darkness. She calmed and opened her eyes to glare at Jalad.
He smiled a savage, toothy smile. “This should warm you.”
Dara recognized the servant girl behind him. Tegan. She held a small pot of colored dye. An ominous mixture glinted from red to black and back to red again in the flickering torchlight, like the presence behind Jalad’s eyes. Tegan’s teary eyes were filled with despair as her gaze met Dara’s. Dara saw the ugly colored brand on Tegan’s right shoulder. A red and black S, raw and recent.
Caltrik’s hold tightened. Dara braced herself.
The gleaming iron met her right shoulder with a hideous sizzle. Dara heard someone scream. She prayed it wasn’t her. She went limp, smelled burning flesh. Something wet pressed into the wound, but ’twas as if it happened to someone else. Removed. Distant.
“That took some of the kick out of her.” Jalad laughed. “Caltrik, take her to my chambers.”
Caltrik didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. He dragged her by her good arm up the winding stone staircase. Dara staggered along under her own power, down a dark corridor lit by smoking, stinking rush torches until they arrived at the solid oak door of Hengist’s bedchamber.
Her eyes watered from both the agony of her branded arm and the betrayal of Moira and Hengist. “I’m not going in there. Jalad has no right.”
“Yer master King Jalad has ev’ry right.” Caltrik shoved her through the doorway. “Hengist left th’ keep unprotected while he rode off t’ tournament. King Jalad’s not so careless. He’s here t’ stay.”
Dara glanced around her. Both fireplaces blazed. With no windows to shutter, the room was warm. The family portraits were gone. Inferior weavings of battle scenes and executions replaced Moira’s colorful hunting tapestries. Hammered black wrought iron replaced the silver. Rush and pitch torches replaced the handmade beeswax candles. Reeds and rushes replaced the rugs on the floor. She barely recognized the place.
“What happened to the carpets?”
Caltrik smirked. “King Jalad didn’t want t’ruin ’em with blood. Rushes’re easier t’ change out.”
Dara paled, but squared her shoulders. “How appropriate—a jackass using stable material for bedding.”
Caltrik’s fist slammed into the back of her already pounding head, knocking her to her knees. “Insolent slave. King Jalad’ll knock that out o’ ye soon enough.”
She was counting on it. “Who opened the gates?” She staggered to her feet. “What happened to the men-at-arms set to guard us?”
“Yer warriors had a run-in with some bad stew. An’ th’ turncoat lost his head soon as we secured th’ keep. A man who turns once can’t be trusted not t’ turn again.”
“Who was it?” Acid dripped from every word.
Caltrik shrugged. “Foppish minstrel with a grievance.”
Bracken-Singer. Had to be. To betray the kindest, fairest master was monstrous. Dara had known naught but justice at Hengist’s hand. No one was overworked, beaten—or branded. She glanced down at her ravaged arm. The dyes already leached into the wound. When the burn healed the colors would be there until the day she died.
The day she died. She smiled grimly. Mayhaps not so very long after all.
Caltrik yanked her by her good arm over to Hengist’s bed. Dara’s eyes widened at the true-iron chains attached to either side of the headboard. How had she missed them? She struggled as he threw her onto the mattress. A single slap to her new burn stopped that. Dara cried out and went limp, long enough for Caltrik to manacle one wrist.
Her skin crawled at the poisonous touch of that rare metal. The iron-blend sword burn from the earlier battle to rescue Loren paled in comparison to the pure version. By turns burning cold and icy hot, it stole her breath and bound more than her arms. Rufus had warned her. Fanny had warned her. Their words paled into insignificance against the reality. The heat of her wild power fled deep
He smiled a savage, toothy smile. “This should warm you.”
Dara recognized the servant girl behind him. Tegan. She held a small pot of colored dye. An ominous mixture glinted from red to black and back to red again in the flickering torchlight, like the presence behind Jalad’s eyes. Tegan’s teary eyes were filled with despair as her gaze met Dara’s. Dara saw the ugly colored brand on Tegan’s right shoulder. A red and black S, raw and recent.
Caltrik’s hold tightened. Dara braced herself.
The gleaming iron met her right shoulder with a hideous sizzle. Dara heard someone scream. She prayed it wasn’t her. She went limp, smelled burning flesh. Something wet pressed into the wound, but ’twas as if it happened to someone else. Removed. Distant.
“That took some of the kick out of her.” Jalad laughed. “Caltrik, take her to my chambers.”
Caltrik didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. He dragged her by her good arm up the winding stone staircase. Dara staggered along under her own power, down a dark corridor lit by smoking, stinking rush torches until they arrived at the solid oak door of Hengist’s bedchamber.
Her eyes watered from both the agony of her branded arm and the betrayal of Moira and Hengist. “I’m not going in there. Jalad has no right.”
“Yer master King Jalad has ev’ry right.” Caltrik shoved her through the doorway. “Hengist left th’ keep unprotected while he rode off t’ tournament. King Jalad’s not so careless. He’s here t’ stay.”
Dara glanced around her. Both fireplaces blazed. With no windows to shutter, the room was warm. The family portraits were gone. Inferior weavings of battle scenes and executions replaced Moira’s colorful hunting tapestries. Hammered black wrought iron replaced the silver. Rush and pitch torches replaced the handmade beeswax candles. Reeds and rushes replaced the rugs on the floor. She barely recognized the place.
“What happened to the carpets?”
Caltrik smirked. “King Jalad didn’t want t’ruin ’em with blood. Rushes’re easier t’ change out.”
Dara paled, but squared her shoulders. “How appropriate—a jackass using stable material for bedding.”
Caltrik’s fist slammed into the back of her already pounding head, knocking her to her knees. “Insolent slave. King Jalad’ll knock that out o’ ye soon enough.”
She was counting on it. “Who opened the gates?” She staggered to her feet. “What happened to the men-at-arms set to guard us?”
“Yer warriors had a run-in with some bad stew. An’ th’ turncoat lost his head soon as we secured th’ keep. A man who turns once can’t be trusted not t’ turn again.”
“Who was it?” Acid dripped from every word.
Caltrik shrugged. “Foppish minstrel with a grievance.”
Bracken-Singer. Had to be. To betray the kindest, fairest master was monstrous. Dara had known naught but justice at Hengist’s hand. No one was overworked, beaten—or branded. She glanced down at her ravaged arm. The dyes already leached into the wound. When the burn healed the colors would be there until the day she died.
The day she died. She smiled grimly. Mayhaps not so very long after all.
Caltrik yanked her by her good arm over to Hengist’s bed. Dara’s eyes widened at the true-iron chains attached to either side of the headboard. How had she missed them? She struggled as he threw her onto the mattress. A single slap to her new burn stopped that. Dara cried out and went limp, long enough for Caltrik to manacle one wrist.
Her skin crawled at the poisonous touch of that rare metal. The iron-blend sword burn from the earlier battle to rescue Loren paled in comparison to the pure version. By turns burning cold and icy hot, it stole her breath and bound more than her arms. Rufus had warned her. Fanny had warned her. Their words paled into insignificance against the reality. The heat of her wild power fled deep
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