“You brought it upon yourself. You’re the one who dared to speak to me in that manner.” Rather than follow, his mother stood her ground and pointed at the floor before her. “Now get back here.”
His feet took him back through the doorway. Standing in the corridor, faced with a vision of his mother he’d never witnessed before, he fled.
Even in that, he had been hounded by her voice.
Hamish’s hands shook as he raised his final arrow. His feet had taken him here, scuttling to the familiar like a roach. But even out here, in the heart of the only act that gave him some measure of control, he wasn’t free of her.
And what exactly did he command? His skill with a bow? It lay shattered across the archery range. Stolen from him by… by…
The memory of the arrow he had loosed out in the forest filled his mind. The way it had twitched, veering off at an angle no trick archer could ever attempt—
Steady. Focus.
The arrow flew from his fingers, landing short.
Screaming, he lobbed the bow after it. Even that didn’t make the blasted target.
Hamish raged up and down the line, throwing everything that his hands could get on down the range. Nothing he did mattered. He had nothing, not even his skill. He commanded nothing, least of all his life.
He was nothing.
Fury spent and, exhausted to his core, he leant over the low stone wall. Only an old, deeply aching sorrow was left. What am I going to do? He hung his head. What could he do?
Nothing.
“Now dinnae get me wrong,” his father said. “But I’m sure it works better when the arrow flies, nae the bow.”
Hamish jerked his head up. How long had his father been standing there watching him fail at the one thing he’d been good at? Did he know what his wife had done? Did he care? “Can you nae talk to her?”
“The bow?” His father scratched at his beard, a weak attempt at a jovial smile on his lips. “I dinnae think she’ll listen to me, lad.” He winced as Hamish levelled a glare at him.
“Mum,” Hamish clarified, certain his father knew exactly who he meant. Reclaiming his bow and another arrow, he returned his focus to the target. “Do you ken what she has done now?”
“You mean announcing the union contest for your hand? Aye.” His father sighed. “I dinnae think your mum will listen to me any more than the bow. She’s pretty dead set on this.”
You better understand that, whoever wins your hand, you will marry them. His mother’s final words echoed through his mind, digging their barbs into him.
Tears blurred his vision, but still he stared at the watery image of the target. There was a way out that involved him not letting the union contest come to pass. It was a path he had tried once before and so much of him didn’t want to go through with another attempt. But marriage? It was no less likely to end in warfare than refusing. That left him with one action that was solely his to take.
I understand what you want from me, Mum. The bowstring snapped against his bare arm, taking off a thin layer of skin on its way.
The arrowhead struck dead centre on the target. He had one chance.
And he knew precisely how to do it without a single scrap of blame falling upon anyone’s shoulders.
Darshan stared at the note unfurled and pinned on the table before him by two small weights. It was the reply from his father’s trade council on the percentages they recommended for any textile beyond the desired linen. Most were as dismally low as he had expected them to be.
What was he going to do with it? Perhaps if he had the inclination to barter further, he would throw caution to the wind and strike a temporary deal that leant in Tirglas’ favour. As things stood? Especially with Queen Fiona’s ire at the supposed corruption of her son still strong…
He just couldn’t bring himself to care for any of it.
Worse still, how was he going to explain all this to his father? Sorry, I was too focused on getting a prince into my bed to care about trade. Where would his father ship him off to next? Cezhory? The Independent Isles? Perhaps he would be of better use serving the dwarven hedgewitches. Most of them wouldn’t even acknowledge a proposition, much less be lured by it.
Hamish managed. How? His lover seemed like such a reserved man, at least in comparison to past flings. What had Hamish said that had convinced a hedgewitch to—?
A door slammed open, jolting him from his musing. After being given the message, Nora had assured him he would have the library all to himself this afternoon. Who had invaded his privacy? And why? Was it some urgent missive from his father or the senate? Perhaps even from the trade council itself. Or something far sinister?
Abandoning the message, he peered around the bookshelf.
Hamish filled the doorway, a positively glowing example of divine work, his chest heaving with each ragged breath and his stance one of purpose.
“ ‘Mish.” A quick cast about the room confirmed they were alone. “Mea lux, whilst your presence is always a welcome sight, I am—” Words failed him as the man stepped into the candlelight.
Those sapphiric eyes lifted. Dull and crushed. Pain moulded that handsome face, turning it ghastly.
“What is it?”
His lover silently wrapped an arm around him, firmly holding Darshan against that broad chest. Their lips met with none of the man’s usual gentleness or wariness; just harsh desperation. A soft whimper escaped Hamish’s lips. Far too much like a sob to ignore.
Darshan pushed back, patting Hamish’s chest once they’d some distance between them. “As much as I appreciate the senti—”
“I need you inside me,” his lover grated. “Now.”
“No.” Clearly, Hamish had been crying; those gorgeous eyes were rimmed
