I am summoned. Not to my usual post, but to the Lord’s private wing.
The two house guards outside Lady Lamas’s bedchamber look pale and spooked. They see me and press themselves against the wall, their hands gripping their sword hilts. They are afraid of me, yes, but they are more afraid of him.
I push the doors open.
The room is not a place of mourning. It’s a celebration. The rirzed blossoms are so thick in here the air is almost unbreathable, a sweet, sickening fog. Privis is not in black. He wears a gaudy, colorful silk robe, one of the "trinkets" we "liberated" from Dareksword’s estate.
He’s admiring a new statue, his head tilted. And on the massive, silken bed, Lady Lamas is laid out. Her skin is a waxy, bluish-gray. Her death is a "tragic accident," but there is no one here to mourn her.
"Ah, Tusk," Privis says, not turning. He raises his goblet of zhisk. "A good day’s work. Dareksword is gone. My... dear wife... is gone." He finally turns, his pale face flushed with drink and triumph, his eyes gleaming. "It's a day of new beginnings. The board is finally clear."
He wanders the room, giddy with his new freedom, trailing his thin fingers over the stolen loot that his men have piled in the corners. He is a rodan nesting in a dragon's hoard.
He's celebrating, I realize, my disgust a cold, heavy weight. He didn't even wait a day. He is a wife-killer, a thief, and a worm.
And I am his beast.
Privis stops in front of me, looking me up and down. He sips his zhisk. The silence stretches, filled only by the crackle of the fireplace. He is admiring his own power, admiring the two great monsters he has slain today: Dareksword, his rival, and Lamas, his cage.
"I am... in mourning," he says, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "And in my grief, I find myself in need of... comfort. Consolation."
His eyes slide past me, toward the hall, as if he can see her through the thick oak doors. He knows exactly where she is.
He looks at me, his smile thin and wet. "Fetch my 'Lady Doll.'"
My blood runs cold.
"Everyone in this house knows who she is," he continues, his voice dropping to an oily whisper. "Go to the servant's quarters. Find her. Tell her her master is finally... free... to see her."
He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes glittering. "And Tusk? Get her... ready."
The order hangs in the air. Get her ready. He wants me to be his procurer. He wants me to break her, to drag her to his bed, to be the final instrument of his depraved victory.
My hand tightens on my axe. No. The word is a silent explosion in my skull.
The fated bond, the thing I have been crushing and hating for weeks, doesn't just roar. It shatters my chains. My duty. My ipia. My shame. It all burns away, leaving only a cold, pure certainty.
I give a single, sharp nod. "Yes, Lord Privis."
I turn, my heavy boots grinding on the marble—a sound he hates. I walk out of the room. The guards in the hall press themselves against the wall, but I don't see them.
I am not going to the barracks. I am not going to my post. I am not thinking at all.
My feet are moving on their own, a heavy, certain tread, carrying me away from my duty, away from my ipia, away from the monster I have been.
They carry me down the servant's passage, toward the smell of rain and fialon berries.
They carry me to her.
4
AURORA
Iam wedged between my thin cot and the damp, cold stone of the servant's quarters. The back of my flimsy chair is jammed under the door handle, a pathetic, splintered piece of wood that wouldn't stop a determined child, let alone...him.
My heart is a trapped chirops, beating frantic, silent wings against my ribs. I can't breathe. The air in my tiny, windowless room is ripe with the smell of lye soap and my own sour terror. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I heard the whispers of Lady Lamas’s "accident." Her death was my death warrant.
I clutch the paring knife I stole from the kitchen. It’s small, the blade dull, but it’s all I have. It's not for him. It's for me. A last resort, if he tries to...
