“And you had to think about it?” Daralis asked for the fourth time, her voice up an octave and drawing curious glances from the other pub patrons.
Talar fought not to roll his eyes at her as she crossed her arms under her ample bosom and gave him a hard stare. She was trying to be intimidating and hadn’t figured out that her stares didn’t work on him. She couldn’t compete with any clansman mother he’d ever met. They had mastered the art of the guilt stare.
In a way, he could understand how she felt. The Duchess of Dynar had offered their burgeoning minstrel troupe a lucrative contract which would put their six year plan to riches two years ahead of schedule.
He sighed then shuddered, remembering how the Duchess had looked at him when he’d met with her earlier that evening. Actually he hadn’t thought twice about refusing the woman’s amorous advances, since he wasn’t inclined to sell his body, not for this troupe. Not for anything. But he’d at least been diplomatic and said he’d think about the offer. He had hoped the other two would understand. Daralis obviously didn’t.
“Really? You had to think–”
“Is that all you can say?” he asked.
Kenrick, the third in their troupe, snorted, his fingers never stopping their constant rapping on the table. “Guess so.” Tap tap tap.
“Well.” Daralis tucked a dark lock behind her ear. “You’ll just go back to her suite and tell her yes. It’s not that late. I doubt she’s retired for the evening yet.”
But Talar was certain the Duchess had retired and not with her husband. And if Talar wasn’t the next “entertainment” on her list he wouldn’t care.
He had thought when he’d joined the troupe he could put his old life behind him, forget what he’d been, but at every turn he was reminded. “I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to you that I might not want to play lapdog to a married noblewoman.”
“Is this some strange–” Daralis glanced around and lowered her voice. “Some strange clansman custom? I don’t see what the problem is.”
Talar tugged on his sleeves to ensure the clan tattoos around his wrists weren’t visible. He felt as trapped with Daralis as he had a candle mark ago with the Duchess. What was it with southern women? He would hate to be a southern husband. They apparently got no respect.
Kenrick cleared his throat. “At least consider it. Besides, I hear she’s beautiful. If she wasn’t evidently attracted to the exotic I’d take your place.”
Of that Talar had no doubt. Kenrick’s square jaw and broad chest often drew female attention which he was happy to oblige–much to Darlais’s frustration.
Daralis turned her dark look to Kendrick, her desire for him plain and his obliviousness to it painful to observe.
“It’s not like you’ve got a wife,” she said, without turning back to Talar.
Talar’s heart contracted. No, he didn’t have a wife. Not any more.
Waves of black hair, shimmering in candlelight, washed across his memory. In his hand he held the bone comb, smoothed and yellow with age, that he’d loved running through her hair.
“The contract is only for a year,” said Daralis.
He hadn’t even had that with Delwyn. Hadn’t even been there when she died.
Kenrick took a long swig, finished his ale, and set his mug on the table. “You may even get to like it.” Tap tap tap.
Talar didn’t think he’d ever like it. Did anyone ever like loss? But that wasn’t what Kenrick was talking about. He meant the Duchess.
Her funeral pyre had burned bright, its colors more vivid than the sunset, wafting great clouds of dark smoke into the clear sky.
Tap te tap tap.
Heat pulsed against his skin. He was there, standing before that blaze.
No, he was in Meriduin. In a pub. Laughter, chatter, clanging, scraping, roared in his ears. Tapping. Constant, unending tapping.
Flames crackled, devouring tinder and skin alike.
The crowd in the pub pressed near, a boiling sea ready to drown him.
Tap tap.
He shoved away from the table, knocking over Kenrick’s mug.
“Are you all right?” Daralis’s gaze softened.
“I, ah. . . .”
Tap te tap.
“I need some air.” He lurched through the crowd, desperate for the door and fresh air, anything to clear his head and chase away his memories.
Pulling at his collar, he stumbled out the door, ripping his top two buttons and jarring his hip on the uneven step.
He was burning up, ignited by images he couldn’t abandon but never wanted to see again. Shoving up his sleeves, he staggered around the pub and hid in the shadows of an alley. He pressed his forehead against the cool plaster wall. How many drunks had stumbled out that same door, tripping on the uneven step to find refuge in this alley? But he wasn’t drunk. He’d barely touched his glass at dinner. The tattoos around his wrists pulsed with fire, as alive now as when first scarred into his flesh. Always a reminder of his past, never allowing him to escape.
What was he going to tell Daralis? He couldn’t just come out and say he never wanted to be with another woman again. He didn’t think the ambitious singer would understand.
Turning, he pressed his back to the wall and stared up at the sliver of night sky between the eaves. There was only blackness above. Clouds must have moved in, blotting out the stars. He wished he could be blotted out, wished his Goddess would release him and take his memories like those stars above.
“Look here,” said a voice from the mouth of the alley. “We don’t want drunks puking on the wall of our tavern.” A large figure blocked out what little light spilled into the alley.
Talar pushed himself off the wall, raising both hands in supplication. “I was just getting some air.”
“Go be sick somewhere else,” said another voice from somewhere behind the first man.
“Sure.” Talar started toward them.
“Not this way,” said the first man. “We don’t want to see your ugly face. That way.” He pointed behind Talar into the darkness between the two buildings.
But in that darkness lay painful memories.
Talar inched into the edge of the light. “Am I to dance a jig, as well?”
Someone sucked in a quick breath while an unseen third hissed, “clansman.”
“Sure, clansman,” said the first man, light flashing off yellow teeth. “Do a little dance for us.”
He grabbed the front of Talar’s shirt and threw him into the street. Talar stumbled but caught his balance.
“Look,” said Talar. “I’ll just go on my way and you–” He glanced at the group before him. There were only three of them, but they wore Royal Guard uniforms. Not a fight he could win. “You fine gentlemen can go back to merry-making.”
“I think you need to leave town,” said the first man.
Talar knew he should agree. Say yes, walk away. Even if they did go to the trouble of escorting him out the city’s gates he could return in the morning. But somehow the request seemed unreasonable. It was one thing too many. This time he wouldn’t bow to fate. “Now gentlemen, I’ll just–”
Someone shoved him from behind, knocking him to the ground. Uneven cobblestones bit into his palms. He tried to stand but a kick in the ribs knocked him onto his side. He rolled away, his hand reaching for the sword he hadn’t worn for four summers. One of the soldiers growled and charged. Talar twisted aside and up onto his feet. He wanted to fight back, wanted, for the fist time in years, to hold his broadsword and kill something.
He ducked a punch at his face, but someone behind him grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back.
Talar jerked, trying to break the man’s hold. He couldn’t get a good angle, and the man’s enormous arms held tight. The first man threw two quick jabs to Talar’s gut, and the air burst from his lungs. The next strike broke his nose. Sharp pain spiked through his head but he barely had time to register it. A biting crack across his jaw and deep, agonizing strikes in his chest left him dizzy and gasping.
The grip around him eased. He staggered forward and dropped to his knees. Torchlight flashed along the blade of a knife, and his heart pounded with a mix of fear and a desperate need to surrender the terrible remains of his life. An end lay near. His wife could forgive him. Their Goddess could release him from his living death and embrace his spirit in the Great Womb. All wrongs forgiven.
The blade raced toward him. His muscles contracted and an unwanted survival instinct forced his arm up. The blade sliced shirt and skin, searing across his forearm. He struggled to rise. But the man grabbed his shoulder and plunged the knife into Talar’s chest.
Agony enveloped him. He sagged to the cobblestones, his cheek pressed against the uneven surface. A detached part of his mind listened as the men laughed and walked away. What little clansman warrior remained in him noted that it was a solid strike. And the part that had denounced that life couldn’t resist seeing the irony that he’d been stabbed where his shamanic heart tattoo should have been, where his faith should have been strongest. But he had no faith. His Goddess had taken that when she’d taken his wife. And now she wouldn’t protect him.
A chill crept into his hands and feet, but his chest was hot, so hot. There was no pain, not yet. He prayed he would pass out before his body realized it was dying.
