Dark One's Bride

by Aldrea Alien

  “Neither that nor the Dark Lord will save you, little girl,” the man said. Although his voice was gruff and thick with anger, the accent was unmistakably that of their northern enemy’s. Not that Clara needed such proof; few would choose to send an assassin, fewer still would target her over the Great Lord. “Put down the candlestick and that ridiculous needle, I’ll promise to make it quick.”

  “Touch me and I promise it’ll be painful beyond measure for you once Lucias gets here.” The man would either die like the man who’d attempted to rape her or he’d become another soldier in the Great Lord’s soulless army.

  And judging by the look on his face, the man knew just as well as she. That would make him desperate; a boon and a curse at the same time.

  She laid a hand on the bed, prepared to vault over it if necessary. Keeping something sturdy between them seemed like the best plan. Like the bath. Her gaze flicked to the other door in the room. There was no lock and the door swung inwards, no chance of shutting him in there. But if she could get inside without him following, maybe she could hold the door for however long it took Lucias to arrive.

  She took a step away from the bed. It couldn’t be more than half the room’s width between her and the door, but the distance seemed to stretch to the length of a ballroom. If she left the dubious safety of where she stood, then there’d be no chance to go back.

  Hefting the candlestick, she took another step. Maybe if she lobbed the thing at him. Her throwing wasn’t the most accurate, but it could certainly give the man pause long enough to see her across the room.

  Another few half-steps got her even closer.

  On the other hand, he might hurl the candlestick back. Getting hit in the back of the head was not a risk she wanted to take. Keeping hold of the candlestick and using it as a bludgeon seemed like a better stance.

  The man’s gaze slid to the bathroom door. Realisation flickered in his eyes and his brows lowered. He strode closer, no longer creeping but with the dagger still held low. Another few more strides and he’d be near enough to strike.

  Clara feinted, lurching back the way she’d come with the candlestick held before her like a shield and her dagger at the ready. The man stepped back, then to the side in preparation to meet her mad dash to the exit.

  She whirled and ran for the bathroom door.

  “No, you don’t.” He grasped her sleeve, jerking her around.

  She turned on a single heel. Her arm went slack, the candlestick’s weight following the momentum of an upward arc. The bottom edge struck the man’s face, breaking skin. At first, she thought she’d managed to hit his eye. But as he brought the back of a hand up to his face, she saw it wasn’t so.

  Slicing at the air with her dagger to keep him off her, Clara swung again.

  His hand clamped around the candlestick. Baleful, dark eyes glared at her, one held near closed to ward off the blood dripping from his brow. “You little brat.” Gone was the gruffness, replace by a deathly iciness.

  It took all her defiance to spit in his face. She lashed out with a leg, her heel connecting with a knee.

  Snarling, he flung her away from him, sweeping her legs out from under her as she stumbled.

  Her back hit the floor, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her right hip objected to the landing, having not fully recovered from yesterday’s fall. Both candlestick and dagger tumbled out of her grasp.

  Gasping, she rolled for the dagger.

  His rough fingers closed around her throat. Paralysing pressure stole the breath she’d only just regained. Her arm flailed wildly, spinning the dagger out of reach. She grabbed for the hand choking her, desperately trying to pry back so much as a finger.

  Clara thrashed, seeking to throw off the assassin. Her flails had her empty fist connecting with the side of the man’s head. His grip slipped enough for her to swallow another gasp.

  “Stay down,” he growled, kneeling over her. The man latched onto her neck tighter than before, pushing her against the floor, his dark eyes bulging with the effort.

  She raked at them, streaking his face with long red scratches.

  The pressure on her neck increased. Her vision blurred. Flickering specks of white and black seemed to dance before her eyes. Her heart hammered furiously, a stark contrast to the absence of pounding in her temples.

  Blackness slunk its way across the edges of her sight, tunnelling her vision. Hold on. Her whole body convulsed, ridding her limbs of their strength. Even that didn’t shake the man’s grip free. The steady thump of her heels on the floor seemed to reverberate dully through the room.

  A creaking groan, similar to that of protesting wood, filled her ears.

  Splinters showered the room. The man sat up, his arms raised to protect his face.

  Air flooded her lungs. She gasped, fresh tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

  The man was flung up against the ceiling before she could think beyond finding the strength to breathe, then slammed into the wall to fall to the floor like a rag doll.

  “Clara!” Lucias dropped to his knees beside her. “No,” he whispered. “Please, no.” Terror paled his face. “Don’t say I’m too late. I couldn’t… I can’t… don’t be dead.”

  Pain continued to blossom in her chest. She breathed deep, happily welcoming the sensation, and clasped his hand.

  “Thank the Goddess,” he whispered, lifting her fingers to his lips. “Can you breathe all right? Talk? Any extreme pain?” Lucias helped her sit up as he rattled off the questions, then whirled on Tommy before she could answer a single one. “Fetch Lord Farris for me. And keep the children out of here.”

  The boy all but fell over himself to scamper back through the doorway.

  Clara gingerly felt along her throat.

  “Permit me to see what damage he has caused,” Lucias said, gently assisting her to the end of the bed.

  With her elevated, her head spun something fierce. She laid a hand on Lucias’ shoulder as he knelt before her to examine her neck.

  He rocked back onto his heels. “Lots of swelling,” he murmured, grimacing. “You can probably feel that. Definitely going to be some bruising. I wouldn’t advise talking for a bit, either.” He glanced at the remains on the door. “I suppose we should see you dressed in something a little less improper before anyone else arrives. I don’t think you want to be sitting there in your undergarments.”

  Clara looked down at her attire. Until he had mentioned it, she hadn’t realised her dressing gown hung off her shoulders. The tie must’ve loosened during her struggle or when the man had grabbed her. She tugged everything back into place, holding the edges snugly at her breast. Yes, she’d been clothed in less than this in Lucias’ presence twice before. Except…

  Her gaze drifted to her attacker. Whilst he certainly wasn’t in the position to harm her any further, the idea of removing any layer of clothing—even if it were to don a more appropriate one—with him in the room was not a thought she’d considered entertaining.

  Lucias looked over his shoulder and the man’s limp form slid across the floor, facing away from them. “I wouldn’t worry about him. Here.” He stood, offering his hand. “How about you show me which attire is the easiest for you to get on in a hurry and I’ll assist you in donning it. No corsets,” he added.

  Nodding, she let him lead her behind the dressing screen and had her settle on the stool. Via a series of grunts and much pointing, she was finally able to slip into a dress that was essentially an overlong tunic. It was one she typically wore whilst wandering the Citadel on lazy days rather than be seen in public, but it was better than standing around in her undergarments. And it was quite loose in the neck, leaving her bruised skin untouched by fabric.

  Lucias aided her to the end of the bed where she sat whilst he turned to examine her would-be assassin. “He’s still alive.” He slapped the man’s face, lifting an eyelid when the man didn’t move. “If I can wake him, we might be able to get a few answers.”

  Clara frown
ed. Coming out of an attack like that alive was one thing. Being capable of understanding anything after Lucias had tossed the man about the room like hay in a storm was a whole other matter.

  “I know,” Lucias said, pulling a face. “I should’ve been more careful. I panicked. Can you blame me? Would you have been cautious in my place?”

  She shook her head. If by some peculiar chance she’d seen Lucias in the same distress, she would’ve run the assassin through.

  “Although I would say it’s safe to assume this one doesn’t require a trial before sentencing.” That was a new measure he had begun to enforce, starting with Everdark. Most of the people sent to him for punishment were unmistakably guilty of their crimes, but rather than rely on them being on the iron wagon as proof of their guilt like the Great Lords before him, he required documents.

  The man groaned, his head rocking to one side, but otherwise remained unresponsive.

  Lucias opted to drag the man into the middle of the floor and leave him spread out upon the rug before the dressing table. “Hopefully, he’ll regain consciousness before Farris arrives.” His brows lowered and specks of silvery-blue light darted across his eyes. “I shall have a few choice words for our host, too.”

  If she thought it’d do any good, Clara would’ve considered a further tongue-lashing from herself. But the idea of speaking more than a few words felt nigh impossible at the moment. At least the world had stopped spinning some time during her dressing.

  Her head was feeling a fair bit better and her would-be assassin had indeed woken enough to understand the gravity of his circumstance by the time Farris and Thad arrived at what remained of her door. The pair faltered at the entrance, shooting each other worried looks, before venturing inside with their hands on their sword hilts.

  “What happened?” Thad enquired, his gaze taking in the room.

  Farris’ barely took in the area, glancing only at the man in passing before turning to Clara. “My lady, are you unharmed?”

  “No,” Lucias replied to save her from doing so. “Fortunately, she will recover. I thought you said this castle would be safe for the duration of our stay?” The specks of silvery-blue light in his eyes had faded during their wait. They now flared with full force.

  Farris blinked. “It is. I’ve doubled patrols and tripled the guards on all the entrances.”

  “Then explain how this—” He dealt a swift kick to her would-be assassin, sending the man rolling across the rug. “—festering pustule of a creature managed to get close enough to risk her life.”

  Farris scratched his cheek. He stared at the man, at the room, the windows, the doorways. His grey brows knitted together, further wrinkling his face. “I can’t rightly say how, but you can be assured that I’ll find out before the day’s end.”

  “No need.” The light all but filled Lucias’ eyes now. Only the whites were left, and they were fast ceding to the unearthly glow. “I will have the answer from him now.”

  “Please, no.” The man scrambled to his knees. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “Yes,” the word left Lucias’ lips in a low hiss. “You will.” His voice took on that all too familiar tone. No matter how many times she heard it, that guttural sound never failed to lift the hair on her body.

  But he had always been in the Citadel dungeon when taking souls. She had no idea that he could do so whilst outside the old fortress’ grounds.

  Clara slid off the bed and took a few wobbling steps off to the side. On the edge of her vision, she spied Farris and Thad hurriedly looking away. Had neither seen Lucias do what all Great Lords had done?

  Lucias laid his hand upon the gibbering man’s head. Words poured from his lips. Words she didn’t understand. Words she didn’t want to understand. And yet, she knew they were different to the ones he usually spoke.

  The air grew hot. Charged. A ring of glowing, seething glyphs surrounded the pair. The symbols circled slowly before embedding themselves into the stone floor where they flared in silvery-blue bursts.

  Clara backed further away, taking pains to keep her slippered feet from touching the lines. He’d always been very explicit about that whenever she was there to witness punishments. She shielded her face with a hand. The light blazed around them in a ghostly flame arcing between the pair.

  And still, Lucias continued on in that strange tongue.

  At last, the light died and he stood over the man, a ball of light resting in his hand. Lucias stared at it. He seemed to be, for a moment, considering what he had just done. Then he flicked his hand and the ball vanished to wherever the stolen souls went.

  “Stand,” he commanded of her would-be assassin.

  The man scrambled to his feet, his back straight and his eyes carrying the same dullness that every other one of the Great Lord’s men bore. This was his life now. Unless Lucias died without an heir to take on the Great Lord’s curse, this man’s soul was lost to him forever.

  Had he not attempted to strangle her only moments ago, she would’ve felt a smidgen of pity for such a fate.

  “Who sent you?” Lucias demanded.

  “The Lady Raven.”

  Clara didn’t need to hear any more information than that; she only knew of one Lady Raven and that was Lucias’ mother. Lenora. She’d expected the scheming witch to return in some manner, to finish the job her pet barbarian had started back in the Citadel several months prior.

  Targeting Clara made sense, especially after all this time. Kill the heir before it’s born. Well, Lenora was fresh out of luck there. For the moment.

  “Were you behind the attempted poisoning of my mistress?” Lucias asked. The question got mirrored frowns from Farris and Thad. Clearly, the two lords had no idea what had transpired beneath their own roof.

  “Yes,” the man replied.

  Lucias nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. “You will go with them.” He indicated the two lords with a twitch of his head. “You will show them how you got past the defences and into this room.”

  The man bowed. “At once, master.” He vacated the room, followed rather swiftly by Farris and Thad.

  Clara hugged herself as she eyed where the glyphs had branded their design into the stone. “I didn’t think you could do that outside of the Citadel.” Although her voice sounded dreadfully raspy, there was no pain.

  “It’s a little harder. A little more draining, but it’s what Kerwin would’ve done to his enemies when forging our kingdom.”

  Our kingdom. There it was again. Never just his, but theirs. He wanted an equal. She wasn’t certain if she’d ever truly attain that status, but she was willing to try. “I need to dress.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “Not in this.” Her dress had been suitable to maintain modesty in the presence of others not of her family, but she couldn’t very well walk around the castle in it without drawing attention. And there was the matter of her neck. She’d several gowns that wouldn’t touch the bruising, but also bore lace that would obscure it. “This won’t do.”

  Lucias shrugged. “I will defer to you on that. Following the court’s mercurial fashion trends has never been an interest of mine.” He turned his back to her, but made no effort to remove himself from her room.

  “Shouldn’t you be leaving?”

  “When you have no door?” he shot back whilst still looking straight ahead. “I hardly think that would be a good idea. Although, it does remind me…” He waggled a finger in the air. “I must send for another. You may have to make do without the symbol, though.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you were changing?”

  She nodded. “But you’re here and—”

  “My dear, you were just attacked. No one will consider it as the atmosphere for intimate ideas.” He waved his hand at the dressing screen. “By all means, clothe yourself as you deem appropriate. I am merely here to guard your person. I swear, peeking like a pubescent boy is the last thing on my mind.”

  Gathering the required garm
ents from her travelling chest, Clara slipped behind the dressing screen. She set about exchanging the loose-fitting tunic dress for a slightly snug one in the familiar style of her village. It wasn’t exactly a new style, relying more on the bodice to hold everything in place rather than a corset, but it enabled her to get away with looser lacing.

  Throughout the change, she could hear Lucias moving around the room. The tromp of his lazy footsteps wandered from one end to the other.

  Clara peeked around the edge of the screen to find him idly examining various objects. Did he search for traps? The man had already admitted to poisoning her food, what other innocent items could he have tainted?

  Fully garbed once more, she stepped out from behind the dressing screen to find Lucias examining her dagger with much suspicion.

  “Where’d this come from? Did he use it on you?”

  “No.” Clara took the weapon from him. “It’s mine.” It took but a moment to wipe the short blade on her skirts and secure it back into the sheath already nestled within her bodice, watching Lucias’ brows lift to their highest as she did so. Whilst the bodice didn’t hold the dagger quite as comfortably as her corset, it remained in place nevertheless.

  “Well, now,” he murmured. “That’s quite the concealment. Gettie’s idea, by chance?”

  She inclined her head. Whilst she’d been hesitant at having the weapon at hand, she’d come to appreciate the old woman’s insistence.

  Lucias mimicked her bobbing head. “I wonder if you would meet me in the training grounds come the afternoon? Tommy knows the way.”

  Curiosity tweaked her nose. “Of course.”

  With a grimace trying to warp his features, Lucias brushed a finger just below where her neck still ached. “In the meantime, I would recommend having a doctor look over you. There should be one employed in the castle, Thalia’s midwife might also be a possibility. You should see about that at once.” He fixed her with a stern look. “No excuses.”