Talar eased from the Duchess’s bed, careful not to wake her, and pulled on his breeches. With shirt in hand, he slipped from the room and headed down the hall to the battlements. He needed air.
When Daralis had made her deal with the Duchess to save his life, she hadn’t known what she was really agreeing to. Or maybe she had and hadn’t thought he’d mind. In her mind it probably seemed obvious. Everyone wanted to live. And what man wouldn’t want to spend that life in the bed of a beautiful woman?
He threw open the door and rushed into the warm night. Even the air, heavy with humidity, couldn’t melt the ice deep within him. Not even his tattoos were warm any more. He should have died that night in the alley in Vitreah.
A night-guard glanced his way and Talar dragged his shirt over his head, painfully pulling the ugly red scar on his chest. It didn’t matter. Everyone knew who he was. He was the Duchess’s pet clansman. It didn’t matter that anyone saw his incomplete Tree of Life scrawled from his left ankle up that side of his body to the nape of his neck, or the Bands of Service thick and black around each wrist. In fact, the Duchess preferred everyone to know. The southerners didn’t really know what it meant anyway. Only that it made him stand out as a foreigner.
He ran a hand over his head and squeezed his eyes shut. If he had thought life was unbearable before.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the kingdom on your shoulders,” said a young masculine voice. “But I know that can’t be true since that’s my problem.”
Talar slid his gaze to the man beside him, Wyndham, third prince of the House of Vitreah. Or, as the Duchess liked to put it: lamb to the slaughter. He wasn’t much younger than Talar, but he still pitied the boy. If life hadn’t been kind to the son of a shaman, he couldn’t imagine it would be kind for a third prince.
“Your Highness.”
“I suspect, though, that we have the same problem,” said the Prince, his gaze on the city surrounding the fortification. “A woman.”
Talar raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t perform much in public for a minstrel.”
Perhaps the boy wasn’t as naive as the Duchess and other nobles believed. He was at least observant.
“I’m sure your Highness could have any woman he wants.”
“Not if she doesn’t return my letters.”
“Excuse me?”
Wyndham shook his head. “It’s not important.”
But it felt to Talar the most important thing the Prince had said so far.
The door to the hall opened and the Duchess stood in the opening, a candle in one hand, her hair disheveled, and her face aglow with perspiration. Her dress had been hastily donned and there was no sign of a chemise beneath it. She looked like the Goddess as the Soul Stealer, come to wreak vengeance on dishonorable clansmen.
Her gaze jumped from Talar to Wyndham and her expression flashed into a mask of impassivity.
“Your Highness.” She curtsied low, revealing an indecent amount of cleavage.
“Duchess.” Wyndham leaned against the battlement. “How’s your husband?”
“Still ill.”
“Yes, I haven’t seen him at our northern court.”
“The travel would be too much for him.”
Wyndham pursed his lips and let the silence stretch between them. No, he certainly wasn’t the naive boy everyone thought he was.
The Duchess shifted from one foot to the other, her displeasure eating away her court mask.
“Well. I have a letter to write. I should leave,” said Wyndham. He leveled his gaze on Talar. “I suggest you consider doing the same.” He nodded to the Duchess. “My Lady.”
“Your Highness.”
Talar watched him go. He would never have expected such an encounter with the prince, nor to have been offered such simple advice. He should leave. Could he do that? He was indebted to the Duchess for saving what little life he had left. There were obligations to Daralis and Kendrick that he couldn’t walk away from. And yet. . . .
The Duchess stepped close. “I didn’t say you could leave the bed.” She ran a hand along the top of her breasts, drawing his gaze. Her corset was too loose, revealing the hard pink buds of her nipples.
“I needed air.” He needed to get away from her.
“I don’t care.” She slipped her hand under his tunic and traced a finger along the band of his breeches.
Gooseflesh pebbled his skin. Goddess, how could his body want her when his mind was so against it? He had already lost his soul and now his body. His mind was surely next to go.
No. It would be too easy to stay with the Duchess until she tired of him–and tire of him she eventually would. It would be too easy to let his sense of obligation keep him prisoner. He had no way left to find. No life left to live. And yet something else pulled at him. Something he’d been denying since he’d been stabbed.
The Duchess brushed her lips against his and fire ignited around his wrists. He gasped. His knees buckled and he grabbed the battlement behind him to stay standing.
“Now that’s a reaction I’ve been waiting for.” She captured his face in his hands and pressed her lips to his.
Fire raced through his Tree of Life, burning around the scar on his chest. He couldn’t continue. Not like this.
He seized her shoulders and shoved her to arms’ length. He couldn’t believe he was about to choose life.
The inferno in his tattoos subsided. “I can’t stay.”
“You have a debt,” she said, her voice husky. “I saved your life.”
“And for that I am grateful.”
She twisted out of his grip. “I will not release you from your bond.”
“I don’t think you have much choice.” He eased around her and headed to the door.
“I’ll have you arrested. You’re a nothing. A clansman.”
Wyndham’s words flitted into his mind: I should leave. I suggest you consider doing the same. Talar suspected the crown wouldn’t be particularly sympathetic to the Duchess’s demands. Not with a treaty with the clansmen sitting on the negotiation table.
He opened the door and marched to his room. Daralis would just have to deal with the Duchess. He’d leave his lute. That should help pay his debt. But as much as he hated his Goddess, he hated being the Duchess’s toy more.
Without care, he stuffed his clothes into his rucksack, gave his lute a final glance, and left.
Daralis waited for him in the hall. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
Kendrick rushed out of a nearby room, shirtless and sweaty.
“We had a deal,” said Daralis. Her gaze jumped to Kendrick and her expression turned icy. Funny how she didn’t mind Talar’s bedroom games, but Kenrick’s were a different story.
Talar pushed past her. “You had a deal.”
Daralis scrambled to his side. “She’s on her way to the magistrate.”
“I’ve left my lute. That should cover most of what I owe for the surgeon.”
“How can you? Our plans. Our dreams.”
Kendrick rested a hand on her shoulder. She glared at him but fell silent.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Not north.” Talar still couldn’t go north. As much as his Goddess had reminded him that he still belonged to her, he couldn’t go back.
“Fair enough,” said Kendrick. “Good traveling.”
“How can you just let him go?” asked Daralis. “We all agreed–”
“How can you not?”
She shoved his hand off her. “You owe me, Talar, and I will collect.”
Of that he had no doubt. But he turned his back on her. Maybe Kendrick would help her see reason. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t stay. He had no idea where he was going, but he couldn’t stay.
