been known for their warmth no matter where they hailed from.

  The Princess Jessa-Sirrah had stepped from her coach with the help of her brother’s hand and Darry had leaned close against the stones of the window ledge, trying to see her properly. All that Darry could determine, though, was that her hair was black and lustrous and the sari she wore was a blood crimson that caught fire in the sun upon her shapely figure. She had been followed by a servant, a small woman dressed in blacks and fringe, holding the silk drape that trailed behind her mistress.

  The Princess Jessa-Sirrah had been introduced then, bowing low in proper etiquette and only touching hands with the women. Darry’s mother and her sister Emmalyn broke from the greeting line to flank her, taking possession of her almost at once, and Prince Joaquin looked somewhat startled as she was led away from his authority.

  Darry had not stayed to watch the men in the courtyard. Instead she drifted down the shadowed stairs, then moved through several back corridors and a secret tunnel that led to the eastern arch. She and Bentley were supposed to be in the city of Kenton, having claimed an assignment to avoid the formal greeting and the fanfare of the welcoming banquet that would begin when the sun set. She would catch all seven hells for her absence, but she preferred that to being trapped beneath the insufferable weight of courtly etiquette.

  She and Bentley had finished their duty quickly and returned at once, determined to hide in Lokey until the furor died down at the arrival of the royal guests from Lyoness. It was a good trick and they knew it well, stealing their liberty from under the nose of their Commander, Grissom Longshanks, one of the most hardened veterans the Kingsmen had ever known.

  “Do you think he’ll marry her?” Bentley asked.

  “Arravan and Lyoness have been enemies for almost three hundred years,” Darry said, thinking aloud. “When we last went to war over the Lowlands, King Bharjah himself killed my uncle, or so it’s said. He killed the future King of Arravan. Thousands of men died and nothing was gained, and the throne went to my father.

  “A skirmish here and there, a minor advance to test the strength of our defenses at the Gap, but nothing to indicate more. So why the overture toward Malcolm when Bharjah knows that my father will make any final decision? He extended the proposal to Malcolm for a reason. To put the idea out there and let Mal stew upon the repercussions, to let him wonder and spin his own webs. I have no doubt that Mal has known of this for half a year or more.”

  “Without telling your father?”

  “To have direct contact with Bharjah or his envoy without my father’s interference? Malcolm would be drooling at the prospect. Though my father knew nothing about it until after Mal sent his response. He pissed on his boots with that, but Mal’s always had a good aim, yes?”

  “Because your father would’ve knocked him in the head otherwise.”

  Darry smiled. “Maybe. Yet the past month has been spent preparing for their arrival. A few council meetings after the fact and my father gives his consent to the visit?” She still did not understand. “He might’ve ordered the Western Army to turn them back. What harm would that have done? My father hates Bharjah and Bharjah hates him. If that gave insult what would it matter? Would Bharjah ride to war for that?”

  “Would he?”

  “No,” Darry said. “No doubt he was shocked in the first place that his offer was even considered, much less accepted.”

  “And they were not turned back.”

  “Precisely. There’s something much deeper going on here. Jacob and my father have been behind closed doors for hours.”

  Bentley knew that Jacob was considered an expert on Lyoness, and it was rumored that he controlled a network of spies it had taken him years to install across the unfriendly border to the west, the information they supplied second to none.

  “Jacob knows something, and that knowledge somehow intrigues my father. It’s all I can think of that would make him willing to even consider this entire thing. And whatever Jacob knows you can be sure that Malcolm knows it as well, and perhaps even before Jacob did. It’s what spurred him into accepting Bharjah’s proposal.

  “Obviously Malcolm thinks this gamble with Bharjah’s daughter is a good one. She’ll stay here for weeks before they’re allowed to be alone together, and months before the word marriage is officially spoken. He’s buying time.”

  “Buying time for what?” Bentley asked. “As soon as he
took Bharjah’s offer it was certain your parents would be involved. What time does that purchase when your father will lead the negotiations?”

  “None that I can see at this point. But it was Mal’s opening move, setting the board to his advantage.”

  “Does he seek the throne before it’s his?”

  “Why would he?” Darry asked. “The throne is his birthright and he has spent his whole life preparing to claim it. But if he could bring about peace with Lyoness and secure the Lowlands once and for all? It would grease his path to the throne with scented oils and petals of roses. He sees some great victory in this scheme that will do just that.”

  “And so what information do they have?”

  Darry laughed. “As if I would know? I’m the backwards indiscretion, remember? My father would no more share such knowledge with me than he would dance with me on Solstice Eve.”

  Bentley heard the taint of unhappiness once again and knew that she had drunk more wine than usual. She would never have made such a comment so casually were she not a tad in her cups, not even to him.

  “Bharjah offered up his daughter like a prized piece of meat and Malcolm snapped at her like a hungry dog. My father has agreed to let them come and to see how this all plays out. That’s all I know for certain and, to be honest, all I care to know. If thirty years from now Arravan has a king of Lyonese blood, this will be the best gamble that Bharjah ever made. No doubt I shall be long dead by then. Killed in a bar fight most likely.”

  Bentley’s heart stuttered. “No doubt,” he whispered. “Shall we have a big funeral?”

  Darry smiled at the assumption they would go together. “I’ve just bought a bodhran, so perhaps we might have music as well.”

  “You should’ve broken a fiddle then.”

  “I hear that she’s very beautiful,” Darry said after a time, remembering her brief glimpse of the princess and how her sari had caught the sun.

  “The Nightshade Lark?”

  “Named so for her dark hair and famous voice,” Darry said, wondering what Bharjah’s daughter would be like. There was little mystery about her many brothers. They were said to be as their father—hard, cruel men. Of the Princess Jessa-Sirrah, however, very little was known.

  “Perhaps she looks like her father.”

  “Don’t jest, Bentley. She’s being offered up like a sacrifice. She deserves our respect and best manners.”

  Bentley smiled.

  After a while the barkeep approached, setting another bottle of Ravonese gold on their table, then taking up the empty one.

  “We did not order such,” Bentley said. “And though it’s a rather delicious, fruity vintage, I think you have most of our coin already.”

  “Compliments of the Lady Marin Corvinus,” the man said, and walked away.

  “Corvinus. I believe I might know that one,” Bentley said.

  “Someone likes you, my pretty.”

  Bentley searched the room until his eyes fell upon the courtesan. Dressed in lace stockings and an ivory-colored corset with ties of green ribbons, she lounged in a cushioned chair as if it were a throne. Her face was beautiful, heart-shaped and delicate, and she eyed them with a secretive smile.

  “Sweet Gamar’s mustache. Sit up, Darry.” Bentley filled his goblet again and stared across the room, searching for an invitation from the courtesan as he took a slow drink.

  Darry’s arms were on the table and her left hand played at the cuff of her right sleeve. “Is she pretty?”

  “Decidedly so.”

  “I’ve a few golds in my pockets yet,” she said as he refilled her cup.

  The courtesan’s head tipped back slightly and her lips parted as Darry took a drink, her gaze filled with more heat than the fire that blazed within the hearth. “Sweet Jezara,” Bentley said. “Best save that gold for yourself.”

  Darry’s brow came down in confusion.

  Bentley laughed at her frown and reclined against the bench. “The wine was not for me. Look for yourself, by the hearth.”

  Darry set her wine down and let her eyes wander, taking in the woman’s lovely curls, the red within the buoyant strands flaring in the firelight. She followed them down along the smooth neck and then farther still, admiring her gorgeous curves and the cut of the corset. Her legs were long and smooth, and Darry’s blood heated in a wicked manner. She swallowed and turned away, warmth of desire starting at the base of her spine and spreading outward as she stared into her goblet.

  “So what will you do, my kitten?” Bentley asked.

  “She looks like—”

  “She wants to kiss you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like she wants you beneath her on the cool sheets of her bed?”

  Darry closed her eyes, only to have her mind latch hold of Bentley’s suggestion. She could almost feel the woman moving beneath her, their skin slick as they thrust together on tangled sheets.

  “She’s very beautiful, Darry.”

  “I can see that,” Darry answered in a tight voice.

  The music in the parlor changed to a ballad plucked on the strings of the lute and meant for lovers. Darry let out a slow breath at the change in tempo. She could feel the woman’s mouth on her, relinquishing herself to the absolute heat of it, the Lady Marin’s tongue taking control and those hands on her breasts, lips clinging and pulling upon her flesh until…

  And what would be the price, she wondered, for a moment’s worth of pleasure? To risk her hard-won freedom for an indiscretion that Malcolm could very possibly use against her, despite the joy she might feel at the coupling. It was too easy and Darry knew it, acknowledging where she was and that the whole room would watch. She had not recognized any patron as one of Malcolm’s men, but they did not have to be paid for at the moment, to be given his coin in the end. Don’t be a bloody fool, Darry. You’re being careless.

  She had been in love once, and though she had proceeded with caution and as much discretion as she had been capable of, she had pursued her love with all of the wonder and enthusiasm that youth and a sense of invincibility might lend. But she had learned there were no guarantees, not even in love. Or perhaps especially in love.

  Bentley could see the battle taking place within Darry. Her situation was complicated and he knew that better than anyone. That she deprived herself the comfort of a lover was no secret. She respected her family’s position and the problems her heart might pose. Her sense of honor was deeper than any he had yet encountered, and she always kept in mind that a casual dalliance on her part might become a weapon to be used against the crown. She had to consider Prince Malcolm as well, and the fact that he waited for her to stumble, eager to assert his control in some way. What Malcolm would do when Darry decided to free her heart and declare her full independence at last, neither of them knew, but Bentley understood that she would never do it lightly and without great deliberation. And she would do it for nothing less than love.

  He regretted having teased her, even in such a small way. “Let us go, my friend, yes?”

  “Yes.” Darry pushed her wine away with a careful hand. “Yes…before I forget what I’m fighting for.”

  Chapter Four

  “You look fine.” Bentley pulled at Darry’s sleeve, keeping her from fussing with her collar. “If you don’t stop, I’ll have to piss.”

  “I thought I was the nervous one.”

  “You are, but you know I can’t manage when you fidget about.” His hands wiggled in front of his face as they walked along the balustrade. “If you can’t handle it how am I supposed to?”

  “Poor baby.”

  Darry saw her sister, Emmalyn, and then she saw the woman who stepped onto the wide terrace from one of the guest chambers.

  “Sweet Jezara, is that her?” Bentley asked.

  The woman wore a sari, as was the fashion in Lyoness, its silk draped about her curvaceous figure in a manner that was more suggestive than the dresses of Arravan. Her hair was a lovely spill of black curls that fell down her ba
ck. A veil clipped within the strands covered her face beneath the eyes.

  Darry’s heart skipped as she surveyed the woman’s body and followed her movements, noting the bangles and bracelets on her wrists and the way her hands moved with grace as she closed the door.

  Bentley straightened his own collar. “If she looks like her father, I shall spread my legs for him and bat my eyes.”

  Darry laughed.

  Jessa took a jagged breath at the laughter and stepped back, a sudden fist closing within her chest as she turned. Her shawl slipped from her arm, and Jessa stared as it pooled on the stones at her feet. Stop being so jumpy, you fool.

  Darry hurried her step as the princess knelt to retrieve the garment. She slid to a knee as she took up the silk with careful hands. “It appears I wasn’t quick enough,” she said with a smile.

  Jessa met her eyes, her gaze moving from one eye to the other and taking in the shocking difference in color. The woman before her possessed a green eye on the right and a deep blue on the left, her expression filled with warmth. Her strong face was framed by wide golden curls that were stark against her black uniform, the high collar of the tunic rising along her neck.

  So you must be the warrior, the backwards daughter they call the panther. Vhaelin essa, but you’re lovely. A stutter of fear moved within her chest and she considered its weight, still caught beneath the woman’s eyes.

  “’Tis a lovely shawl, Princess,” she said.

  Not fear. It did nothing to push Jessa away but drew her forward instead.

  “This is my sister, Princess Jessa,” Emmalyn said, stepping up. “Captain Darrius Lauranna Durand. Her duties occupied her elsewhere upon the eve of your welcoming banquet.”