And then the covers lifted on Kyria’s side, and he inhaled the faint, familiar smell of her skin. The bedding shifted beneath him. With one hand she touched him, fingertips gliding over the contours of his muscles. At first, her touch was hesitant, as if she had never caressed a man before, but then the contact gained in sureness as she held him close. His heart thundered in his ears. He was melting and burning all at once. Even as he drew breath to protest, her mouth came down on his, her lips like silk, like fire. He’d never taken aphrosone, but this was how he imagined it would feel, his senses reeling drunkenly.
As if in a dream, thinking to make her stop before he could not, he pushed her away as gently as he could. “Kyria, stop. We can’t do this.”
He could hear her breath, fast and light. “Do you not—not want—”
“Gods, yes!” He had no words for how much he wanted.
She pressed one hand over his heart. “This is the last chance we’ll have. Once we reach Aldaran, you’ll go back to being the powerful lord of the castle. We will never be anything to each other but Lord Aldaran and a penniless, unmarriageable woman, given a roof over her head only through your generosity.”
The bleakness of her words shocked him. “Not charity. Given gladly.”
She placed one finger on his lips. “I’m not finished. You will remember what we were to one another, but only for a time. There will be another woman, a bride, a mother to your children. All the things I can never be.”
“Don’t say that!”
“I hope that you love her—not only for her sake, but for your own. I would not have you endure a loveless marriage.”
Fondness might come with time, good will, and healthy children, but Edric had no illusions about any marriage between two people who were lucky to see one another at all before their wedding day and might have nothing in common beyond submission to their families.
“I understand a great deal more of the world than you give me credit for, caryo,” she said. “What I wish for us is this night only. This memory to keep me warm . . . to keep my heart warm.”
Her eyes were pools of darkness. He felt himself falling into them. All his reasons, all his fears blew away like so many grains of dust.
“And my heart as well,” he whispered as he pulled her to him.
14
As Alayna watched Edric ride away in pursuit of Kyria, she felt as if half her heart went with him. She might be untutored in the ways of the rich and powerful, but she understood that Ruyven had no intention of placing himself at risk on her sister’s behalf. Edric, who had no obligation to their party, was willing—eager, even—to rescue her.
Lord of Light, watch over him and grant him success.
“Damisela.” Dom Ruyven took her by the arm with such firmness that she had no choice but to go with him. “Bless all the gods, you have taken no injury. Yet what a shock to your delicate system—the suddenness of the attack, the shock of being severed from your precious sister. We must not expose you to any further danger.”
Alayna suppressed a shudder at his unctuous manner. Until now, he had treated her with distant politeness, when he had bothered to address himself to her at all, thinking first of his own comfort and safety, then of Kyria’s. The bandit attack had changed that. All of a sudden, Dom Ruyven, who had never spared her more than a passing glance, and never a word as to how she fared, treated her in the most solicitous manner.
She extricated her arm. “Are you sure this is the best way to make contact with the kidnappers? What if they return here but we have gone? How will they know where to send their demands?”
“My dear, you must have faith in the reputation of Scathfell as a power not to be trifled with. Your sister will tell them the name of her promised husband and they will not dare to harm her. These men understand what a valuable hostage they have. Everyone knows who Lord Scathfell is and where his castle lies. I assure you, they will make haste thither, which is why we ourselves must also do so.” He guided her to her horse, adding, “We must not risk your suffering a similar fate. The faster I conduct you to Scathfell Castle, the safer you will be.”
The party divided, with Francisco and his strongest men escorting Dom Ruyven and Alayna. The cook, Timas, remained behind with the wounded, to follow as best they could.
By the end of the day, Alayna’s energy flagged. Although she had thought herself hardened to travel, portions of her lower anatomy had gone numb. Despite her weariness, she refused to complain or request a stop. Every hour of delay meant another hour Kyria remained in captivity. What was her own discomfort compared to that? No, she must not allow herself to think of what Kyria might be suffering.
Surely, she reasoned with herself, they will not harm her, will not— She stumbled over the thought. Lord Scathfell will hunt them down if they injure her in any way. Barbaric they may be, but not incapable of respect for a lady.
All the arguments she summoned paled in comparison with the increasing need to hurry, hurry, hurry!
The thought pulsed through her mind, repeated with every step her horse took. Glancing around, she saw that the entire party had halted. Dom Ruyven, who had been riding in front of her, dismounted heavily, and the other men were swinging down from their horses.
No, she tried to protest, although no sound came from her throat beyond a whimper. We can’t stop now—there’s still daylight left—we must go on!
“Put up the tents! Prepare my bed!” Dom Ruyven’s voice sounded like a crow’s.
“Damisela, if you please.” Francisco stood beside her horse. Grasping the headstall with one hand, he held out the other to help her dismount.
Alayna leaned forward to free her right foot from the stirrup, lost her balance, and ended up sliding over the horse’s back. Francisco caught her before she reached the ground. He wrapped one arm around her, steady as a rock. She felt his breath on her face as he set her down. Nevertheless, she protested, “Must we halt so soon? Can we not travel a little longer?”
“Lady, you are nigh exhausted. You must rest or you will not be able to go on. How will that serve your sister?”
She noticed for the first time that his eyes were hazel, almost green. Her heart pounded with more than weariness.
He led her by the hand, urging her to sit down, “Here, on this rock; it’s not too rough.” Meantime, the men saw to the horses and prepared the camp. He must be just as fatigued as any of them, she thought, and here he was with the responsibility for their comfort—what little there was to be had—and safety for this night. He didn’t have to speak so gently to her. But he had, and she was too tired to sort out its meaning. Kyria would have something teasing and insightful to say. Tough, level-headed Kyria. But Kyria was in the hands of those awful men.
Blessed Cassilda, watch over her. Bring her back to me.
Alayna laid her forehead on her folded arms. Her face felt hot. I don’t know how to live without her.
Alayna roused to a touch on her arm. She was lying on her side on a smooth flat rock, although she had no memory of falling asleep. Captain Francisco knelt beside her. The setting sun lit his eyes.
“Come, my lady. Your place is ready.” He held out a hand to assist her. He’d set aside his gloves at some point and so had she; their bare fingers touched.
I will be all right. All will be well.
He led her to the best-situated of the tents. “You must tend to your own needs, but you will have a measure of privacy. If there is anything I can do to ease your rest, you have but to ask.”
“I have already endured far worse conditions.”
“But then you had your sister to care for you—” He broke off, lowering his eyes. “Your pardon, I did not mean to remind you of today’s calamity.”
“Captain, I am grateful for all you have done. You have been guide, protector and, I hope, friend.” She thought of asking him to use her personal name, if only f
or the pleasure of hearing it on his lips, but decided that would be too bold. Perhaps later . . . it might be a long ride to Scathfell. Yet when she’d said protector, his face had tightened. She regretted the effusiveness of her thanks.
“I bid you good night, damisela. Now I must see to my men and horses.” And with that, he bowed and left her.
Inside the tent, she removed her cloak and sat upright to eat the bowl of meat and nut porridge that one of the men brought. The porridge was as gummy and tasteless as paste, but it warmed her. She managed to finish it all, then placed the bowl outside her tent flap, pulled off her boots, and wrapped herself in her blanket and cloak before falling asleep.
In her dreams, she wandered through a great house, its immense chambers richly furnished, but cold and covered with dust. Cry out as she might, no human voice answered, only the echoing emptiness. Faster and faster she ran, slipping on the bare floors, whirling down one corridor and up the next, searching for she knew not what. Then, in the manner of dreams, she became aware of someone or some thing following her, shadowing her footsteps, always out of sight but drawing ever closer until she could feel its breath on the back of her neck . . . hunting her.
At home, when she’d had childish nightmares, Kyria would wake her, stroking her hair and speaking to her so gently, so sensibly, that the terror would blow away like autumn leaves. Now she must fend for herself and be the lady Francisco treated her as. She might not have Kyria’s outdoor skills, but she was not entirely helpless. One thing always within her power was to hold her tongue and refuse to complain.
The next morning brought the sound of men’s voices and horses moving about, the clatter of cooking utensils, and the smell of jaco. Light, the brightness of a clear dawn, slanted through the edges of the tent door. Alayna thrust her feet into her boots, shook out her riding skirts, and crept outside. She glanced around for a suitably dense cluster of brush. When she returned, she found a bowl of water outside her tent with a scrap of cloth folded around a chip of soap. The water was still warm.
The men were taking turns eating and making ready to travel; Francisco was off supervising packing up camp.
Dom Ruyven smiled as Alayna accepted a bowl of porridge. “Fair morning to you, damisela,” he said. “I trust you rested well.”
“As well as can be expected, thank you.”
“Your sister’s fate weighs heavily upon you, as it does upon us all. Fear not, all will come well, I am sure of it.”
“I do not mean to doubt your word, vai dom, but how can you say that? Kyria is not yet returned to us. For all we know, the bandits will demand a ransom so high that Lord Scathfell cannot pay it.”
“My dear,” Dom Ruyven said, “you have little experience of the great folk of the world. Your sister has made a most advantageous betrothal, and her promised husband is a powerful lord. Once you are safe within the walls of his castle, you will understand the difference.”
He meant, of course, that she was an ignorant country girl from a family so poor they had not two copper coins to rub together. And, she admitted with a rueful sigh, he was right.
Her meal finished, Alayna took her place in line with the others and they set off again. In places, the path was stony, with a rocky wall on one side and on the other, a hillside so steep it was practically a cliff. Once, they crossed what must have been the remains of a landslide. The horses slipped on loose stones, sending little avalanches down below them. By the time they stopped at midday, they were well below the tree line.
Dom Ruyven spread his cloak on a stone for Alayna. He brought her midday meal and tended her with such care that she began to suspect he fancied himself a prospect for her hand. She found the idea revolting—he was old enough to be her father. But as his behavior toward her was otherwise perfectly proper, she decided she had nothing to fear. At the moment. As long as Francisco was nearby.
She called to him, and her heart rose as he turned to her. “Are we very far from Scathfell Castle?”
Francisco stayed where he was, examining one of the horses. “Another four or five days at this rate of travel, by my reckoning.” At a sharp look from Dom Ruyven, he added, “damisela.”
“So long! But we have come out of the worst part of the Hellers, haven’t we?” she asked, pointedly looking around her at the spring-fed foliage.
“Indeed, but we have another pass to traverse. And Scathfell itself is a mountain fortress.”
“Indeed it is,” Dom Ruyven added, wiping the last crumbs of waybread from his lips. “Strong stones breed strong men, it is said, and there are no stronger or braver men than those of Scathfell.”
“If the captain is any example, I am in utter agreement,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on Francisco, who had turned away, inspecting one of the horse’s front hoofs.
“Damisela, I have the greatest respect for the captain’s competence. I’m eminently sensible that it was by his skill and knowledge that any of us escaped being murdered, or worse, by those bandits, not to mention getting us through that terrible storm.” Dom Ruyven lowered his voice. “But he’s no more than a hireling, unlikely to ever rise higher, and a nobleman’s daughter like you ought not to be casting dewy eyes upon him.”
“I haven’t—!”
“No need to protest. You did not realize the impropriety of your conduct or how it might be noticed.”
“I have not behaved improperly,” Alayna cried, glad she was still on formal terms with Captain Francisco. “And nobody has noticed because there is nothing to see.”
“I assure you, I have noticed. I say these words, difficult as they may be to hear, only for your own good.”
“Why should you trouble yourself for my own good? You are not my guardian or my kinsman.”
“Nonetheless, I am responsible for your welfare,” Dom Ruyven answered with a smile she did not for an instant believe, “and your virtue. A hazardous passage, such as the one we have endured, filled with perils of all sorts, can engender certain misplaced feelings of gratitude. Pray, do not grant such sentiments sway over your better judgment. It would be most unfortunate if you later found that certain, shall we say, opportunities, were no longer available to you because of a moment’s unguarded behavior.”
She stared at him, momentarily incapable of speech.
“Yet allowances must be made,” he continued. “You are innocent, unaware of the ways of the world and the capriciousness of its favor. Therefore, it is my duty to caution you against errors, to guide you. But you are a sensitive young woman. I see how heavily your sister’s fate weighs upon you. Your concern does you credit.”
“I—I thank you.” I think. Half the time she thought Dom Ruyven was nothing more than a silly, pampered lordling who thought only of his own comfort. Then he came out with a comment like that, so sympathetic she was left not knowing how to react.
“Do not trouble yourself with matters about which you can do nothing,” he went on. “Lord Scathfell is an honorable man and he very much desires this union with your sister. He will see that everything is set right.”
15
Scathfell Castle lay at the end of a valley, broad where they approached and tapering as the mountains crowded in on one another. From the shoulder of a mountain jutted an immense rocky promontory, surrounded on three sides by cliffs. A fortress sat atop it, the walls as stark and sheer as the cliffs.
“There it is, vai damisela,” exclaimed Dom Ruyven. He was riding at Alayna’s side, for the road now accommodated two or three abreast.
Something in his tone made Alayna feel uneasy. The castle lowering over the valley did not seem an entirely welcoming place. Those walls were made to keep things out. Or to keep them in. She was not sure which prospect disturbed her more.
Meanwhile, there was plenty to see, farm fields and pastures, barns and granaries. A village sprawled around the base of the promontory. Smoke rose from one of the outlying buildings
, perhaps a smithy. Metal ore was a rare commodity, so the facilities to refine and forge it indicated that the Lord of Scathfell was well off, indeed.
A short while later, Dom Ruyven rode out ahead, doubtless wanting to appear in command. Alayna was amused and then relieved when Francisco, who had been riding in the lead position, dropped back beside her. In answer to her questions, he pointed out the various crops being grown, the pens for sheep and cattle, the mill and forge and other points of industry, furnishing everything that folk might need.
“Lord Scathfell must be a very rich man indeed,” she murmured.
“Aye, that he is, for this valley is fertile, but even it cannot support the castle population by itself. Food and other goods, like wool and leather, are collected from vassal farms, which often have little enough to spare. In good years they get by, but when there’s been a poor harvest and a harsh winter, even the castle folk go hungry.”
“Surely that cannot be.” She turned to Francisco in astonishment, and then blushed at her audacity in contradicting him. “I mean, at home in Rockraven we had far, far less. Kyria and I and our sister-in-law, Lady Ellimira, would not have new hair ribbons above once in three years, and come spring, we were all heartily sick of nut-porridge thrice a day, but we always had something to eat.” She refrained from adding that this was in no small part due to Kyria’s traps, for what would Francisco think of his lord’s promised wife doing something so hoydenish?
The skin at outside edges of his eyes crinkled, even if he did not laugh aloud. He wanted to, and that sent her heart into little leaps of delight. “’Tis clear you know a thing or two about managing a thrifty household, an admirable thing in a woman. If it were just Lord Scathfell and his household, and even a passel of courtiers like Dom Ruyven, there would be more than enough to go around. Even those poor families who scrabble out a living on soil that’s little better than gravel would not want. But my lord keeps the castle fortified as if war were upon him, with an army standing ready to muster at his call. Such men don’t come cheap, nor would they tolerate your nut-porridge. They must be paid in coin and fed with meat, and so even this fair valley cannot produce enough.”
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