Lightspeed Magazine, Issue 51, page 16
Alarm tingled through her, but she couldn’t believe there could possibly be danger at a ball, not with a hundred couples dancing forty paces away. She walked with him through the alcove and through the open doors into a tiled terrace, potted trees winking with tiny lights. Beyond lay the garden. The scents of woodbine and jasmine and queensblossom perfumed the air. Moths air-danced near the doorway, their wings golden-lit. No one else was there.
Her ears registered steps on the gravel below the terrace, and the soft snort of a horse. She turned her head, her eyes adjusting rapidly, and made out the shape of a horse, and a man beside it, waiting in the concealing shrubs. Not just one horse—two!
She pulled away. “What are you doing?”
He took hold of her arm again, but this time she whipped her arm out of his grip and spun away, almost out of his reach, to discover herself ringed by silent men. Quicker than thought, he closed the distance and seized her more firmly.
It was a quick, desperate fight, for she was very well trained, and knew subtle movements that did not rely on strength or size. But her fragile, exquisitely fitted gown limited her range of movement, and her loose hair got painfully in her way. He was much the stronger and quicker, but he was disadvantaged by his determination to prevail, yet do her no hurt.
Prevail he did. After a silent, swift struggle, he held her gripped against him, one hand round her prisoned wrists, the other covering her mouth. He felt her trembling against his body, and nearly laughed out loud for pleasure and anticipation.
Then came the least pleasant aspect of his plan. He bound her himself. He did not permit his lackey to do it, for he trusted only himself to find that balance between security and comfort, and he would not have any hands but his own touching her.
Silken bonds only, wrists, ankles, mouth. Then he snapped his fingers, and his liveried man silently brought forward his fastest and heaviest cross-country mount.
He carried her himself.
The lackeys ran behind as they trotted along the tiled garden path to the outskirts, between the wide-spaced peacetime guards who watched for trouble from without, not within.
They wound through the gardens to where the paths linked up with one of the main city roads. A turn to the north, away from the few buildings, to the yard of an inn where the northern road crossed the extreme boundary of the palace gardens.
There the remainder of his servants waited with a four-horse carriage. Still mounted, he glanced inside, and saw by the single lantern that all his commands had been carried out exactly.
He dismounted, lifted Ren down, set her unresisting body on the coach seat against the silk-covered pillows, and paused in the doorway, watching her angry eyes above the black sash, gleaming in the light of the lantern held by a lackey.
“We are going to Alavanska,” he said.
She didn’t blink, just glared at him. No sign of fear, of pleading, of tears. Even when he removed the gag, she said nothing at all.
He shut the door, motioned to the lackeys to take their places, and remounted his horse. The driver loosened the reins and rolled out.
All night, he rode beside the carriage, guarding his chosen lady.
• • • •
III. The Etiquette of Abduction
Ren saw four opportunities for escape before that first morning.
Each would have involved hurting someone, which—as yet—she was unwilling to do. When the fourth occurred, she cursed herself mentally for not paying attention years ago when her brother offered to teach her that point on the side of the neck below the jawbone that dropped people into unconsciousness. What use would that be to someone who took pride in using wit and good will instead of trickery and brawn?
Men! Except … the two successful abductions in her own admittedly strange family had been carried off, both at sword point, by women. One, her great-grandmother, was still alive.
Oh well. She’d just have to manage by her own methods.
She thought it all through as the beautifully sprung carriage rocked and rattled northward, pulled by four fast horses. Lexan’s roads were very good, she observed. So too were Cath’s horses, carriage, and his servants.
The pauses to change the horses were accomplished swiftly and smoothly. At one point, a servant poked his head in, scrupulously respectful of demeanor, and offered Ren a steaming, fragrant cup of hot chocolate.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll take water if you have it. Nothing else.”
The man seemed nonplussed. He bowed, and withdrew, telltale red along his plump cheeks.
Ren sustained a pulse of regret, for the air was chill, and the chocolate would probably have tasted as good as it smelled, but she’d determined on passive resistance, to see what that occasioned.
Cath—blast his twisty little brain—had enjoyed her fighting to get free. Enjoyed it? Well, then, she’d not give him that pleasure again.
The servant returned with a brimming cup of water, which he held to her lips and she drank down. Her headache receded. She thanked him gravely, and he shut the carriage door.
The coach began rolling, and no one came near her again until well on into the next day; with the gag gone, she thought in relief, she could at least use the Waste Spell. But her stomach gurgled fretfully at its neglect.
Noon came and went, with another stop, another offer of food. She accepted only water. She looked out the window at the changing scenery, farmland and well-tended canals giving way to hills, with mountains nearing. She leaned out once, but her eyes met Cath’s gaze as he rode next to the carriage. She refused to open the window again.
On the second stop, the door opened once more and this time, it was Cath himself. At some point, he had changed out of his silk and jewels into a sturdy linen shirt under a vest, riding trousers stuffed into high spurred boots. A baldric crossed his chest, to which was attached a well-made dueling rapier.
He untied the sashes round her wrists and ankles. Glad she was to be free at last—obviously they were now deep within his own lands—she gave him no sign of reaction.
“Are you hungry or thirsty?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Will you take something? Bread? Coffee?”
“No,” she said.
He shut the door.
They rolled on very soon.
Presently, the carriage wound its way up increasingly steep inclines. They stopped more frequently. No one came to the door, and she did not open it, or try to run, for she sensed alert minds waiting nervously outside.
She had decided: She would not involve servants if she could help it. This duel was between herself and their master.
• • • •
She jerked awake when they stopped again. Excited voices now—they must have reached his citadel. The orange flares of torches outside the window shone against the pale blue of dawn.
The coach door opened a moment later. Uneven torchlight outlined Cath’s silhouette.
“Will you step out, Ren?” He held out his hand.
In silence she complied, but without touching him. He withdrew as soon as he saw her intention, and waited, still holding the door, until she stood up, shaking out her skirts and fighting against vertigo.
“Please, this way,” he said.
She paced beside him without speaking.
Looking down at his prisoner, Cath saw stony control, and the innate grace that informed her every movement, even when she stalked, even when she was grubby and tired, and hadn’t eaten for two days. Anticipation was heightened by admiration. She did not just have style, she was style. Impatient as he’d been, he discovered he did not want her to surrender too quickly.
Ren took in the massive stone lineaments of a formidable castle, not surprising for a border duchy. Clearly, it had been built for defense and to ward off fierce mountain winds, weather, and warriors.
Inside, she found the well-maintained tastes of former generations. Outmoded furnishings amused her, heavy carved chair arms and legs, stylized representations of magical beasts, the court of the First Dragon as envisioned four hundred years ago.
Down a carpeted hall, and into a room whose chill was soon banished by a new-lit magical fire in a great fireplace. Autumn came early to the mountains.
Two great wingchairs sat angled toward the fire, with a table between them. Cath indicated one, then bent to augment the light by touching candles to the flames.
He’d gotten rid of the rapier. In the golden light he looked as disheveled as she felt, mud-splashed to the thighs from having ridden the entire distance on horseback. She mentally awarded him credit for his straight back and alert, though narrow-eyed, gaze: he probably had as great a headache as she did. But she permitted no sign of hers in her demeanor.
He sank in the other chair, heedless of his mud. He stretched his booted feet before him, spurs winking in the firelight, and a sigh escaped him.
She remained standing, though she felt her effort in every joint and bone.
“Shall I summon refreshment?” He drew off his riding gloves and laid them on the table.
“Not for me,” she said.
His lip curled. “You intend to starve to death?”
“I have not yet decided what to do,” she stated in as cold a voice as she could contrive. “Until I do, I’ve no wish to touch anything of yours.”
He leaned back, hands idle on the chair arms. A ruby on his little finger winked with rich burgundy light, a steady wink: his heartbeat. She forced her gaze away.
“What are your choices?” he asked, in the voice of power humoring the powerless.
“Whether to leave or to stay, of course,” she said, her tone one of surprise.
“Meaning?” he prompted.
“Meaning either I cut my way through your people—something I contemplate with distaste—or I remain and dwindle to death, another unpleasant choice.”
“I’d rather you do neither,” he said, still humoring her. “Though I confess I’d like to see you try the first.”
“I know you would,” she retorted. “The prospect of killing your servants for your entertainment does nothing to enhance my diminishing respect for you.”
“Will it bolster my declining prestige if I admit that I don’t think you capable of killing any of my people?”
“You would be wrong.” Her steady gaze reflected the candlelight, gold within a ring of black, within a ring of gold, more enchanting a pair of eyes than any art could contrive.
His brows went up slightly. “I’m inclined to give some credence to your claims, judging from how close you came to grassing me in the palace garden.”
She remained silent.
“Which one of ’em trained you?” he asked. “Your brother or your father?”
She did not answer that, either.
His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair until he became aware of the movement, and ceased.
“Will you consider a third choice?” he asked presently.
“That depends.”
“I want to marry you,” Cath said.
“Then you should have asked.”
“And you would have said?”
“I would have refused. And the present situation is not likely to change my decision.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, smiling a little. “I was bored with court, and with waiting on the fools who surrounded you, so I decided someone needed to take action, and why not I?”
Her lips parted, but then she closed them.
He was bemused by her lack of reaction, as she had hoped. She knew that anything else—tears, fury, haughty resentment—would have entertained him. Begging would have disgusted him, but it would have disgusted her more.
“Will you tell me what criteria will affect your decision?” he asked.
“Yes. If you offer me violence, I’ll use it back if I can.”
“I will not use violence,” he stated flatly.
“Then your people will take no harm of me,” she promised.
His brows lifted again. He was too tired to mask his reactions, so she saw that he was beginning to believe that she could do what she claimed.
“And me?” he asked next, lips curling.
“You deserve whatever you get.”
“So I cannot touch you without leave, but you are bound by no such constraint?”
“I am here against my will,” she said. “I see this as a way of restoring a semblance of balance.”
“May I defend myself?” The amusement was back.
“Yes,” she said tranquilly.
He steepled his fingers. “So you’ve been trained to strike once, have you? Ah, I’d forgotten the scholarly Yvo. Or rather, your father and his sinister allies, around whom you presumably must have spent your formative years, eh?”
She did not answer.
“Interesting. So the personal risk is mine. It seems fair enough. Very well, I accept your rules.” He paused. When she remained silent, he said, “Does that mean you’ll take food and drink?”
He spoke in a plaintive tone a shade too obvious to be serious, yet she descried the concern below it.
“Yes.”
“I’m relieved.” His court drawl was back. “Would you like anything now?”
Her stomach squeezed, but she decided her point was best made if she steeled herself. “No.”
“Then I’ll show you where you’ll stay.” He smiled. “Until you choose to change that, too.” He rose, and in silence she followed him out.
Of course it was a tower room. She took a good look at access and egress, not caring if he saw her doing it.
When she was inside, he said, “I wish you a good rest.”
She did not respond, for she’d decided that the circumstances obviated politeness. She would not say please or thank you to an abductor. They had a truce, not a relationship.
When he realized she would not speak, he shut the door. She heard a lock engage on the outside.
There was a fireplace—someone had ridden ahead and a clear, warm fire burned—and pleasant if heavy furnishings that evoked masculine tastes. She wondered, as she looked at the bookcases, the fine linens on the bed, if this had been where Cath was locked up by his relations during the early part of the war, before he ran away to fight for the king.
She stepped through the cleaning frame beside the empty wardrobe. The tingle of magic snapped away the grit in hair, skin, teeth, clothing. She took off her gown and laid it aside with care, then climbed into the bed. On the bedside table was a water pitcher and glass. She helped herself, drank deeply, then burrowed into the pillows and dropped into sleep.
• • • •
IV. The Politics of Diplomacy
Tarsa lay in bed, stretching in lazy pleasure.
Ren still had to be missing, she just knew it. She glanced at the window, and laughed. How often had she woken this early? Not often.
Annoyance soured her mood when she thought of the two long, empty days she’d spent. Everything had begun so delightfully when her silly friend Mrentze bustled in and gabbled out breathlessly, “Did you hear? Ren is gone—and so is the Black Duke!”
Tarsa had seen at once how to destroy Ren Desvransa as a threat, but still not harm a hair of her pretty, empty head. Wasn’t that true queenship, to be able to think brilliantly in a moment?
“You don’t mean that Ren eloped with him at last?” Tarsa had asked, yawning behind her hand.
Mrentze’s face! She’d never forget the sight of those pop eyes, the round mouth, her oh-so-well-born nose twitching. “You knew? You knew, and you didn’t say anything?”
“That would show so little finesse,” Tarsa had murmured, finding her position stronger by the moment. She could just hear Mrentze’s voice up and down the halls of court.
“What did you know?” Mrentze looked askance. “If you say that Ren told you her plans, I say you dreamed it.”
Tarsa bit back a hot rejoinder. How dare this mere follower all but call the leader of fashion a liar?
But she had to keep the goal in view. “Tact forbade me say anything last night, when they so obviously wanted privacy, but yes, I saw them go out together, directly from the ball.”
All strictly true.
Mrentze scarcely stayed long enough to be polite, leaving Tarsa laughing as she raced into fevered preparation, so that Lexan, in coming to corroborate what she had witnessed, might find her appropriately employed when he came to seek commiseration. Or even sympathy. She’d give it, because Tarsa always thought of the kingdom first, and not just of her own pleasure—unlike Ren.
She’d whiled away two long days in her rooms, doing artistic things, twice having her maids bring in fresh flowers and throw out the old, while the hired minstrel plunked away in the alcove.
Now she rolled over, looking across her empty bed. How long since anyone had slept beside her in her cotton-silk sheets? An internal image, strong but unwanted, came: Ren and Cath together. Cath’s hands, his long black hair, unbound, drifting across flesh, so soft, the scent of it—did Ren twine her fingers through it?
Revulsion tightened her insides. How foolish, she thought, flinging herself out of bed. How weak! One drunken night, long ago, and while it had been good—very—Cath was not a king.
She dressed with care, for this would be the first time she’d emerged from her rooms. She’d even decided against attending the concert scheduled for the previous night, because she knew that nothing would be discussed but Ren, Ren, Ren.
And Cath, of course. She didn’t want to hear that either.
She sat down to her breakfast just as there came a knock at the outer door. Her chief maid came in and bowed. “His Grace the Duke of Desentis requests a private interview, my lady.”
Najad? Well, he’d certainly know what was going on, and she wouldn’t have to ask anyone who mattered. Meanwhile, he’d be a fair gauge of the atmosphere of court.
“Bid him enter,” Tarsa said.
She had scarcely finished buttering her second little roll when Najad strode in, big, brawny, terribly and tiresomely earnest, dressed in riding clothes.
“Tarsa,” he said, without any vestige of the niceties.
“Najad.” She nodded regally. “I just sat down to breakfast. Would you care to join me?”
