The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2)

by Victor Gischler

  What? What did she really know about anything? Gods? At war?

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Talbun said.

  “Of course,” Joff said. “I’ll gather the men and—”

  A sudden, piercing howl shot through Talbun’s brain, a cry of fierce brutal hatred.

  Joff and the rest of his men grabbed their heads, eyes shut tight, pain clear on their faces. She looked at the temple.

  The god had returned.

  No!

  Twisting flames shot out of the temple and engulfed Joff’s men. Screams of pain and horror. The flames consumed Joff and were mere feet from her.

  She turned to run, felt the flames blister her on one side. Talbun opened her mouth to scream, but instead the words of a spell poured out, and the entire world went white.

  ***

  Talbun drank wine. Telling the story had made her thirsty again. “It was an automatic spell. It casts itself when all seems lost and hides me in a nowhere place between realities . . . as I’ve already made clear.”

  Rina blinked. Uh . . . yeah. Clear as mud.

  “What about the spell that let you travel instantly to the top of the mountain?” Rina said. “What did you call it?”

  “Teleportation,” the wizard said.

  Rina mouthed the word, tasting its strangeness. “Why didn’t you use it again to escape?”

  Talbun sighed. “When you cast a spell it’s gone. Like pouring water out of a bucket. The bucket’s empty. To get it back I need to study the spell again. But that’s in my spell book. And that’s in my tower.”

  Rina realized again how special her tattoos were. The magic was hers to command anywhere and anytime. Wizards spent years learning how to read and understand magic. Rina didn’t have to. She didn’t need to keep a spell book. On the other hand, she used up something within herself whenever she wielded the magic. Too much, and she could destroy herself, or at least that had been Weylan’s warning.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a god,” Rina ventured. “Perhaps some other being—”

  “It was a god.”

  Ah. Okay, then.

  “Why didn’t the god come out of the temple to attack you?” Rina asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Talbun said. “My theology is rusty. I’ll try to keep it basic.”

  “Please.”

  “The gods live on a different plane than we do . . . a different spiritual realm,” Talbun began. “They only come to our plane under extraordinary circumstances. Most scholars agree that they affect humanity only indirectly, and mostly through their priests and other servants. That’s why when we pray to a god to strike an enemy dead or save us from a flood, it hardly ever happens.”

  Rina glanced down at herself. When she was fourteen, she’d prayed for bigger breasts. It hadn’t happened. Probably not high on Dumo’s priority list.

  “Many years ago an elder priest explained it to me like this,” Talbun said. “A god’s temple is the place where that god touches our plane. As a result, the temple is half in and half out of both realms. Oh, I don’t mean every country chapel or city church. I’m talking about the mother temple, the cradle and origin of every sect. The Kashar Temple at the top of the mountain was such a place.”

  “You’re saying that for gods, the temples are like little portals between realms?”

  Talbun shrugged.

  “Then . . . this god—the one who killed Kashar—he could hop from temple to temple, picking fights with other gods?”

  Talbun shrugged again.

  “You don’t know?” An anxious edge in Rina’s voice.

  “No.”

  “But this could mean—” Panic rose within Rina. “What could this mean?”

  Talbun frowned. Her eyes went hard. “I. Don’t. Know.”

  Rina put a hand on her stomach, exhaled raggedly. “Dumo help us.”

  “For all we know,” Talbun said, “Dumo is already dead.”

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “And so, here in the sight of Dumo and before the good nobility of Klaar,” intoned Bishop Feridixx Hark, hands raised toward the temple’s vaulted ceilings, “I pronounce you, Baron Brasley Hammond, now in a state of joyous matrimony to Lady Fregga Becham. You may begin your new lives together with your first kiss.”

  First kiss. That’s a laugh, Rina thought. She doubted there was any part of Fregga that Brasley had left unkissed.

  Rina sat in the first pew along with some of the other Klaar nobility. Count Becham and his retinue also sat in the front row but across the aisle. The dozen pews behind them were packed with the important people of Klaar, and the standing room behind the pews was packed shoulder to shoulder with those not quite important enough to rate a seat.

  Everyone loves a wedding, I guess. Or maybe everyone just loves a party.

  Brasley’s wedding day had turned out to be even warmer than expected, and the main castle courtyard had been set up for a magnificent reception, huge braziers lit to fend off any lingering winter chill. Barrels of wine and beer tapped. In the tradition of Klaar, they’d laid a banquet of simple food but plenty of it: roasted meats and potatoes, and fresh vegetables, hard to come by after a long winter, but they’d managed to scrape up some carrots and onions.

  Not that anyone would care once the wine was flowing.

  Rina had told Stasha to spare no expense when making the arrangements. Count Becham had mentioned to Rina that he just might be able to convince the Royal Bank to forgive Klaar’s debt, and she was going to do everything possible to keep the man happy.

  Brasley lifted Fregga’s veil and set it back on her head. Fregga smiled so widely that Rina was worried her face might split in half. But she did have a certain glow about her. Pregnant and a new bride, after all. That would probably set any woman glowing. Rina had to admit Fregga looked good. She was an ample woman with lots of soft curves. Some might say she was fat if all that ampleness had been arranged poorly, but her father had obviously hired the best dressmakers in Merridan to make damn sure Fregga looked her best on this special day. The wedding gown was nothing short of magnificent, with a thirty-foot train.

  Brasley leaned in and kissed Fregga gently on the lips.

  The temple erupted with enthusiastic applause.

  Bishop Hark stood on a step behind the newlyweds and raised his arms again. “I present to you Baron and Baroness Hammond of Klaar!”

  The applause surged.

  Arm in arm, Brasley and Fregga descended the steps from the altar and slowly walked down the temple’s center aisle, smiling and nodding to the congregation. Two boys in velvet finery darted from nowhere to pick up the ends of the gown’s train and follow dutifully behind the newlyweds. As they passed each pew, those seated there rose and continued to applaud.

  Brasley’s smile probably convinced almost everyone. Rina knew better. Trapped like a rat, poor bastard.

  Once the bride and groom had passed, the congregation fell in behind them to follow the couple out of the temple. Rina found herself walking next to Count Becham.

  “They make a lovely couple,” she said.

  Becham blew out a relieved sigh. “Last daughter out of the house. Thank Dumo.”

  At the mention of Dumo, Rina glanced up at the temple’s high ceiling. She half expected a god to show up and pick a fistfight with Dumo, but of course this was not Dumo’s mother temple, which was miles away in Tul-Agnon.

  The wedding procession spilled out into the street, Brasley and Fregga leading the way. The young couple waved at the citizens who hung out of windows, cheering and waving banners. Brasley and Fregga were stars for a day. The rest of the processional strolled along behind, socializing and patiently enduring the short walk from temple to castle, where the party would soon begin.

  A moment later, Borris Dremen was walking next to Rina.

  “Eager for the reception, Borris?”

  “Too busy, I’m sorry to say, your grace,” said the head of the merchants’ guild. “
A few very minor loose ends to tie up on the little favor you asked.”

  And by “little favor,” Dremen meant a huge, time-consuming effort.

  “Are we all set?” Rina asked.

  “It was a tall order,” Borris said, “but the ship will be waiting in Kern, fully provisioned. A reliable captain and crew.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Borris.”

  “It was . . . expensive, your grace. There were a lot of things to pull together at the last minute.”

  “Don’t tell me how much it cost until later,” Rina said. “I’m on my way to a party, and I don’t want to spoil the mood.”

  Dremen excused himself to see to the final details.

  They finally arrived at the reception, and the newlyweds took the place of honor at the high table, flanked by Becham, Rina, Gant, and a few other important nobles. Lesser nobles sat at lower tables facing the high one. Servants scurried to fill wine goblets. As the ranking person in attendance, Rina gave the first toast, then Count Becham, then a bunch of other tedious people, until proceedings dissolved into a general sort of merrymaking, food, drink, and laughter.

  A sideways glance at Fregga made Rina smile. The new bride was laughing at something so hard, her face had gone red, wine spilling out of the goblet in her hand and over her white fingers. Brasley had an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

  This party is moving along just fine. They don’t need the duchess anymore.

  Rina excused herself and slipped away.

  After the noisy party, the silence within the castle settled over her like a balm. Just for a little while. I know, I’m hostess, but just a quick break. I need to think.

  Someone behind her cleared his throat.

  She turned, saw Gant standing there.

  So much for a moment to myself.

  “Can we talk?” Gant’s eyes darted up and down the hallway. “Someplace private.”

  “I’m going to my quarters,” Rina said. “Come on.”

  He followed her upstairs, and before she had a chance to enter her rooms, she spotted one of Tosh’s women hovering at the end of the hall. She felt bad for them. Rina had made it clear to Tosh she needed her space, but at the same time the ladies had been tasked with guarding her. The compromise had been the women lingering always just at the edge of her peripheral vision, close enough to rush in and save the day if needed, but not so close as to crowd her. She’d even spotted a few of the woman at the edge of the wedding processional on the walk from the temple.

  She nodded curtly at the guard, then went into her room, motioning for Gant to follow.

  “I can send a servant for wine if you like,” Rina offered.

  “No,” Gant said. “I’ve already had quite a lot at the reception.”

  “Tea?”

  “Nothing. Thank you.”

  “You seem . . . distracted.”

  “I’m bloody terrified.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I need you to marry me, Rina.”

  His abruptness made her want to throw up. I have gods at war with one another. I don’t need this right now.

  The shock must have been plain on her face because Gant hurriedly said, “I’m so sorry. I know that this isn’t the way any girl ever daydreams about being proposed to, but I find myself in a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “The word dire comes to mind.”

  “Talk.”

  “I’ve had word from Merridan,” Gant said. “And King Pemrod has threatened to disinherit me.”

  “What?” Rina’s face scowled with incomprehension. “You’ve had word? From the capital? But . . . how did you do that?”

  “Let’s just say I have my methods,” Gant said. “The important thing is that I need to send word tonight we’re going to be wed.”

  “But—”

  “I swear, I don’t want to pressure you like this, but it’s urgent.”

  “But—”

  “My life is in your hands, Rina Veraiin.”

  “Stop.” Rina took a deep breath. “Just please stop talking.”

  Gant stopped.

  “I’m going to ask questions. You’ll answer them. Right?”

  Gant nodded.

  “How did you get a message from the capital so fast?”

  Gant frowned. Shook his head.

  “Fine,” Rina said. “Your secret. You keep it. Let’s try something else. Why is this mess suddenly so urgent?”

  “He knows?”

  “Who knows what?”

  “The king,” Gant said. “About me and my . . . significant other.”

  “Oh. That’s . . . that’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I would describe it as a bit bad,” he said dryly. “A bit totally, utterly, catastrophically bad.”

  “How does marrying me help?”

  “King Pemrod is a proud man and vain in all the worst possible ways,” Gant said. “He hates the thought of one of . . . one of my kind in the family. According to my source, Pemrod seemed torn between pillow biter and sword swallower as his favorite term for me. And the disgrace of having me actually sit on the throne? Forget it. If I can send word to him immediately that I’m engaged, it might help.”

  Rina shook her head. “It would be an obvious sham.”

  “But it would be his sham,” Gant said. “Yes, he’d know the truth, but he’s the king. He says what the truth is, and if anyone contradicts him, he can point at you and say ‘There’s the man’s wife right there. How dare you accuse him of perversion.’ Much harder to defend his grandnephew if I give him something to hang his hat on, and a beautiful wife isn’t a bad start.”

  Rina blew out a sigh. “It’s thin.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. This hasn’t gone at all like I’d hoped when I came to Klaar. But deep down, I think Pemrod wants to defend me. Oh, not because of any special affection, but simply because I’m his blood and how dare anyone slander me. It’s the same as slandering him. But we’ve got to give him something to work with. I know the king. He won’t stand for being embarrassed. He’ll simply arrange for me to go away and never be seen again. ‘What ever happened to the dashing Sir Gant?’ people around court will ask, and everyone will shrug and go on with their business.”

  She liked him, Rina realized. He was amiable and seemed honest and charming without being overbearing. There was something of a Brasley quality about the man, but with Gant, unlike with Brasley, she never felt he was undressing her with his eyes. Not that Rina really held that against Brasley. It was the man’s nature. He couldn’t help himself. Maybe Marrying Fregga would cure him. Probably not.

  Hey, pay attention. You’re wandering.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Rina said.

  “I’ve already told you how matters can improve greatly for Klaar if you marry me. And one day you’ll be queen. You’re an intelligent woman. You know what that could mean,” Gant said. “Saving me from being brutally murdered by the king is just a bonus.”

  In some ways, he makes sense. Marriages are arranged all the time. Sometimes between two people who haven’t even met, but . . .

  Even when she was in bed with Alem, limbs intertwined, dozing in the afterglow of lovemaking, a part of her knew. They would never be married. There was no real future for them. Her father had tried to explain it once, what it was like to be duke.

  “I’m the most powerful man in Klaar,” her father had told her. “And in many ways that means I have the least freedom. I am really chief among servants. I have the well-being of an entire duchy to consider. The needs of every peasant are ahead of my own. No, it doesn’t have to be that way, but it should. It’s called responsibility. If a common soldier or cobbler or herdsman gets drunk and falls down in the street, then the man’s only human. If I do it, it’s a disgrace, because I’m supposed to be better.”

  And now she was duchess. For all intents and purposes, she was Klaar.

  Gant cleared his throat. “Rina Veraiin, will you plea
se marry me?”

  Rina opened her mouth to answer him.

  ***

  The stables were full, so many horses from all of the guests, and Alem had the stable boys hopping, making sure all the animals were watered and fed and brushed. Fortunately, some of the guests would be leaving first thing in the morning, and more still later in the day after recovering from hangovers.

  Tosh’s party would be leaving at dawn, so Alem needed to make sure the stable boys were up before first light. Tosh plus five, Alem had been told, so they’d need to ready six mounts. Alem hadn’t asked, but he’d been led to believe Rina was sending Tosh on some important task. He’d been instructed to pack the saddlebags with enough provisions to get them to Kern.

  And then things get back to normal, Alem thought. Whatever normal means around here.

  Vohn entered the stables, a goofy, lopsided grin on his face.

  “Where have you been?” Alem asked.

  “Went to the, hic, reception like you, hic, told me,” Vohn said. “To see if any of the nobles, hic, wanted their horses tonight.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Vohn grinned.

  “Seriously?”

  “The kitchen help was, hic, giving out beer behind the drink tent,” Vohn said. “It’s quite a, hic, party.”

  “So did they?”

  “Did who what?”

  “Did any of the nobles want their damn horses tonight?” Alem asked.

  Vohn scratched his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Go soak your head in the water trough,” Alem told him. “Or I’ll throw you in there myself.”

  Vohn looked abashed, started to shuffle away. “I’ll splash some water on the back of my neck.”

  “Wait,” Alem said. “Did the guests seem to be having a good time? Was the duchess . . . enjoying herself?”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  “What? Where was she?”

  Vohn shrugged. “She wasn’t at the high table.”