Dornar led her up to a small room that smelled strongly of wax and lemons. There was a narrow bed against the wall that someone had covered with a green velvet throw, beside it was a small table with a drawer, and a second table in the corner holding a basin and a jug. A tiny window let in a beam of pale afternoon sunlight that fell across a wooden chair piled with colorful cushions. Someone had clearly been in and tried to make it suitable for her. For their queen.
She gave him a quick smile. “Please thank the men responsible for the room.”
Dornar promised he would and bowed slightly before leaving her alone.
She found the water in the jug was still warm and splashed her face before drying it with a small cotton towel. It was heavenly to have a clean face.
She was combing her fingers through her hair when there was a soft tap on the door, and she opened it to see a young sergeant carrying a tray with wine and autumn berries. He dipped his head courteously and then, at her gesture, stepped inside to place the tray on the table. “Your Majesty, the Lord Chancellor said that as you’d only had water at lunch, you might like this while you’re waiting.”
She murmured her thanks as he left and then bolted the door behind him.
She poured a glass of the wine, so dark that the red was almost black, and took some berries with her to sit on the chair beside the window while she waited. The idea of sitting in that small square of sunshine for a few moments was irresistible.
The wine was rich and sweet, and she found herself taking another deep sip as her muscles relaxed. And then another.
Days of stress and hunger and too little sleep combined with the soft sunshine to send the syrupy wine straight to her head. Her ears buzzed and her lips tingled as she licked them.
Gods. How strong was that wine? Perhaps she should have stuck with water if she was going to concentrate when she saw Mathos?
The world started to spin disconcertingly, and she set the crystal glass down, worried she might spill. Everything tilted hazily, and she grumbled at her own stupidity. What an idiot to get drunk on a few sips of wine.
She had to rest. Had to take a moment for the world to stop spinning.
She wiped a damp palm down her face and stumbled from the chair to the bed and collapsed. She would just close her eyes for ten minutes and then she would be able to face the world again. That was a plan. A good plan.
She lifted her head to look down at her boots. Too far. Too difficult. They had to stay on.
She curled into a ball on top of the covers and closed her eyes.
Chapter Eight
Mathos leanedback against the icy stone and earth wall, stretched his legs out in front of him, and closed his eyes. His left eye was so swollen that it was almost closed. And it was pitch-fucking-dark anyway.
Heavy iron chains clanked as he shifted his hands and prodded his side gently. Prodding was completely unnecessary—every aching breath told him he had at least one broken rib—but somehow irresistible. His whole body felt bruised, and he could smell the coppery tang of blood above the musty earthiness.
The asshole lieutenant and his sidekick, Cerdic, had decided to let him know exactly how they felt about him. His lip twitched—they must have felt bloody stupid when he found their princess for them, especially after their derogatory comments the first time they met. Well, they probably felt better about it now that they’d kicked the shit out of him.
They’d also taken his jerkin, leaving him in his cotton undershirt, but thank the gods they’d left his leather breeches and his boots.
Mathos forced his eyes open a millimeter and then closed them again. What was the point? He couldn’t see his own legs.
In a way, it was good that it was dark. It meant he didn’t have to see the other occupants of his prison.
His beast snorted to itself in amusement, but he was going to keep telling himself that it was good that it was dark. For as long as he had to, until he believed it. It was better all round. Definitely.
When Claudius and Cerdic, together with a couple of other Blues from the manor house, had dragged him through the village instead of to Dornar’s encampment, he’d been certain they were going to take him to the nearest local magistrat, or perhaps throw him in the local prison or sturdy basement.
The villagers—men and women, even children—had stared at him, wide-eyed and silent. Watching with the tired resignation of people who’d seen it all before as the Blues shoved and kicked him, the soldiers laughing and joking among themselves. He’d kept his eyes down, not wanting to inadvertently involve anyone else, and concentrated on protecting himself when he could.
Then they’d turned up the hill that he’d seen from the road. Only it wasn’t a hill, it was a series of burial mounds and, as he’d expected, an ancient shrine.
Not one of the airy flower-filled temples dedicated to the archangels by the Nephilim, or the opulent courts favored by the Apollyon. This was darker, deeper, more primal. A shrine dedicated to the gods and goddesses of the earth, wind, fire, and water. The progeny of the dragons and the first rough clans who had ruled the land and the air before the angels came.
Hundreds of generations of Mabin and Tarasque would have worshiped between the rough stones over the centuries. Praying for good harvests and safe births. Praying that their soldiers would return and that their dead would rest easy.
And, of course, they’d also buried their long-dead priests and priestesses inside the mounds.
Which, because that was the kind of day he was having, was exactly where they’d taken Mathos. Deep into the crypt-like center of a mound. Down the smooth steps, into the heavy, earthen darkness. Past the stone recesses holding ancient bones and into a small space where acolytes would hold rituals and special services.
