Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  Serwren was distracted from her morbid thoughts when her father stood. “Regardless, Serwren. It is time to eat. Will you join me?”

  He held his hand out to her. She was honestly surprised that she wasn’t to be confined to her room. She had taken that part of her punishment for granted. It wasn’t often that she was able to eat any meal with her father. He was so often devoted to the business of running the country and other realms, often into the dark hours of the night, that he would stay ensconced in his chambers. Serwren decided to put her misgivings about her father’s attitude toward her future, and her fear for any further punishment that he had not yet revealed, to one side, and to enjoy the brief moment that was offered.

  Serwren stood, and hooked her arm around her father’s elbow. He escorted her from her room, through the corridors of the palace. The sun had almost fully set, and the colours of the stained glass windows were muted and shadowed, leaving only the barest smears of their vibrancy on the stone floors.

  They did not dine in the official dining room. That space was far too large and unwieldy to be enjoyed by just two people. When she and Erkas ate together, they usually did so in one of the smaller reception rooms. Serwren couldn’t see any sign of Erkas. She thought it was unlikely that he’d been confined to his room in punishment for tattling on her and Jorrell. Her father never seemed to see the sneakings and small bullyings of her brother. It was far more likely that Erkas had excused himself, or that he hadn’t been present for the invitation to be extended to him.

  Her father led her to one of the ante rooms in his suite. It was a formal room, with a large table and a number of chairs, but the furniture filled the space better than the formal dining room. Two or three people could eat a companionable meal around one end of the dark wooden table, or many more could enjoy vivacious discourse around it without having to shout to make themselves heard over the vast expanse of timber.

  Serwren had hardly finished settling into her chair when one of her father’s diplomatic aides knocked and entered the room. There were a few hushed words spoken between the aide and her father that Serwren couldn’t catch, but when her father turned his apologetic gaze to her, she knew that they would no longer be sharing their meal.

  “Serwren...”

  “It’s alright, Father. I understand.” She pushed her chair back and left without saying more. A maid stopped her in the corridor and tried to offer to set her meal up elsewhere, but Serwren’s appetite had faded, and she refused.

  She did understand that her father was busy, that the lives of hundreds of thousands of people depended on his decisions, but sometimes she couldn’t squash the jealous thoughts of how nice it would be to have some of his time and attention for herself, some time to really talk, so that maybe he could begin to know her and understand her.

  When she reached her room, although it was still early, she prepared for bed. She undressed, folding her long skirt, shawl and half-tunic neatly before placing them into the wicker basket that contained the rest of her dirty laundry. She pulled on the thin, sleeveless, cotton shift that she often slept in during the cooler season. It covered her to her ankles. During the moons of Taan, it was often too hot to sleep in anything more than her skin.

  Serwren lay on top of the covers of her bed, resting on her stomach with her hands folded under her cheek. She was not at all relaxed, despite the golden glow of the candles in the wrought iron stands and sconces. She thought that she might attempt to read again. However, she knew it was more likely that she would continue staring into space as she tried to think of a way to make sure that she didn’t end up married off to someone not of her choosing.

  It was at that moment that the person of her choosing tapped at her window.

  Serwren rolled quickly off the bed to open the latch. The marble floor was uncomfortably cold on the soles of her feet. There was a hibiscus plant twined around a trellis which almost covered the entirety of the wall that her window was set in. Its fist-sized scarlet flowers attracted iridescent hummingbirds and butterflies that became drunk and dozy on the abundance of nectar and often strayed close enough to touch. Jorrell had been climbing up the plant with impunity for years. Even so, it was the time of year when the plant was sleeping and had no leaves and its branches, lacking fresh sap, would be dry and brittle.

  Serwren pushed the window open, the long gauzy drapes in pale colours, which softened the stark white walls of her room, caught the breeze, and swayed and shifted with a faint rustle. Jorrell, who had been waiting underneath the casement for the pane to swing outwards, pulled himself up and scrambled into the room. Serwren leaned out into the night to check that no one had seen her visitor, and then pulled the window shut.

  “Good evening, madam,” Jorrell said as he brushed the remnants of dead leaves from his trousers and sleeves.

  “Quite.” Serwren eyed the mess he was making on the floor. “I think a troll could make that climb more quietly.”

  Jorrell only grinned at her. “It’s three stories from the ground. I doubt a troll could climb it at all.”

  Serwren crossed her arms over her chest, but she was smiling, too. “You’ve been making that climb for ten years. You’d think you’d be able to make it with some stealth now.”

  Jorrell's tone hadn’t lost any amusement, but he made for the window again. “If all you’re going to do is snipe at me, Serry, I’ll just leave. I don’t see any sense in annoying my father more just so you can moan at me.”

  Serwren sobered at that. “You’re not supposed to be here?”

  Jorrell abandoned his path to the window and turned, he rested his weight back against the edge of her desk and folded his arms. “When am I ever supposed to be in your room?” he said a little condescendingly. “But no, I’m not supposed to have left my own room, let alone be inside yours.”

  “Is that the extent of the sentence?” Serwren asked.

  “No.” Jorrell seemed sad suddenly, and that concerned her. He pushed away from the desk and folded her into his arms, holding her against his chest. Serwren slipped her arms around his waist snuggled against his warm body. Opening the window had let in some of the cold night air, and her skin had pimpled in gooseflesh. “I have to go to the barracks tomorrow and clean up after the gryphons.”

  “That doesn’t sound so very bad.” Serwren said into the smooth, soft leather of the jerkin he’d donned against the chill. She let her fingertips trace the intricate designs that had been tooled into the hide. “I have to go and apologise personally.”

  “No one’s making you shovel gryphon shit?”

  Serwren smiled. Jorrell was used to receiving the harsher punishments, despite her best efforts otherwise. “They never do. That isn’t how this goes.” Serwren’s smile disappeared when she felt Jorrell’s body fill with tension. “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No.” She felt Jorrell press his lips to her hair. “Father’s sending me back with the En Dek.” Serwren made to pull away, horror struck, but Jorrell held her tightly. “I’m to stay for seven nights and pretty much do whatever they tell me to.”

  “Seven nights?” She’d thought he was being sent away permanently. This was a wonderful reprieve, but it would still mark the longest time they had ever been apart.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “When do you leave?” Serwren pressed her face against Jorrell’s chest and tried to find the beat of his heart. She was determined that she would not cry.

  “The day after tomorrow. And you? Is having to apologise the worst of it?” Jorrell mumbled into her hair.

  Thinking about the things her father hadn’t said wasn’t helping Serwren win her battle against her tears. “I don’t think so, but Father hasn’t said anything more. Jorrell, he keeps talking about my future and he refuses to listen to me when I talk about the Forum. I think he’s going to try and find a husband for me.”

  Jorrell’s arms tightened to the point that Serwren was struggling to draw breath, but she woul
dn’t tell him to relax his hold. Instead, she breathed as deeply as she could, filling her senses with the aromas of lemon and rosemary, mingled with the scent that was simply, undeniably him, the scent that set her blood on fire. “You really think so? We better do something about that, then.”

  “What?” Serwren wasn’t sure she understood his meaning. She was scared to hope that he meant what she thought he did.

  “I’ll speak to your father when I get back from the Isle. I’ll ask him for your hand, for his blessing.”

  “What if he says no?” Fear tipped her over the edge and she lost the battle with her tears. Serwren felt them roll silently over her cheeks.

  “Let’s not worry about that now. We have to hope that he won’t. There’s no reason that he should.”

  Serwren shivered, even wrapped as she was in the heat of Jorrell’s body. It was partly a reaction to her anxious state of mind, but it was also her belated realisation that she was practically naked apart from the diaphanous cotton gown that she was wearing.

  “Hey, you’re trembling.” Jorrell relaxed his arms and brought one hand between them. He caught her chin in his fingers and tilted her face so that he could see it. He frowned at the evidence of her tears. “Don’t cry.” He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the backs of his fingers. “We’ll find a way to be safe, we always do.”

  Jorrell had always been her rock, her safety. Serwren was terrified of losing that, terrified that it might be torn away from her. Before, the future had always been a vague notion, something that she would have to deal with one day, some day, after she’d grown up. She was swiftly coming to the realisation that that day had arrived and that all the ideas, customs and dreams that surrounded her were about to become a maelstrom over which she had little control.

  Jorrell dipped his head and lightly brushed his lips over hers. Serwren’s fingers tightened, causing the leather of his jerkin to creak just a little. She pressed closer to him, needing to feel the warmth and safety of his physicality. Jorrell deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips to begin the silken dance with her own.

  Serwren’s gown was flimsy enough that she felt every fold and seam of Jorrell’s clothing as if she were completely naked. A small voice at the very back of her mind warned her that she was playing with fire, that there was something shameful in what she was doing, but the larger portion of her mind allowed her arms to unwind themselves from around his waist and slide up the broad expanse of his back so that she could bury her fingers in the dark, unruly curls of his hair.

  The construction of his garments wasn’t the only thing that Serwren could feel. She could feel that Jorrell’s body was as affected as hers by their emotions and close proximity.

  Jorrell broke the kiss. He whispered her name, “Serry,” against her lips, once, before resuming the kiss and beginning to walk her backwards while she was distracted until they fumbled their way down onto her bed. Serwren shuffled until she was lying on her back in the centre of the mattress. Jorrell propped himself over her, leaning on one forearm to keep his weight from crushing her, but still, half his body covered hers, hot and heavy and utterly wonderful.

  He cupped her face in his palm and fed his fingers into her hair as they gazed into each other's eyes, trying to see a future that was not yet written. When he began to slide his palm down the sensitive skin of her neck, his fingers caught a little on some strands of hair, tugging at her scalp. She paid the small pain no heed as his hand rubbed gently over her collar bone, across her shoulder, and down to her breast.

  Her nipple tightened impossibly under the cover of his hand. Serwren gasped. It wasn’t the first time that Jorrell had touched her this way, but the intensity of the sensations that he could wring from her body never failed to amaze her.

  He cupped and fondled her breast until she was unable to contain herself, unable to remain still, and arched off the bed to push the tender flesh further into his palm. He grinned devilishly, before continuing his path down her body, over the delicate skin of her belly, and further still.

  Jorrell let his hand rest on her thigh, moving only his fingers to inch the material of her nightgown up, over her legs, until he could slide his hand beneath the bunched fabric with ease. When he pressed his fingers between her legs, she parted her thighs to make way for him.

  Jorrell had been staring at her, watching her, studying her reactions, but as his fingers slid over her folds, finding her flesh wet with her desire for him, he dropped his forehead to hers.

  “Serry.” He whispered her name reverently.

  Serwren brought her arms until she could frame Jorrell’s face in her hands. She wanted, needed, to kiss him. There was no other place that she felt so protected, so loved, as she did in his embrace.

  He caught her meaning, and then her lips, in a hard, demanding kiss, as his fingers delved where no one else had ever touched her. As ever, although he was determined and demanding a reaction, Jorrell was careful to preserve any evidence of her virginity. It was considered an essential tradition in Felthiss that all brides were virgins on their wedding night, to prevent any question of the parentage of any child borne of the union. It wasn’t an infallible system, but it was rigidly adhered to.

  Before long, the smouldering fire that he was stoking burst into a blaze and Serwren felt the sparks through every inch of her body, as if fireworks were exploding in her blood. Jorrell’s mouth still covered hers. When it all became too much, when the pleasure overwhelmed her, he swallowed her cries.

  When it was over, when the fire in her body had died to glowing embers, Serwren lay limp in Jorrell’s arms. He wouldn’t leave her yet. They would have to take care not to fall asleep, he would have to climb back down the hibiscus vine before dawn broke to avoid being seen, but they had time enough yet. And Serwren had a pleasurable favour to repay.

  Chapter Four

  Shovelling gryphon shit was hardly an easy task, but it wasn’t exactly the worst punishment in the world. Sure, it smelt like... well, shit. And, by Thyar, could those beasts produce some dung. They were huge animals, and the piles of excrement they left were massive, too. They were carnivores, meat-eaters; the result was more like dog shit, or cat shit, rather than horse manure. It stank a whole lot worse. No one would be using this to fertilise anything. The groundskeepers had identified a spot for it, well away from the pile of manure that was regularly mucked out of the barrack’s stables and arena. That manure was recycled onto the palace gardens. This shit would simply be left to rot down.

  By the time he’d worked half the day, shovelling the gryphon excreta into a barrow and making what must have been hundreds of trips to and from the growing midden, Jorrell was sure that he’d never get the grime from under his fingernails, or get the smell out of his nose. But it still wasn’t the worst part of his punishment. He didn’t mind the hard physical work. He enjoyed anything that involved using his body, and indulged in activities such as riding, swimming, running and hunting. He welcomed the burn in his muscles when they complained of being overused. Any physical effort was a bonus as far as he was concerned. It would have been worse to be shut inside all day. Another plus was that the constant movement was keeping him warm on the cool day. He’d shed his shirt and was working in just his leather trews.

  It had rained a little during the night, so that ground was no longer dusty, but fortunately it had not become a quagmire. He’d arrived not long after dawn, still a little heavy eyed from lack of sleep, having spent most of the night with Serwren. He’d barely even set foot in the barracks before the soldiers had started making fun of him. They did so with a modicum of respect – he was the son of a consul, after all – but he was on their turf and he was doing menial work, so that made him fair game.

  The En Dek had kept their distance and watched awhile, but they’d joined in, too, eventually. Jorrell didn’t mind that so much, either. It was the way of the soldiers. He’d seen and heard them often enough, and it made him feel a part of their group to be include
d in their sport, even if he was the butt of their jokes.

  He’d taken their abuse in good-humoured silence, right up until Serwren had turned up to apologise to En Balamon. Jorrell had tried, and had obviously failed, not to watch her too closely. She hadn’t asked to make the apology in private, she’d done it out in the open, and that only increased his pride in her spirit. She had obviously charmed En Balamon; they had spoken for longer than a simple apology could possibly have taken, and the battle-worn soldier was smiling like a fool by the time she took her leave. Jorrell had grinned at the triumphant smile that curved her lips as she left the barracks.

  But the other soldiers had seen his interest and began to call him out on it. Their jokes became progressively more crude, and Jorrell was seriously debating some more effective uses for the gryphon faeces, until En Balamon called a halt to it. After that, Jorrell gave as good as he got for every barb thrown his way. He garnered some respect for his sharp tongue and quick wit.

  His father did not visit, even to check on him, although En Balamon remained in the arena throughout the morning. Jorrell guessed that the leader of the En Dek was to be his warden. Now that he was no longer wearing his golden helmet, Jorrell could better see the man’s face. He could tell that En Balamon didn’t care much for his personal appearance; his blonde hair was shaggy, obviously uncut for some time, and his eyes seemed to have been permanently narrowed from squinting into the bright skies.