rest?” Setia asked.
“Too many to count,” Draken admitted.
Sighing in defeat, he took off his boots and shirt and stretched out on the bed, keeping to the edge, casting about for something to take his mind away from his lurid, uncomfortable thoughts. He could better see Osias’ cuff as the Mance took to the bed. It looked like unpolished base metal, and it appeared to have no clasp or seam.
“What is on your arm?”
“Korde’s fetter, which binds me to life and service.”
Draken shifted his gaze to the beamed ceiling.
Osias must have taken his silence as disbelief because he leaned up on one elbow. “I am of the gods, Draken. By helping you I risk the wrath of powers larger than you can imagine.”
“Why would you take such a risk for me then?” Draken asked.
Osias only smiled. “I should rethink it, I suppose. You have been a fair deal of trouble.”
As they spoke, Setia took off her clothing. Draken tried not to watch her, but as one will when one is trying not to look, he couldn’t help it. She bore more bulk than would be fashionable at a Monoean Royal House party, but her compact muscles were refined. She glanced at him as she turned to blow out a lamp and he looked away.
“Look at me if you will. I care not,” she said, leaving the lamp and turning to him.
Feeling boorish but unable to help himself, he let his gaze climb the contours of her body. The dappling covered her skin, widening across her back and thighs and stomach and narrowing on her ankles and feet. She had no fat beyond the gentle swell of her belly and full breasts, only a muscled efficiency about her found only in the wild.
“Come, Setia,” Osias mumbled. “Warm us with your fire.”
Draken tensed, wondering what that might mean.
Setia blew out the rest of the lamps, leaving the room in darkness but for the glow of a few embers in the hearth, and crawled between them. Draken heard some rustling before Osias rolled over with his arm around Setia and sighed deeply. Draken felt the curve of her back against his side and the firmer pressure of Osias’ forearm. The heat from Setia’s body overtook the chill of the evening.
All settled and went still. He’d never heard a silence so persuasive.
Osias touched his bare chest briefly, and Draken’s discomfort with the touch was only slightly weaker than his discomfort with shrugging it off. Osias had been kind to him, a stranger, a branded criminal.
Despite the exceptional circumstances Draken found himself in: this long, extraordinary day ending with sharing his bed with two strangers, an even deeper, silent darkness than the one overtaking the night began to wash across his consciousness.
“Sleep, strange one,” Osias whispered, and Draken did.
Chapter Six
D raken became aware of comfort first, softness, warmth. There was some good reason to keep consciousness from returning. He couldn’t think why it was. It didn’t matter.
He felt smooth skin next to his, a measured breath of air against his neck, as regular as his own heart, and an arm across his ribcage. Ah, Lesle. He’d curled himself around his wife, his arm tucked under her body.
And then realization stabbed his heart. Lesle is dead. Every morning it was the same, a moment of not knowing, not remembering. Peace abandoned him again, leaving a murky hole in its place. His eyelids fluttered open.
Osias stared at him with bruised irises. “Be still, friend. We wake to peril.”
Draken slid his gaze upward without turning his head.
Silvery filament filled the room above the bed, glistening in the newfound sunlight streaming in the window. At first the strands seemed haphazard, accidental. But the longer he looked, Draken could detect a subtle, distracting pattern.
The sheer enormity of the thing defied belief. It stretched across the expansive room, taut with a delicate, stunning strength. That it hung a handspan over Draken’s nose didn’t help matters much. The woven strands reflected back their
“Too many to count,” Draken admitted.
Sighing in defeat, he took off his boots and shirt and stretched out on the bed, keeping to the edge, casting about for something to take his mind away from his lurid, uncomfortable thoughts. He could better see Osias’ cuff as the Mance took to the bed. It looked like unpolished base metal, and it appeared to have no clasp or seam.
“What is on your arm?”
“Korde’s fetter, which binds me to life and service.”
Draken shifted his gaze to the beamed ceiling.
Osias must have taken his silence as disbelief because he leaned up on one elbow. “I am of the gods, Draken. By helping you I risk the wrath of powers larger than you can imagine.”
“Why would you take such a risk for me then?” Draken asked.
Osias only smiled. “I should rethink it, I suppose. You have been a fair deal of trouble.”
As they spoke, Setia took off her clothing. Draken tried not to watch her, but as one will when one is trying not to look, he couldn’t help it. She bore more bulk than would be fashionable at a Monoean Royal House party, but her compact muscles were refined. She glanced at him as she turned to blow out a lamp and he looked away.
“Look at me if you will. I care not,” she said, leaving the lamp and turning to him.
Feeling boorish but unable to help himself, he let his gaze climb the contours of her body. The dappling covered her skin, widening across her back and thighs and stomach and narrowing on her ankles and feet. She had no fat beyond the gentle swell of her belly and full breasts, only a muscled efficiency about her found only in the wild.
“Come, Setia,” Osias mumbled. “Warm us with your fire.”
Draken tensed, wondering what that might mean.
Setia blew out the rest of the lamps, leaving the room in darkness but for the glow of a few embers in the hearth, and crawled between them. Draken heard some rustling before Osias rolled over with his arm around Setia and sighed deeply. Draken felt the curve of her back against his side and the firmer pressure of Osias’ forearm. The heat from Setia’s body overtook the chill of the evening.
All settled and went still. He’d never heard a silence so persuasive.
Osias touched his bare chest briefly, and Draken’s discomfort with the touch was only slightly weaker than his discomfort with shrugging it off. Osias had been kind to him, a stranger, a branded criminal.
Despite the exceptional circumstances Draken found himself in: this long, extraordinary day ending with sharing his bed with two strangers, an even deeper, silent darkness than the one overtaking the night began to wash across his consciousness.
“Sleep, strange one,” Osias whispered, and Draken did.
Chapter Six
D raken became aware of comfort first, softness, warmth. There was some good reason to keep consciousness from returning. He couldn’t think why it was. It didn’t matter.
He felt smooth skin next to his, a measured breath of air against his neck, as regular as his own heart, and an arm across his ribcage. Ah, Lesle. He’d curled himself around his wife, his arm tucked under her body.
And then realization stabbed his heart. Lesle is dead. Every morning it was the same, a moment of not knowing, not remembering. Peace abandoned him again, leaving a murky hole in its place. His eyelids fluttered open.
Osias stared at him with bruised irises. “Be still, friend. We wake to peril.”
Draken slid his gaze upward without turning his head.
Silvery filament filled the room above the bed, glistening in the newfound sunlight streaming in the window. At first the strands seemed haphazard, accidental. But the longer he looked, Draken could detect a subtle, distracting pattern.
The sheer enormity of the thing defied belief. It stretched across the expansive room, taut with a delicate, stunning strength. That it hung a handspan over Draken’s nose didn’t help matters much. The woven strands reflected back their
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