be pawed by the lecherous old man. Besides, he was not her uncle. He was no relation to her at all.
“You lift that flagon for me, girl, my back’s playing me up. . . .”
A gust of his beery breath, stale as the cellar air, made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. She bent to pick up the brimming flagon and felt his hands on her buttocks. She took in a deep breath, then stepped backward, stamping down her heel on his foot, hard. Beer slopped onto the floor.
“Ouch! What’d you want to do that for?”
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, retreating. “Don’t ever touch me again!”
“I was only brushing off a spider. A big one—”
“Tell that to Sosia.”
“There’s another nine flagons here—”
“You’ll just have to carry them yourself.”
She reached the stairs and, hitching up her skirts with one hand, began to climb up, staggering under the weight of the heavy flagon.
“Hard-hearted whore.” Oleg was muttering to himself, loud enough so that she could hear. “Just like her mother. Cold as you please to honest men.” He had reached the bottom of the stair and was teetering drunkenly upward behind her. “Yet slut enough to open her legs to any passing Arkhel clansman.”
“What did you say?” Kiukiu turned slowly around, gazing down at Oleg.
“You heard me.” His face was twisted now with a vindictive snarl. “Your mother Afimia. Arkhel’s whore.”
“She was
raped
!” Kiukiu shrieked. “She didn’t have any choice!”
Suddenly the day’s accrued insults were too much to endure. She swung the flagon—and emptied it over Oleg’s head. For a moment he stood, mouth open, drenched in the flood of beer. Then as his bellow of outrage echoed around the cellar, she turned and fled, sobbing, toward the kitchen, tearing past Ninusha and Ilsi, toward the back door into the stable yard—and the night.
Kiukiu crouched in the darkest corner of the stables, her apron clutched to her mouth to try to stifle the choking sobs that shook her whole body.
She was sick of her life at Kastel Drakhaon. She was sick of being the butt of Ninusha and Ilsi’s spiteful jokes, of being fumbled by lewd old men like Oleg, of Sosia’s shrill nagging. There was not a single soul in the whole kastel who cared for her, to whom she could go and pour out her heart. She was just a nuisance to them, a thing to be used and abused.
All her life she had been told how grateful she should be to Sosia for taking care of her when Afimia died, how a life of servitude was the best a poor bastard child, misbegotten spawn of the enemy clan, could ever dare to hope for.
Well, she had dared to hope. There had to be more to life than the drudgery of the kitchen and scullery. And she would run away to find it. She wouldn’t stay to be maltreated any longer.
The cold night was suddenly splashed bright with torchflames; Kiukiu heard the kastel gates grind open and the iron clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. She knuckled the tears from her eyes, feeling a gust of frosty night air stinging her wet cheeks.
Run away without catching even one glimpse of Lord Gavril?
She crept to the stable entrance, peeping out into the night. Even though her thoughts were in turmoil, she forgot her unhappiness as she searched among the dismounting warriors for the boy from the portrait. Shadows and torchlight twisted and flickered in the darkness, men shouted to each other—and for a moment, she was certain she had missed him, certain he must have gone ahead into the kastel.
And then she saw him.
He stood gazing about him, the one still figure amid the moving warriors and the tossing horses’ heads, watching, assessing, his face betraying no emotion.
By Saint Sergius,
Kiukiu whispered in her heart,
he is every bit as handsome as I thought he would be. Those eyes, can they really burn so blue? Was Lord Volkh ever so good-looking? It must be his mother’s warm Smarnan blood.
His skin seems to glow gold in the torchlight,
“You lift that flagon for me, girl, my back’s playing me up. . . .”
A gust of his beery breath, stale as the cellar air, made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. She bent to pick up the brimming flagon and felt his hands on her buttocks. She took in a deep breath, then stepped backward, stamping down her heel on his foot, hard. Beer slopped onto the floor.
“Ouch! What’d you want to do that for?”
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, retreating. “Don’t ever touch me again!”
“I was only brushing off a spider. A big one—”
“Tell that to Sosia.”
“There’s another nine flagons here—”
“You’ll just have to carry them yourself.”
She reached the stairs and, hitching up her skirts with one hand, began to climb up, staggering under the weight of the heavy flagon.
“Hard-hearted whore.” Oleg was muttering to himself, loud enough so that she could hear. “Just like her mother. Cold as you please to honest men.” He had reached the bottom of the stair and was teetering drunkenly upward behind her. “Yet slut enough to open her legs to any passing Arkhel clansman.”
“What did you say?” Kiukiu turned slowly around, gazing down at Oleg.
“You heard me.” His face was twisted now with a vindictive snarl. “Your mother Afimia. Arkhel’s whore.”
“She was
raped
!” Kiukiu shrieked. “She didn’t have any choice!”
Suddenly the day’s accrued insults were too much to endure. She swung the flagon—and emptied it over Oleg’s head. For a moment he stood, mouth open, drenched in the flood of beer. Then as his bellow of outrage echoed around the cellar, she turned and fled, sobbing, toward the kitchen, tearing past Ninusha and Ilsi, toward the back door into the stable yard—and the night.
Kiukiu crouched in the darkest corner of the stables, her apron clutched to her mouth to try to stifle the choking sobs that shook her whole body.
She was sick of her life at Kastel Drakhaon. She was sick of being the butt of Ninusha and Ilsi’s spiteful jokes, of being fumbled by lewd old men like Oleg, of Sosia’s shrill nagging. There was not a single soul in the whole kastel who cared for her, to whom she could go and pour out her heart. She was just a nuisance to them, a thing to be used and abused.
All her life she had been told how grateful she should be to Sosia for taking care of her when Afimia died, how a life of servitude was the best a poor bastard child, misbegotten spawn of the enemy clan, could ever dare to hope for.
Well, she had dared to hope. There had to be more to life than the drudgery of the kitchen and scullery. And she would run away to find it. She wouldn’t stay to be maltreated any longer.
The cold night was suddenly splashed bright with torchflames; Kiukiu heard the kastel gates grind open and the iron clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. She knuckled the tears from her eyes, feeling a gust of frosty night air stinging her wet cheeks.
Run away without catching even one glimpse of Lord Gavril?
She crept to the stable entrance, peeping out into the night. Even though her thoughts were in turmoil, she forgot her unhappiness as she searched among the dismounting warriors for the boy from the portrait. Shadows and torchlight twisted and flickered in the darkness, men shouted to each other—and for a moment, she was certain she had missed him, certain he must have gone ahead into the kastel.
And then she saw him.
He stood gazing about him, the one still figure amid the moving warriors and the tossing horses’ heads, watching, assessing, his face betraying no emotion.
By Saint Sergius,
Kiukiu whispered in her heart,
he is every bit as handsome as I thought he would be. Those eyes, can they really burn so blue? Was Lord Volkh ever so good-looking? It must be his mother’s warm Smarnan blood.
His skin seems to glow gold in the torchlight,
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