Unlike the starkness of the guest chambers or the barely lived-in state of Hamish’s room, the walls here were adorned with various tapestries and weapons; although a few of the latter looked as though they’d been untouched for some time.
Gordon busied himself around the fireplace. Sparks flew from his flint as he lit a small fire.
“Are you certain helping me compete will be safe for you?” Darshan asked once the fire was properly ablaze. “I have no desire to cause trouble for more people than I need to over this.”
“Safe?” Gordon grinned, the expression stark in the firelight. “Nae bloody likely. Nae if me mum finds out. But you’ll do what you feel is right anyway. I think that’s part of his attraction to you. That and you’ve little to fear from our mum. It must be driving her mad, being aware of what you two were up to but nae being allowed to punish you like she did the others.”
An unpleasant tingle trickled down his spine. “And what punishments were they?” Hamish had confessed that his incarceration after being found out in the midst of a deed was the usual response—and how Darshan hated that his lover considered it as normal—but the man had never mentioned the other party in his affairs being punished.
Confusion scrunched Gordon’s face. “He didnae tell you? Nae even as a warning?” He settled on a stool set before a small writing desk. “Do you even ken she ordered the first man he was with slain?”
Darshan shook his head. Hamish spoke very little about his past exploits. And he had been given a clear enough signal that enquiring further would not be welcomed.
“Oh, aye. Nae that I’d cry over the bastard after what he did to me brother, but it’s also been the fate of every man he’s ever been caught with. Took us a wee while to figure out what was happening to them, being that they were mostly sailors.”
“Every man?” Darshan echoed. Small wonder Hamish had shunned intimacy for so many years. Darshan didn’t think he’d be capable of getting it up if he thought for one moment that it would mean the other person’s death. Nor would he be surprised if that revelation coincided with Hamish’s first attempt on his own life.
“Aye. Just as the old scriptures say.” The man’s mouth twisted sourly. “Me mum willnae deal such a punishment to ‘Mish—or maybe she would have if our sister hadnae been a spellster, we’ll never ken—but the men who, supposedly, led him astray?” He shrugged. “All I could do was help make sure he didnae get caught.”
A sickening lump settled in Darshan’s gut, forcing out a question even though he was sure he already had the answer. “What truly became of the dwarven ambassador?” Hamish believed the man to have been whisked out of the kingdom, but his lover had also been confined to his quarters during the days following their exposure.
Gordon grunted. “ ‘Mish told you about him, then. He did leave alive. Nearly joined the others, though. Thank the Goddess that Nora talked her out of it.” Gordon slapped his hand down on the writing desk. “But what does a prince of Udynea have to fear? Even if you were nae as hard to kill as I suspect, having you disappear like the rest could only lead to war. Me mum may be quick on the temper, but she’s nae stupid. She wouldnae risk having your Mhanek howling for blood.”
“Thank the gods for small mercies.” Although, he doubted he could count on one hand the number of people who’d be happy to see him dead. He scratched at his cheek, disturbing the short hairs that had grown during his fortnight journey to the cloister and back. “Is there a reason you brought me to what I assume is your quarters?”
Gordon peered at him. “The real question is: Do you ken how to fight?” He nodded at the glowing orb still hovering at Darshan’s shoulder. “Beyond some flashy sorcery and fistfights?”
Darshan bit his lip. He relied quite a bit on his magic. More than he should, even by his father’s standards. The vris Mhanek, according to his father, should be confident in defending himself even in times where the worst had come to pass and he was leashed. “Swords?” he offered.
Those green eyes pinned Darshan to the spot with a piercing look. “And how much training have you had?”
Far less than he should have. “I have… dabbled here and there.” His twin boasted more skill with a blade than he, but she wasn’t here.
Groaning, the man rubbed at his temples and stood. “That’ll nae be good enough. Nae when you’ll be up against seasoned warriors.” He prodded Darshan’s chest with one broad finger. “You’re me brother’s only chance of getting out of here without—”
“—causing a civil war?”
Gordon grunted. “Or another bloody hunt,” he muttered, striding over to a chest. “If you’re serious about this—about me brother—then you will train. You’ve a week before the last handful of clan competitors arrive, then it’s only the trials.”
“There is but three.” He had no idea what they entailed, but how difficult could they be if someone without magic was expected to pass them?
“Aye and if you fail one, that’s it. ‘Mish loses. If you want to have any chance of winning this and keeping me brother from a short, miserable life, then you had better be in the training yard at dawn. Every day until the last of them arrives.”
“Duly noted.”
“In the meantime…” Gordon threw open the chest. It contained a few drab articles of clothing and a bundle of other objects wrapped in cloth. He gathered up a few articles and tossed them at Darshan’s feet. “Let’s see if I’m
