Slumber

by Cassandra Dean

  “A year.” He hated that his voice sounded defensive, but then he felt defensive. He was too young. Too green. Too fastidious. He’d heard it all, and now he would hear it from her.

  “A year.” She stared into the flames. “And what have you learned?”

  “Princess?” Damn his eyes, he could hear the sneer. He should be able to hide better.

  “You forget yourself. I am Thalia only.” He had to hand it to her. A woman could not sound more regal than she did in that moment.

  Running a hand over her braided hair, she twined the tuft at the end about her finger. “My first year from Queenstor, I learned hundreds of things,” she said. “Thousands. I would think becoming the tailor would be similar. So, Tailor.” Her dark, dark eyes captured his. “What have you learned?”

  By the Mother, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to haul her into his arms, feel her tremble against him as he learned her with his tongue. He wanted her passion and her regard, and he wanted both focused on him for as long as it took them both to burn.

  Clearing his throat, he forced such thoughts aside. “What have I learned? I have learned there are many who seek to discredit you.”

  “That is true of everyone.” Gaze still locked upon him, she tilted her head. “What else?”

  “I have learned the king does not think much of me.”

  “Does he not?”

  “Of course not. Why else would I be here?”

  She didn’t respond, instead regarding him with that same, steady stare. Unnerved by her contemplation, he changed tack. “I have learned there are many fine ladies who are desperate to be clothed by the tailor. And unclothed, if truth be told.”

  Her expression did not change. “It has always been so. The tales Clothilde told would shock even the most degenerate of libertines.”

  He choked back the immediate question that rose to his mind. He did not need to know the previous tailor’s proclivities.

  Still watching him, the princess rubbed her temple. “I hope, in the future, you will feel you can tell me more.”

  “What more is there?”

  “I do not know. I only know that I will ask this question again.”

  “And mayhap I’ll have a different answer,” he said flippantly.

  Her gaze did not change. “I hope you do.”

  He couldn’t look away. Discomfort sat heavy upon him, and he wanted to look away from such a direct gaze, wanted to prevaricate and evade.

  Turning again to the fire, she said, “How is my father?”

  He almost didn’t hear her question over the roar in his head. She was again picking at the meager grass before her, shredding it to fine pieces, and then to finer still. “The king is well.”

  “His heart has not troubled him?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “I was not even aware he had such concerns.”

  She said nothing, her gaze locked upon the flames.

  Silence again between them. The fire crackled and popped, and, in the distance, an owl called a lonely sobriquet. The trees rustled gently around them, and Sebastian wondered if he should remain.

  Just as he was gathering himself to rise, she spoke again. “You remind me of home.”

  He raised a brow. “Do I, Princess?”

  Her lips twisted a little at his slip. “Yes. With your finery and your delicacy. I remember having both.”

  He wondered if he should be offended. She offered no clue, a wistful kind of smile now tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  Catching his expression, she ducked her head. “Your pardon, Tailor. I did not mean to turn melancholy.”

  Impulse bade him be rash. “Sebastian.”

  Turning her gaze to his, she frowned. “Pardon?”

  “My name. It’s Sebastian. If I am to call you Thalia, you must call me in kind. After all, my title is just as damning as yours.”

  “True. So you are Sebastian.”

  “Yes.”

  She held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sebastian.”

  Cautiously, he closed his hand over hers. Her fingers were small in his and covered in minute burns and scars, but her skin was soft, so soft. His fingers itched to discover more, to sweep his thumb over the pulse at her wrist, to turn her hand over….

  With a strained smile, he dropped her hand and pretended he wasn’t running from her as he made his way to the safety of the other side of the fire.

  Chapter Four

  Red ran in the gutters of Dyerston, winding through cobblestones to find other colors in pools of blue and yellow and green. The red streaked across the pools like a kind of crimson lightning, only to bleed into a dull brown.

  Thalia studied the spread of color as their horses picked through the streets. Though skittish, the horses braved the throng while those who inhabited Dyerston trudged through the pools, spreading a kaleidoscope of color onto the flagstones and the dirt. Stahg led the way, his silent, unsmiling visage making the crowd part while Bharia rode at the rear, her scowl warning any who thought to approach away. The tailor—Sebastian—rode beside her, his expression uncharacteristically grim.

  She’d not been to Dyerston before, though she should have. All the cloth in Dormiraa passed through Dyerston, to be colored and treated and made into the thing envied throughout the world. She could have learned much from an extended stay, working the dye houses. The risks outweighed the benefits, however, for Dyerston was known for more than its cloth.

  Criminals ruled the back alleys and slums, and the worst of the slums, the Sceltish Quarter, was where the Cormare transacted, the notorious crime guild fleecing any unwary enough to wander into their territory. The cloth lauded around the world appeared more often than not on the black market, and though her father wished it otherwise, he could not stop it. He had told her he counted his losses and contented himself with the knowledge that most villains called Dyerston home, rather than spread throughout the land, and that sale on the black markets increased the myth of Dormiraa cloth, increased its value and its appeal. Maybe, when she was on the throne, she would devise a solution, but the crime guilds had survived the ascension of any royal and the foolish plans they undertook when their passion and idealism was new.

  In spite of all, Dyerston was an extraordinarily beautiful city. Their approach took them from the high places surrounding the city down into its bowels. Set upon a bay curved like a waning moon, the city was dominated by Mount Tirell, the great volcano blocking out the sky. It was said the people of Dyerston were mad to live in the shadow of such a violent mount. After all, the volcano had last erupted less than forty years previous, and yet the people of Dyerston crept ever farther up its slopes, seeking the rich soil for their crops and the rocks and minerals for their dyes.

  Before her, Stahg twisted on his horse to pin her with his steady gaze. “Stay close, Thalia.”

  With a nod, she sank deeper into the cowl of her cloak. Though she could not see them, the villains of Dyerston must be in force for Stahg to issue such a warning. The Cormare would be glad to abscond with her, to make ransom to her father and bring themselves a king’s fortune. Once, she’d been taken. She had no desire to repeat the experience.

  In matters of security, she never questioned her guards. In the first few months of her Trip, when she was still foolish, she’d questioned them loudly and petulantly, and often she’d defied their warnings, smugly certain of her safety. This, of course, had led to her being taken. Three days she’d been captive, and she’d never experienced such fear. Previously, she’d had a vague sort of knowledge that some would seek her harm, but it had always seemed the worries of an over-cautious guard. Those three days had impressed upon her how close harm was, always.

  She did not question her guardians again.

  The red mingled with blue and yellow and green to make a sickly kind of brown. Thalia watched it congeal into pools, punctuating their progress along the street. A week they’d been traveling, an uneventful week that saw them arrive at Dyerston with little fanfare. Fro
m the dyer’s city, they would go to Indigo Bay to purchase passage on a ship to Queenstor, and, gods willing, they would arrive at Portstor in a fortnight. For the last two days, Stahg had insisted in his non-insisting way they take advantage of the shelter of the city for a night while Bharia argued they put themselves in harm’s way by being around so many people. Thalia, used to their arguing, tuned it out.

  The tailor— She grimaced. Damnation, Sebastian. She had to remember to use his name, just as he used hers. Sebastian watched their bickering and seemed a time or two as if he would intervene. Thalia had hoped he would. It would have been vastly entertaining to see the man flustered and quelled when two guardians turned their ire on him rather than each other. Although, in truth, she didn’t believe he would be flustered.

  They’d not spoken again as they had that first night, instead keeping to separate sides of the campfire, but she watched him. Time and again, she found her gaze lingering upon him, learning the shape of his hands, the color of his skin. He was a mass of contradictions, though he hid them well. Others might not see the faint crease of annoyance on his brow, always quickly replaced with a smile or a snarky comment. Others might dismiss the power of his form as padding, might mistake the broad shoulders as owing much to horsehair and the strong thighs to an expert cut of cloth. His garments merely highlighted what was already there, and his strength spoke a story wholly different from the one his tongue did.

  She amused herself by guessing at his hair color, or the true shape of his shoulders. If his eyes were really that limpid and dark or if he wore those cunning lenses she’d seen many don in court. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced he was more than he seemed, and she found herself wondering impossible things, like whether his natural hair—chestnut brown, she decided—would feel soft under her fingers, or if his full bottom lip reddened when brushed with a kiss.

  “Thalia.” Stahg’s voice broke her thoughts, his calm visage as level as always.

  A blush heated her skin. Nothing could embarrass her more than being caught wool-gathering by Stahg, especially when her thoughts were less than pure and especially when she should be vigilant. “Yes?”

  He didn’t comment on her inattention, and that made her feel worse. “We should find shelter.”

  Heat still a burn on her skin, she cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Do you know somewhere?”

  “Mayhap, but it is a ways. Bharia may know of somewhere closer.”

  “Please ask her.”

  Stahg nodded and signaled. Within moments, Bharia appeared at his side, and the two brought their heads together.

  “The nearest decent inn is a half hour away.”

  She jumped. Turning, she found the tailor—Sebastian, Thalia—regarding her. He had spoken the words. People parted around them, cursing them at how they held the flow of traffic. Offering an apologetic smile to the angriest of them, she said. “And you know this how?”

  Expression closed, he looked somewhere left of her ear. “I just do.”

  Curious. He was so curious. How would the tailor know of a semi-decent inn in the bad part of Dyerston?

  He shifted fitfully. “We spend too much time here. Any longer, and we’ll find our pockets lighter and our throats slit. A true stainer’s welcome.” Gathering the reins, he nudged his horse’s sides to urge the mount forward.

  Brows drawn, she watched him push through the crowd. There was true vehemence in his words, in the common slur he’d used for the residents of Dyerston, but before she could ponder further, Stahg rode over. “Bharia knows of a place not far from here, but we will have to pass through the Sceltish quarter. You will stay close, Thalia.”

  “Yes, of course. But the Tailor knows of an inn— ”

  “The Tailor may know of an inn, but we will make for Bharia’s.” He pulled his horse to a stop. Surprised, she followed suit. “Thalia, you will not stay almost close, or decide that close includes wandering off to inspect clockwork in a shop window. You will position yourself between Bharia and myself, and you will remain close.”

  Heat burned her cheeks. “Stahg, I know. We have done this many times.”

  His steady gaze didn’t waver. “Not in Dyerston, and not when your Confirmation is upon us. All know you will soon return to Queenstor, and there are those who would seek to take advantage. We have been fortunate these last years in that none have looked too closely or cared over much of our presence, but that has all changed.”

  She swallowed. She knew the danger had increased. “Stahg, I will stay close.”

  For the longest moment, the guardian studied her. Somehow, she kept her gaze locked with his, even though when he regarded her in such a way, it disturbed her to no end. Then he nodded and, flanked by her guardians, they turned into the Sceltish Quarter.

  The streets were different here, rougher somehow, and filled with a different class of people. There were fewer children, fewer servants, and those who did walk the streets seemed to have a thousand eyes, with each one turned toward them. The tail—Sebastian—fell back to ride beside her, a grim expression on his face. They did not speak.

  Silence fell, oppressive and ominous, punctuated with strange catcalls and distant laughter. Then, from nowhere, a man stepped into their path.

  Bharia pulled her horse to a stop, and the others did the same, standing in an uneasy half-circle circle. Thalia sank deeper into her cowl and tried to ignore the unsettled feeling in her stomach.

  The man grinned, showing a set of teeth made of silver. “Hello, my pretties. You’ll be needing a guide, yes?”

  Beside her, the tailor stiffened. He looked beyond the man, and then to the side, his expression growing grim at whatever he saw. His hands tightened on the reins. For the life of her, Thalia could not see what he did, but the tension in how he held himself spoke of great and terrible things. The unsettled feeling in her stomach turned to a roil.

  “Move aside,” Bharia said, her tone broking no disobedience.

  The man tutted. “Is that any way to talk to a man offering help?”

  “You will move aside, and you will move aside now.”

  Ignoring her, he continued. “I asked myself, why would two toffs be riding horses through our quarter with two of the king’s guard? And why would one of the toffs look like the returning princess?” He glanced at Thalia, and dread slithered through her, her hands tightening until they were white upon the reins. “You’ve grown, Princess, and wear different clothes, but your loyal subject would know you anywhere. And as your loyal subject, I’ll make sure you’re safe until your father sees fit to pay for your return.” A grin stretched his lips tight, silver flashing.

  A chill went through Thalia. No. Not again.

  Bharia rested her hands on the hilts of her daggers. “Move aside. I will not warn you again.”

  Annoyed, the man glared at her then flicked of his fingers. “Now, now, pretty. You shouldn’t speak to a man like that. Especially when he has friends.”

  Villains exploded from the shadows, armed with knives and chains. Bharia yelled, her horse rearing as men reached for the reins. Falling to the ground, the guardian rolled and gained her feet, somehow unsheathing her knives.

  “Thalia!” Stahg reached to her, to drag her from her horse to his, but his mount screamed and then collapsed, trapping him beneath it.

  She watched, and she could not move. She could not think. Around her, chaos reigned, Bharia yelling as she fought with her daggers. Stahg struggling to escape from the weight of his horse. She knew she should flee. She knew she should, but she could not move.

  Hands tore her from her horse. She screamed, a great, terrible scream that could not have come from her throat, could not have come from any throat. A hundred men rushed her, a thousand, and she could not move, she could not—

  Another hand reached for her, one pale and beringed. She pushed it away, but it grabbed her arm, tugging her to her feet, and she stumbled behind, all a whirl around her. The hand pulled her close to a body, an
d the tailor—Sebastian—appeared. He yelled at her, telling her to hurry—Run, Princess, run as fast as you can—and she did, racing behind him, his hand tight on her arm and her heart in her throat. Her chest burned, and her legs wouldn’t flow smooth, would find every cobble and edge to stumble on, but he tugged her up, urged her on, urged her hurry.

  It came as a shock when he suddenly halted, and she slammed into him, the world tipping crazily before her back hit a wall, the vast expanse of his shoulders her world. Pain blazed through her, and she moaned, a weak, pitiful sound. The harsh rasp of his breath broke into her head, and reality crashed over her. They had been attacked. They had run. The tailor had protected her.

  Blond hair curled around a bedraggled collar. She stared at the strands. The tailor had lost his wig. His hair was blond.

  Her hands started to shake. By the Mother, the Warrior, and the Maid between, where were Bharia and Stahg?

  “Princess.”

  She couldn’t be without them. She had promised her father.

  “Princess.”

  They had protected her for years and years and years, and she couldn’t be without them. That other time she’d been taken, they’d found her. What would happen if—

  “Thalia!”

  A hand grasped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. Sebastian’s eyes were hidden in shadow. “Thalia, we cannot remain here. We have to go. Do you understand?”

  He seemed so far away. How could he be so far away when he was right in front of her?

  He shook her. “Thalia! Do you understand?”

  He was here. He was right here in front of her. He was close.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” His hands cupped her cheeks. Blue-gray eyes bored into hers. “I know a place. It’s not far. You can make it there.”

  She just stared at him. Blue-gray. His eyes were blue-gray.

  “Thalia, you can make it.” His hands slid down over her shoulders, her arms. “I will keep you safe.”

  He took her hand and, as he led her away, she, strangely, believed him.