“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “If you must. Then leave us.”
There was a changing screen near the brazier and Lia walked to it and discovered several other garments – some thin chemises and another gown. She carefully withdrew the first damp gown and fitted it to the pegs on the changing screen so it could dry by the fire. Sweat ran down her cheeks.
“Will you answer me, Lady Marciana?” he said, turning his attention back. “Will you please explain to me again why you will not marry the Lord Earl? Do you not care for him?”
“I do,” Marciana said, sobbing.
“You think him not clever enough for you? He is too old and doddering for you? There are many a girl from your station who are forced to marry as children. The king orders them to be wed, despite their feelings. Can you imagine that? Being forced to marry a man at fifty as the Queen Dowager was forced to marry your dead king? You are being given a choice! A chance for wealth. A chance for power. A chance to have children who will love you and adore you. To be a mother, as you did not have one. Do you not long for that? To be a mother? To comfort and nurture a sweet baby. Can you imagine holding that son or daughter in your arms? Can you comprehend the joy of hearing its first cry?” The voice was mesmerizing and it filled Lia with hungers she had never experienced before. She slammed the thoughts away because they distracted and ensnared. They wove through the most delicate part of her feelings. But the threads were not pure in their intent.
“He can give that to you,” the man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Even joys and pleasures you do not comprehend. Is it wrong to crave children, my lady? Can you imagine holding the child. Suckling him. Loving him. Does not your heart crave these things? Your baby. Your own. Will you not accept Lord Dieyre’s offer of marriage? I am not asking you to yield to the binding, just a promise that you will when you reach Dahomey. Let him declare his feelings for you himself. As I told you, he is no longer a prisoner of the Crown. He is not in rebellion against the throne, but a champion of the young king and an enemy of the usurper, Garen Demont. You know this to be true. He is the only one who can save you and thus save your brother. Can you be so selfish?”
Lia looked at Marciana’s eyes. She was tortured, exhausted, and weak. How long had she been captive, living in the Stews, unable to know what happened to those she loved? The air was perfumed and cloying. Lia was sure the cider had been treated with other herbs or had been allowed to spoil and strengthen its flavor. The man in the black cassock, the kishion, manipulated her feelings with deftness and cruelty.
“I am so thirsty,” Marciana said with a tremulous sigh. She was begging.
“Then drink the cider,” came the reply and he poured some from a bottle into a golden cup and offered it to her. His back was to Lia as she started towards him stealthily.
“Water,” she pleaded.
“Just a sip, to quench your thirst,” he promised, holding up the chalice.
Lia pushed the dirk blade into his back. She knew right where to stab, right where his air would spill out. The fabric slit. Blood bloomed on her hand, warm and hot. He gasped, thrashing. His neck jerked around, his silver eyes burning into hers, sending her into a daze of panicked emotions as he died. In that instant, she could see into his frenzied thoughts, full of terror because the Myriad Ones would leave his body now.
He slumped to the floor and Lia let him fall. She lowered the shawl.
Marciana looked at her, puzzled, confused. Then her eyes widened with shock and horror. “The kishion,” she hissed. “Behind you!”
Lia heard the body swing down from the rafters and fall like a sure-footed cat. The kishion blocked the doorway leading out. She realized, too late, that the man in the black cassock was not the kishion after all. She realized also that her gladius was still in the basket.
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Broken
“Oh Lia, he will kill us both!” Marciana whispered. “He has not left me since Muirwood.”
The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. Lia swallowed, trying to contain her fear. She wished again, pointlessly, that Kieran was with her. Her mind raced as she glanced about the room, looking for a way to shift the balance.
“Stay behind me,” Lia said. The kishion started towards them with twin daggers in his hands. He had the same dead eyes she had seen before, a man utterly devoid of feelings. A scar ran down his left cheek. His eyes were blue, his hair cropped short. There was something in the look of his mouth, some rugged quality of his chin that told her he had survived many fights and killed many – even women.