‘Why do you keep saying that? You don’t know anything about her!’
‘I know more than you, Arathan. She’s had a child and lost it — that’s what I know. It ain’t just a guess, either; there’s something about her. And now, how she’s taken you in. It’s not right, none of it.’
‘Is my father killing her right now?’ Arathan stepped past the sergeant.
Raskan grasped him by the arm and pulled him round. ‘No, he isn’t. It’s not what he wants, and I guarantee you, Feren’s not acting as hot-blooded as you are at this moment. She’s listening; she’s hearing what he’s saying. Your nights with her are done with and that will be the proof to my words.’
Arathan pulled free and set off back to the camp.
After a moment, Raskan followed. ‘It’s all right,’ he said to the boy striding ahead, ‘I knew it wouldn’t be easy.’
The moment she saw the sergeant lead Arathan away, Feren knew what was coming. When Draconus gestured, she straightened. To her brother she said, ‘Don’t burn the stew — it’s already sticking.’
He grunted his understanding — of everything.
The Lord led her past the ruins, round to the base of the mound on which the houses had been built.
Feren was not interested in getting an earful. ‘I have done as you asked of me, Lord.’
‘Shed your iron.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your dagger. Your sword, and the belt.’
She made no move. ‘You would disarm me, Lord Draconus? I would know: to what end?’
An instant later and she was lying on the ground, her bones aching from the impact. She was not sure what had happened — had he struck her? She felt no imprint from a fist or hand. Stunned, too weak to move, she felt him fumbling at her waist, then heard the rasp as he stripped the belt from her. Metal clanged some distance away. The dagger followed.
She fumbled at his hands, trying to push them away, and sought to draw her legs up to protect herself.
He gave an irritated grunt, and then she felt him grasp her left ankle. She was twisted on to her stomach, and then he was dragging her through the grasses. She wanted to cry out — to summon her brother — but then more blood would flow. Crimes would tear through them all — too many to countenance.
If Draconus was intent on raping her, she would permit it. Vengeance could lie in wait a long time.
He dragged her down into a channel lined with boulders, and in the grainy gloom she saw the stacked stones of a squat, wide doorway pass to either side, and all at once the night sky vanished into deeper darkness.
She was still weak, still helpless in his grasp. Was this sorcery? Was this the power from his lover, Mother Dark? To reach so far, to be so easily abused by this man, this Consort — no, it did not make sense.
In the low confines of the barrow, as the floor sloped sharply downward, Feren smelled death. Old, withered, dried out.
He dragged her alongside a stone sarcophagus.
Sudden fear ripped through Feren. ‘Lord,’ she gasped. ‘I yield. There is no need-’
‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘We take a terrible risk here.’
He released her leg, used one foot to turn her on to her back, pushing her roughly up alongside the cold stone. ‘Be still.’
She saw him lean over her, reaching into the sarcophagus — there was, it seemed, no lid — and then there was the sound of rustling, creaks and faint pops, followed by a sifting, as of sand.
Draconus pulled the corpse on to the edge of the coffin. Dust rained down on Feren, covering her face. She coughed, gagged.
He used both his legs to hold her in place, pushed up against the sarcophagus, and she saw him fumbling with the withered corpse — the creature was huge, the limb bones long and thick. Black hair tumbled down to brush Feren’s face, smelling of mouldy skin.
A bony hand was suddenly pressed down on to her belly.
Convulsions of agony took Feren, strong enough to knock Draconus away — he staggered, still holding the corpse by one leather-wrapped wrist. The body tilted, and then slid down to land heavily on Feren’s legs.
‘Shit!’ he bellowed. ‘Move away, woman — quickly!’
From the corpse’s mouth came a moaning sound.
Terrified, the waves of pain from her belly fast fading, Feren pushed away from the body.
Draconus bent down and levered the huge corpse back into the sarcophagus. It thumped in a cloud of dust and cracking bones.
‘That will have to do,’ he muttered. ‘Blessings on you, and begging forgiveness, O Queen. Crawl out now, Feren, and be quick about it.’
She did as he commanded, and moments later clambered out through the chute and saw above her the swirl of stars, bright as a gift. Stumbling clear of the ramp, she fell to her knees, gasping, spitting out rank dust.
Draconus joined her, brushing down his leggings. He drew off his gloves and tossed them to one side. ‘Collect your weapons, Bordersword.’
‘Lord-’
‘I saw you flinch. I felt you flinch.’
Wondering, she nodded.
‘Death and life, in there, do not welcome each other’s touch. You are with child, Feren. The seed grows within you. Now, leave my son alone.’
Fumbling to retrieve her gear, fighting a return of the unnatural lassitude, she looked up at Draconus. She felt sullied; he might as well have raped her. She could still feel the imprint of that dead hand upon her belly. Feren bared her teeth. ‘Take him then.’
Rint sat alone at the fire. The supper had burned. Not enough water in the stew, not enough attention from the man tending to it. He had no doubts as to what was happening out there in the darkness, and he prayed that words would be enough — but his sister was a hard woman, not easily bullied. Lord or no, Draconus might find himself facing a viper. With that thought came to him bone-deep fear.
Should you hurt her, you will have war. With the Borderswords. With me. I will take you down, Consort, and to the Abyss with the consequences.
He heard a shout from Arathan, but not well enough to make out the words. Easy to guess, however. The Lord’s son was far gone, pulled back from manhood into being a child once more. The way she wanted it. But it would not do. Draconus had not been blind to the twisting of his desires. While from beyond the ruins there was no sound at all.
A few moments later Arathan emerged from the darkness, into the fire’s light. Seeing Rint he halted. Anger and shame seemed to roll from him in waves and he was shivering. For the briefest of instants their gazes locked, and then the son of Draconus looked away.
Raskan appeared behind him, went to crouch down beside the cookpot. He leaned over, sniffed and then scowled.
‘My apologies, sergeant,’ Rint said. ‘Not enough water.’
‘It will have to do,’ Raskan said, reaching for a bowl.
‘Where are they?’ Arathan demanded.
Rint said nothing, and Raskan busied himself ladling scorched stew into his bowl.
‘You won’t win. None of you will. She’s not afraid of my father, and neither am I.’
This was taking too long. Rint struggled to keep from rising, from drawing his sword and setting out to find them. If he did that, Raskan would intervene, assert his authority, and things would break down. Two lovers in the night could unleash a war, take down an entire realm. They could not see past each other; they never did.
‘Arathan,’ he snapped as the young man made to leave the fire.
‘I have no reason to listen to you.’
‘Maybe not. But I was wondering, did your tutor ever speak to you about sacrifice? Yielding your wants in the name of peace? Did he speak of such things as he sought to guide you from childhood into adulthood?’ Rint nudged the fire with one foot, sending sparks fleeing skyward. ‘A man understands sacrifice. What needs surrendering.’
