Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  Clara nodded. Although the stubborn, rebellious piece of her wanted to wriggle out of agreeing, a doctor would be a wise choice. “I’ll have Tommy take me there.” Her page had already visited the man not long upon their arrival to Endlight, seeing to a cut he’d garnered in the stables. The boy was likely in the room with the rest of the children given his marked absence in the doorway.

  That served her well. She could check on them in passing and perhaps usher them towards the doctor for him to check over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The clang of steel greeted Clara’s ears as she neared the training grounds. She hesitated in following Tommy down the corridor before continuing on, ensuring to keep close to her page without giving off the appearance of a mouse flushed from its hole.

  The corridor was deserted. Not the emptiness of all-but-servants that they’d come across on their way down here, but fully uninhabited save for Tommy and herself. Visibly, at least. That meant no one to see if anything untoward happened to their soon-to-be Great Lady and her page, but also no one to watch her scurrying steps.

  They exited the castle and made their way down a covered path winding around the building. In this late afternoon, much of the guard was on duty. Most marched along the outer wall, little more than helmeted heads bobbing along. Occasionally, one would step a little closer to the inner edge of the wall. Peering her way, she was sure of it.

  She halted and glanced over her shoulder, hugging herself to mask the subtle check of her dagger’s clearance.

  Even with Thad’s insistence that not all of his father’s men were as savage as the one who had dared the attempt of forcing himself on her some months back, she still wasn’t willing to find herself alone with one of Endlight’s numerous, and free-willed, guards.

  A part of her craved the normality of the Citadel, however oddly perverse it was for her mind to easily slip into thinking of the soulless army as ordinary. Like most of her hometown, she hadn’t known the truth behind the army before they’d snatched her off the streets. Even with living on the Citadel’s doorstep.

  Despite the lack of a soul driving their desires—some of them quite disgusting, based on the reasons for their punishment—there wasn’t the hollowness she’d once attributed to them. She’d grown fond of a few, like Gutting Gettie who’d earned her nomenclature via way of retribution for the things her lecherous victims had done to young girls.

  But, even with the men and women in the Citadel being punished criminals, Clara could count on them to have her health and safety in mind. Even if it was only because that was what the man who possessed their souls demanded.

  Here was different.

  Those who weren’t guarding the castle would prefer relaxation or some other form of entertainment to sparring, unlike the soulless people of the Great Lord’s army. Their routine was one she’d become accustomed to during her time in the Citadel. No matter the day, it was always the same people in the same places.

  “Killed you!” Lucias’ voice rang out from somewhere ahead of them, breaking Clara’s attention on the guards above.

  More clanging and general scuffling followed the declaration. She jerked her head around, searching for the source. The curved wall of a building stood not far from them. An archway led inside where two figures danced around each other, sunlight glinting off their weapons.

  “And again,” Lucias announced to whomever he fought. “Honestly, this is the worst technique you’ve shown in years.”

  “Do excuse me, my lord,” Thad snapped back in answer, his words a touch slurred. “I’d a few drinks this morning and wasn’t exactly expecting a sparring session.”

  Lucias’ gleeful answering laughter tweaked Clara’s lips. It always sounded so young and just that little bit wistful.

  Now she was certain he waited just ahead, Clara hitched up her skirts and hurried to the archway. She stepped beneath it to find the two men shirtless and standing in the middle of what had to be the training grounds. The circular space wasn’t all that bigger than the one in the Citadel. The addition of an interior ring of pillars did much to lessen the clear space to practice.

  In the centre of the grounds, Thad staggered back from his old friend—he seemed ready to fall at any moment—whilst Lucias effortlessly twirled his sword about in one hand. Neither one seemed to have spotted her in the entrance.

  Clara took the opportunity to scurry behind the closest pillar before they did, waving Tommy to join her as he entered the archway shadows. She hadn’t seen Lucias spar with anyone beyond the soulless men in the Citadel training grounds, which had also become a place of magical healing thanks to being ringed by glyphs some centuries back. Seeing him spar against not only a friend, but in a place where he’d need to be mindful of not actually harming his opponent would be interesting.

  “ ‘Twas more than a few.” Lucias pointed his sword at the sorry mess who was his opponent. “I’d wager you downed a whole barrel on your own.”

  Thad gave a lopsided grin and paced in front of Lucias, cutting the air with his sword at each wobbly step. “I’d be passed out on the table if that’d been the case.” Without warning, he dove for Lucias.

  It was a move that Lucias easily dodged, leaving Thad skidding right on by to barely stop himself from falling on his rear. Turning on his heel with a burst of drunken grace, Thad lunged once again for his opponent, his sword raised.

  Lucias easily blocked the attack with a backhanded swing. His eyes narrowed and Clara watched, wide-eyed, as the air shimmered behind Thad.

  The man gave a yelp. He rubbed furiously at his backside, muttering a few curses which would’ve sent her mother in search of a strap. “You swore you’d never use magic in our sparring.”

  “I thought I’d see if it would sober you up.”

  “Ha!” Thad spat. The glob hit the dirt, hardened by countless years of practising soldiers, and remained unwholesomely intact. The man turned his head further, finally spotting Tommy and herself. “We’ve an audience, it would seem.”

  “Well, if it isn’t my preferred sparring partner and her page.” Beaming and with his arms spread wide, Lucias strode to her side. “How are you feeling, my dear? Better?”

  Clara nodded, casting a sideways glance at Thad. The lord leant on his sword, blinking owlishly at them. He swayed on the spot, but managed to remain upright all the same. The last time she’d seen a man drunk, it’d been the man who’d assaulted her. Even though Thad was far more likely to give her a stern telling off than attempt to rape her, the thought hovered over her head like a wasp.

  “You look a little pale,” Lucias said, his brow furrowing as he gently lifted the hair from her forehead. “Tell me you’ve seen the doctor?” Relief visibly relaxed his features as she nodded again, leaving only a sliver of concern tightening his eyes. “What did he say?”

  She shrugged. The man had been dismissive of her injuries, examining her under great duress and going so far as to question her recollection of the events. “As far as he’s concerned, I can walk, talk and comprehend matters, so therefore I must be fine.”

  Lucias’ frown returned, the wrinkles between his brows creasing to their fullest. “I should’ve sent you to the midwife for her opinion,” he muttered, sheathing his sword.

  “I can have her drop by Clara’s room tonight?” Tommy offered.

  “Good man.” Lucias gave the boy a hearty pat on the shoulder that brought a flush of colour to Tommy’s olive cheeks. “See if you can’t track her down for me. You might want to suggest your father gets a new doctor,” he added over his shoulder to Thad as Tommy eagerly scampered off to obey Lucias’ gentle request.

  “The man’s here to set bones and mend flesh amongst the guards, not tend to every minor injury in the castle.”

  “What about your servants?” Clara pressed. The kitchen alone would have quite a number of injuries that would heal better with proper treatment. In the Citadel, that used to mean briefly slipping into the training grounds, but she’d since stop
ped all but the most serious cases from taking advantage of Lucias’ power. “Who do they see when they’ve been injured whilst under your service?”

  Giving an indifferent shrug, Thad scratched at one side of his jaw. “They probably have their own means of dealing with whatever ails them.”

  “Then perhaps I should’ve had Tommy seek out those people,” she retorted. “Because I certainly don’t want him near my children.” She’d gone as far as the doctor’s door with them, leaving without giving the man a chance to do more than glance at their departing forms. The gleam in his eyes as he’d spied Sweetie had been all the warning she’d needed.

  “And how are our children?” Lucias asked, his voice overtly light and clearly meant as a distraction.

  “Not yet conceived,” Thad muttered.

  “Shut up,” Lucias flung over his shoulder at the lord.

  Thad’s smirk fast became a scowl. “You should have chosen a mistress long before now. Had a dozen children, just to be safe.” The way he spoke, the frustration behind his voice…

  They’d definitely had this conversation before.

  Lucias’ nose wrinkled at the mention of children as if the entire contents of a midden had been dumped before him. “I’d forgotten how much of a mongrel you become when you’re drunk. You’d be wise to watch your tongue before I cut it out.” He shook his head. “Forgive him, my dear,” he said, directing his full attention to Clara. “He gets like this with every approaching birth and his wife is somewhat overdue.”

  She recalled how large the lady who’d greeted her arrival was. Ready to burst. Clara shook the image free from her thoughts. “Our children are well. A little shaken.” Especially poor Poppy, who’d wailed as if Clara had actually died. “But Derek managed to calm them down.” The boy had to be wondering just what sort of nightmare he’d led his charges into. Only Tommy’s assurance that the Citadel was safer by far had kept Derek from bundling everyone out of the castle.

  “Where are they now?”

  “In the solarium. Thalia offered to watch over them.”

  Thad’s face darkened at the mention of the children’s location. “Spreading more disease,” he muttered.

  “They don’t look ill, never mind diseased.” Beyond their obviously malnourished frames, she’d spied nothing in the way of lesions or unexplained scabs that couldn’t be put down to sunburn. Frequent bathing and grooming would see to any fleas or lice.

  “What of the pasty girl and the piebald boy?” Thad sneered. “They’ll bring nothing but death.”

  Rage blinded Clara for a moment, all thought thrown back to when she was just five years old. He dares? The baker in Everdark had been accused of similar by a travelling merchant. She’d been so scared and confused as to why the quiet, gentle mountain of a man had grown so angry.

  She opened her mouth, but little more than unintelligible noises escaped her throat. Clara hugged herself to keep the anger from quaking through to her bones. How could Thad not know the lack of colour in someone’s skin, or the white patches Derek bore, were circumstances of birth rather than disease? She tried again.

  This time, her voice was stalled by the pressure of Lucias’ hand on her shoulder.

  “Thad.” There was a winter’s worth of ice gusting out with the man’s name. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, a shiver still skittered its way along her skin. Silvery-blue specks of light danced in Lucias’ eyes. “I think you should go back to bed and sober up.”

  Reason seemed to flicker to life in the lord’s eyes, it moulded his face, slackening his jaw and raising his brows. There was a spark of hesitancy in that green gaze as it darted between Lucias and herself.

  She glowered back, giving no quarter, and continued to do so even as Thad seemed to decide that taking Lucias’ advice was a logical course of action.

  Only when the training grounds held just the two of them did she turn her attention to Lucias, surprised to find him over by the weapons rack. “Did you at least manage to get anything further from my would-be assassin?”

  “We did. After the doctor stitched up his wound, of course. You’ve excellent aim, by the way.” He grinned, the tone of his voice swelling with absolute delight and—

  Pride. That was what her ears caught. It had been so long since she’d heard anyone be prideful of her actions.

  “But your assassin was most helpful in laying out all his plans, including how he got into the castle in the first place. Farris has him combing through the newly-recruited servants as we speak.” Lucias stooped over to fish a long, slender bundle from beneath the foot of the weapons rack. “He was working alone and indeed in service to my mother, but it pays to be thorough with this sort of thing.”

  Clara nodded. Once, not that long ago, she would’ve dismissed it all as paranoia.

  “What did you hit him with? Your dagger was clean and I saw nothing in your room capable of creating such a neat slice.”

  “A candlestick.”

  Unadulterated glee crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Wonderful,” he breathed. “You are simply amazing. I worry so much about you and your safety and here you are fending off assassins with candlesticks.” He cleared his throat, a flush of red creeping across his suntanned face. “But that isn’t why I asked you here.” He offered up the bundle. “I have something for you.”

  Another gift? “Lucias,” she moaned. He’d started with the dresses, which had seemed quite practical at first. She couldn’t, after all, wear the same outfit day after day. But twenty-four of them? She’d never owned more than three at any one time in her life. “You know how I feel about the gifts.”

  Then there were the jewels. He hardly had a single item of jewellery on himself, yet she had ended up with enough necklaces to adorn the necks of an entire village, more rings and bracelets than she could ever want to wear and, even after several months, her ears still tingled when she thought of all the earrings he’d bought her. “You really must stop. You know it’s not necessary.”

  “Is it not?” He chuckled. “Clara, you are—” His gaze slid from her face as she pinned him with a stern glare. “You are to be my wife, I have—”

  Clara crossed her arms.

  Like a fool, he grinned and continued. “Even without any marriage vows, you are my mistress, which means I still have every right to bury you under a mountain of gifts if I so choose.” He placed the long, wrapped item into her hands. “This, however, was to be my wedding gift to you, but in light of the current circumstances, I’d feel better knowing you have it at hand now.” His grin widened. “Should you find yourself bereft of a candlestick.”

  She stared at the bundle. The thing beneath the cloth was unforgiving and not at all as light as she’d expected from something so lean. What had he given her this time? What would he consider as a wedding gift? He hasn’t…

  Peeling back the layers revealed the decorative hilt of a weapon she’d grown all too familiar with. “It’s a sword.”

  He inclined his head. “I thought it prudent for my wife to have one of her own for when I couldn’t lend her mine.”

  Clara examined the hilt. The steel had been bound with leather. The top was gilded and engraved with a delicate braid. In the middle sat a gem that she wouldn’t be surprised to find was the same shade of red as her hair. “Even though you know I’m no good with swords?” Despite all her training after his departure, she still couldn’t wield the weapons quite like his men. She was getting better, granted, but the blades were just that smidge too unwieldy.

  “My wife will need to be. And you might find this more to your liking.” He urged her to take up the weapon with the tilt of his head. “I had it made for you, after all.”

  Free of the cumbersome cloth, the sword did seem a little shorter than the ones she’d trained with back at the Citadel. She hauled the blade from its scabbard, which she gently laid down on the cloth whilst her gaze never left the weapon. Her name had been engraved in the fuller.

  The blade wasn’t as long as
Lucias’ hand and a half, and bore an edge sharper than anything she’d wielded before. Clara gave it an experimental swing, listening to it slice through the air at the twitch of her wrist. Perfect balance. She shouldn’t have been surprised—she’d seen Lucias swing his own monster of a weapon with scalpel-like precision—but she hadn’t expected the blade to react so swiftly to her command. “I love it.”

  The faint, steely hiss of drawn metal pulled her gaze up. Lucias stood before her, his sword at the ready. “Are you feeling well enough to try it against an opponent?”

  Nodding, she walked out into the centre of the training grounds. Her heart pounded, powered by exhilaration and a faint tinge of fear. She’d never sparred with Lucias more than a couple of times, and never outside the Citadel training grounds.

  Clara raised the sword, instantly grateful for the extra fabric the seamstress who’d made this dress had added to the sleeves. She kept herself just loose enough to react to whatever attack her opponent made. It didn’t help that Lucias silently circled her like a hound measuring its prey before it struck.

  She rotated on the spot along with him, always keeping one eye on his left side. He might fight right-handed—doing everything else with the left to always keep his sword hand free—but the left side was where his tells lay, in the twist of his hip and the weight of a single leg.

  Sure enough, his stance shifted. The left leg took on more weight than in the other steps. He rushed forward, the slight drooping of his right shoulder indicative of a low attack.

  Clara angled her own sword down and stepped to one side, sweeping his blade out of harm’s way. The sibilant whisper of silk rubbing against itself slithered along with each movement. Not exactly stealthy, but she never trained for silence.

  The twist of Lucias’ foot warned of a sudden shift in direction. She scuttled backwards a few steps, giving herself room to counterattack. The heft of her skirt and petticoat hems thumped her calves, no more hindering than a solid cloak. Thankfully, there was a distinct lack of train on this particular dress. The hem all around was likewise lifted to the ankle rather than the floor-sweeping designs she’d witnessed on several ladies during her stay here.