He grimaced. "I've been told he tried to take his son's soul. I'm surprised you don't know this."
"Criminals leave, they don't come back." At least, not the same. "Most believe they're either killed or imprisoned." It's all her parents had ever said. They were, in a way, right about the latter. They'd been trapped within their own bodies. Owning the same memories, moving the same way, just unable to act as they wished. When it came to why most of them came here, she supposed it was a good thing. "If you can take anyone's soul, my lord, then why haven't you tried to take mine?"
One side of his mouth twitched upwards. "I did wonder when the thought would cross your mind." A hand ran through his hair, painstakingly combing the strands back from his face. "Simply put, a soulless body cannot create or carry life." He held up a finger, stilling her before she could even think to speak. "I require a woman who can conceive my heir, not another servant."
"Then you might want to start looking for another woman." She'd rather death took her than be forced into either service.
He smiled. At least, his lips curved. Sadness haunted their corners. "I hope it does not come to such measures. I've precious little time."
"You're not ill." She eyed him. Several words came to mind. Ill was definitely not one of them.
A chuckle shook his shoulders. "If only it were something so mundane." Wordlessly, he walked down the hall, returning to stand before the sole painting of the woman. "I wonder if you recall my mention of the messenger who brought word of my father's death."
She nodded, her gaze flicking to the portrait, appraising it properly for the first time. Unlike Clara's gaudy attire, the woman's dark gown was trimmed and embroided with what she swore was gold thread. Although the lady lounged upon the throne—the same one in the room below, Clara was certain of it—there seemed to be a subtle majesty about the way she held herself.
Clara bent to peer at the small, brass plaque on the frame. Lenora of the Raven Household. Was this his mother? She supposed he bore a certain resemblance to the woman. In the nose certainly. It was a powerful nose. Fit for any nobleman. A pity it had found itself on the face of a noblewoman instead. And there was the dark hair; glossy, like the wings of her family's namesake.
"There was more in her message than the simple affirmation of my father's death. She knows I didn't need it. She sent a... I suppose you could call it a threat. The man who'd killed my father shall be sent after me. She's quite certain he'll defeat me just as easily."
"But she's your mother." Any defeat, especially one at the hands of this barbarian, could only mean Lucias' death. What would they do with me? Clara cringed as the thought bubbled up. Perhaps they would let her leave. She was, after all, his prisoner. "She brought you into this world."
"That she most certainly did. Although you can hardly say the choice was hers and, technically, she's still considered an enemy of the kingdom. She never stopped fighting." Lucias shrugged, turning his back on the painting. "Whereas I'm my father's son in enough ways for her to justify having me killed off. No doubt she sees it as a service to her kingdom to ensure my death and allow the land—" He took up her hands. "—our land to grow defenceless."
The kingdom. Always did he speak as if his death would cause the earth to shake. Clara leant close. "Do you think me a fool?" One hand slipped free of his grasp. "No mother would order the death of her own son."
The brief huff of a sound seemingly caught between a sigh and a sob hung in the air. "Oh, to have such innocence." Those dark eyes peered into hers. An old sadness lingered in their depths. His lips curved, mirroring the emotion. "It must be nice to have an uncomplicated outlook on these matters." Softly patting her enclosed fingers, he released her other hand. "Keep your illusions if you must. I am aware it's not the norm, but I assure you it is the truth."
She backed away, uncertainty gnawing at her. Perhaps his mother did plan to kill him. And me. The woman would be all too aware of the reason behind Clara's imprisonment. She had to be gone by the time his mother arrived, whenever she did. But how? She'd given her word she would not leave and if she went back on it, then Tommy would lose his soul. "Will your mother not have me killed if I'm found to be pregnant?"
"Naturally, I would send you away before then. Somewhere safe to raise our child in peace."
Away. Far from here, where no one would know who she was, let alone find her. She'd be free to do whatever she wished. Go wherever she wanted. "Then do it. Send me away."
A chuckle curved his lips further and gave a glimpse of a row of perfectly whole teeth. "You would need to conceive first." He leant closer, a hungry glint appearing in his eyes. "And in order for it to happen we would need to..."
Clara took another step back.
"Ah." The sad smile returned. "I didn't think so." He swung around to descend the stairs, his hand on the sword hilt tipping the sheathed blade upwards. "I've no doubt my mother will seek to strike as soon as she is able. There are dozens of men on guard in all the pathways joining our kingdoms and many more between here and the border to warn of this barbarian's passage." Lucias halted at the midway platform. "You've until the moon completes one cycle to choose how you will come to me or, regretfully, I shall have to decide what to do with you."
She watched him go until she stood alone except for the cold eyes of men who were long dead. Madmen. Murderers of a sort. Certainly thieves of the ultimate treasure. Yet they'd cobbled a kingdom from their madness, had made a land that depended on the continuation of this dark magic to protect it.
She couldn't aid in this wickedness. I have to get out of here. And, because it didn't feel right to leave him trapped in this madness, she'd take Tommy with her.
Chapter Nine
The Citadel's halls seemed endless. Whenever she wandered them, there would always be a new corridor she hadn't walked down or another set of rooms she'd not yet explored. All of them uniform in their oppressing air and, once she'd reached the upper levels, devoid of anything but the presence of rats.
This time, her feet had led her into the northern section. Her slippers padded down the carpet, each step deliberate and soft.
Like in the Citadel's main rooms, the dust here had been wiped free. No cobwebs adorned the ceilings and the windows on her left allowed a generous stream of sunlight to pour in. It heated the hall, the warm air inviting her to stay a little longer.
She could see why Lucias had chosen to reside in this region of the Citadel. Fortunately, he would be down in the training grounds at this hour. It seemed he could often be found practicing his swordplay, although from what she'd seen, she couldn't understand how he could possibly improve it.
"...the alterations?"
Clara halted midstep. Lucias? But he wasn't meant to be here. His voice, a mere whisper in the pressing silence, had emanated from somewhere behind her.
She spun. No one else walked the hall.
"They have been done as per your request, my lord."
Gettie. She frowned at the last door she'd passed by. Creeping up, she peered through the crack, her eye fast watering as she struggled to decipher what she saw. There was a blob that might be a table. Atop which sat a lit candle. Behind it, the wall.
She prodded the door. It swung inwards a little. Enough to ease her eyes, but not showing more of the room. Perhaps this was the wrong door.
"Master," Sirius said, his voice alarmingly loud. "If I may speak bluntly." There was a pause. Lucias must have given his assent for the man continued, "I do not see why you're going to such extreme lengths just to get the girl pregnant. I certainly wouldn't be pandering to her."
"I'm sure if I desire the advice of a murdering rapist on how to handle young women, you shall be the first man I seek out."
A shadow moved against the wall. Now her eyes knew what to look for, she could spot the decidedly human shape. Was it just the three of them within the room?
"My apologies, master," Sirius said. "I merely suggested you'd get a better result using your father's method and
seeking redemption aft—"
"Because it worked so well for him. Oh, wait. He's dead. By my mother's order, if not by her hands."
"And yet, my lord, here you are," Gettie said. "If you continue at this rate, you cannot be certain the girl has conceived and send her away before your father's murderer arrives."
The creak of wood filled the silence. Did he consider her words in earnest? Clara pressed her face closer. Would speak his answer? What would it be?
The old man grunted. "Master, forgive my impertinence, but you should've heeded my recommendation and chosen the fair-haired one. Even the obnoxious brat would've been in your bed many times by now."
"I don't desire some simpering cow, Sirius. Nor do I feel inclined to steal old Farris' future wife. He's welcome to her. They should be well matched."
Someone near the door shuffled their feet.
Clara held her breath. Creeping back from the door, she waited. The noise stopped. She exhaled, softly lest they heard her.
"There are plenty of women who would accept payment for carrying my lord's child." Gettie again. The woman used softer words, but no less pleading for her lord to change his mind.
What a thing to be suggesting. Just the thing I need to be free. Although she couldn't imagine what sort of woman would accept payment in lieu of their child. Would they have mother and babe separated at birth? Would they do it to me?
She shook her head, scattering the idle thought. What did she care? She was not planning on letting him get close enough for such questions to matter.
"No! I've told you I do not want my son to come in such a way."
"My lord." The woman paused, the intake of her breath audible. "I do believe what you are wanting you simply cannot hope to possess."
A chill silence seeped into the air. Clara cringed. Unable to see them, she could still picture the two servants doing the same.
"Gettie, you forget your place. I am your master, you will show me due respect and you will hold your tongue."
"I apologise most profusely, my lord, but—"
"I said silence!"
Something hit the door, which snapped shut and pinched the tip of Clara's nose. She stepped back, biting her lip to keep from crying out and rubbed furiously the offended organ.
The wood groaned, the door pushed against its frame until, with the hinges screeching, it won free of its confines, flying across the hallway to shatter against the opposite wall.
Gettie sat in the remains, blood dripping from a cut in her temple. She lifted her head, her face frozen not in fear, but a calm mockery that spoke of acceptance of whatever would follow. Like the men Lucias sparred with, the old woman couldn't help but obey her lord.
"I—" Lucias strode over to the stricken woman. Gripping her wiry arms, he helped the old servant to her feet. "Gettie, I'm sorry, I didn't me—" He stiffened. His gaze lifted to stare at Clara, recognition slowly moulding his face into one of despair. With a snarl that rattled the candles in their holders, he stormed off down the hall.
Clara watched him leave, waiting until he was well out of sight before turning her attention back to the injured woman.
Giving the cut a closer inspection, it seemed worse than she'd first thought. Quite deep in fact, although not as severe as the cut the man had suffered whilst sparring with Lucias. Of course. The training grounds could mend a wound like this in seconds. "Come on, we'll get you down to the training grounds and—"
"No, mistress, that'll be where he's headed."
She frowned. Surely even he wouldn't deny the woman a brief moment to take advantage of the healing magic. Then again, she hadn't thought him capable of striking someone as old as Gettie either. He hadn't meant to. Even so, perhaps it would be best not to aggravate matters and give him some time to calm down. "I'll need some thread."
"That won't be necessary, my lady."
"Yes, it will be." Clara grasped the woman's arm, firmly guiding her down the hall. "Now tell me where I can find some thread."
The woman peered up at her, those blue eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to dig out an answer. Then Gettie's shoulders slumped, her manner suddenly as old and as frail as she first appeared. "My quarters are not far." She waved a hand at the hallway stretched out before them. "This way."
Clara guided the woman to her rooms, leaving the airy halls and padding on through the darker corridors, lit by the occasional torch. Windows appeared once again to grace the wall as they rounded the last corner. A few had been opened to let the warm breeze in and a hollow thwacking noise drifted on the wind.
Lured by the sound, Clara peered through the next window as they walked by. The training grounds took up much of the view below. A haze, part heat and part dust, rose from the baked earth. Lucias stood in the middle of the sundrenched ground.
Men encircled him. Silent. Blades at the ready. Clara halted, grasping the window ledge.
The men lunged.
Her heart thudding, she watched Lucias parry one man's attack. Then, faking a thrust at a second man, he booted a third in the gut. So fluid. Graceful. It put her in mind of a sleek tomcat. She couldn't bring herself to look away.
"In here, mistress."
Tearing her gaze from the fighting men, she followed the woman into the room. There were no windows here. Candle ends, giving off the only light to be had, burned in shallow bowls atop an old table. Beside them sat a chair. A basket, full of various odds and ends, nestled in the threadbare cushions.
Gettie rummaged through the basket, fast producing both needle and thread. Although the wound must at least sting, she calmly held the needle in the low flame of a candle and motioned Clara towards a footstool hidden in the shadow of the table.
Clara dragged it from the darkness, surprised such a small piece of furniture could have so much weight. Placing the stool before the woman, she waited for Gettie to slowly lower herself and perch on the edge of the stool.
With threaded needle in hand, Clara began the task of sewing up the cut marring the wrinkled forehead. A thin film had congealed over the wound. It bled anew as the needle pricked the surface. Wincing, she dug further into the woman's scalp, slowly drawing the gap closed.
Gettie endured the shaky prodding in silence. Clara frowned as she fumbled with the last few stitches and tied the end. Had the roles been reversed, she'd have either passed out or would still be screaming. The woman hadn't seemed at all bothered by the wound either. Was this the soullessness at work? Surely they must feel something, for the man in the training grounds had cried out after being struck.
Carefully placing the needle on the table, she peered at Gettie in much the same fashion as the woman had done to her. "Will you be fine like this? I'm sure I can make a bandage." She eyed the bits and pieces of fabric in the basket. A few strips seemed as if they may possess some length to be of use.
"I will be well enough. Once he's had time to wind down, I shall draw upon the grounds' healing power."
Wind down? The way she spoke... This couldn't have been the first time he'd reacted so strongly. "Is he always so..."
"Odd?" The woman smiled. It was a familiar smile. One that brought to mind little children and their grannies. "It's the souls, mistress."
Clara paused in picking up the needle. "The souls?" So they did do something to him. She knew a man couldn't rip the essence of another from their body without suffering some sort of backlash.
"He tries so hard to keep it all inside, mistress. It's why he spends so much time in the training grounds." She shook her head, suddenly wincing and gingerly fingering the wound. "Quite foolish, if you ask me. The truth of it is, in the end, they all go a bit wonky in the old brainpan."
Clara's stomach did a little flip. Stripping the needle of the spare thread, she jabbed the sharp tip into a pin-encrusted cushion. "You don't say." Mad? All of them. She thought back to the portrait of Kerwin, the kingdom's first Great Lord. He'd tried to steal his son's soul. But his son had fought back. Killed him. He'd been strong enough to resis
t.
What would Lucias be capable of when the madness set in? I barely know what he's capable of now. She only had to look at the woman's temple to see what could happen to a person when he didn't mean to hurt them. Imagine if he had. She shuddered. And if she continued to refuse to give him the heir he so desperately wanted? Would he come to consider her as useful to him as a blind falcon?
"It's a shame things have to be this way," Gettie continued, seemingly oblivious to Clara's silence. "I used to know him as a wee boy. Such a solemn lad back then. Hard to get out much in the way of any sort of emotion from him, truth be told. I think he'd an inkling of what his fate would be years before they told him."
Clara frowned. How old is he? She didn't know. Early thirties would be her guess. Certainly no more than mid-thirties, although he might sit on the cusp of forty. He never said much about himself beyond the reason behind her presence. Even then, she'd a feeling he was leaving something out. She'd thought it the dark business of stealing souls, but the sensation hadn't vanished.
There was something else he didn't want her to know. Too many secrets he kept from her. "Gettie, how long have you been here?"
"Oh it's been years, mistress. Wouldn't have been much older than you when they brought me in."
An iciness settled in her gut, slowly drilling its way through to her spine. The woman had been a prisoner for decades. Gettie would've started walking these halls in the time of Lucias' grandfather. She'd practically be old enough to be his grandmother. "I thought they only took in criminals." She eyed Gettie as the old woman nodded. Hard to think of her committing any sort of crime. "What did you do?"
"Ah, yes. You are young. Don't suppose you've heard of the old tale about the Gutter of Neardim, hmm?"
Gutter? Gutting Gettie. The story had circulated around the older children when she'd been quite young. It had vanished from the streets ages ago. This woman was that Gettie?
Clara shook her head. It couldn't be right. Gutting Gettie had been a cold-hearted murderer. A monster who preyed on innocent men, ripping them open. This woman didn't look like a killer.
Dark One's Mistress (Dark One Trilogy Book 1) Page 8