Step, rise. Breathing deep and steady. Step, rise. Just as she’d practiced these past three years.
Though for practice in her tower chamber, she’d only been able to build an irregular series of four steps out of footstools and stacks of bedding. This had five times that number of risers, and each one seemed as steep as a mountainside.
A scrabble of claws against wood came from behind her. Yvenne’s heart lurched into her throat when Steel and Bone bounded past her legs, upsetting her balance. So fiercely did she grip the railing, it ought have splintered beneath her fingers. Ahead the dogs turned and waited, tongues dangling. Her short gasps echoing the wolves’ panting, Yvenne focused on their toothy grins and continued up.
Step, rise.
By the time she reached the landing, cold sweat dampened her brow. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably when she released the railing.
Going down the stairs would be harder. But not until tomorrow must she face that terror.
With a hand upon his sword, Fassad told her to wait with the dogs outside the chamber entrance. She looked curiously through the door as he went inside and began searching the dark corners of the room. It was not a large chamber compared to the one she and her mother had shared in the tower, but it was bigger than many of the other rooms Yvenne had seen since they’d begun traveling. A curtain separated two sleeping areas—one side larger and more open, perhaps intended for the guests’ children or servants. Behind the curtain, the tin bathtub sat at the foot of the master’s bed, steam rising from the water’s surface. Fassad bent to look beneath the bedstead as if searching for thieves who might lie in wait.
At the stone hearth, the maid laid peat on the grate. “It is a warm night,” she said to Yvenne, “but your clothing and hair will dry more quickly in front of a hot fire. Shall I help you remove your robe and linens?”
Yvenne had never been bare in front of anyone but her mother, and that rarely. A screen in their tower chamber had served the same function as the curtain did here. “Thank you, no. I can attend to myself.”
With a nod, the maid said, “Is there anything more you require?”
“I think this will do.” Yvenne opened her satchel to find her coin purse. “What is your name?”
“Sarus, my lady.”
“Thank you, Sarus.”
Eyes as bright as the gold glinting in her palm, Sarus’s gaze darted about the room, as if searching for something else to do. She stilled when that gaze landed on Fassad, and Yvenne did not see the warrior’s expression herself, but the maid’s hasty exit told her that his face forbade any more delay.
He said a few words to Steel and Bone, who immediately raced inside the chamber and began sniffing the corners.
Digging into her satchel again, Yvenne searched for her soap and silver comb, laying them within reach of the tub. “You do not mind that the wolves stay with me?”
Fassad’s reply was an amused rumble. “The true question is whether they mind staying with you, and I think they do not. You spoil them.”
So she did. “Do you mind that?”
“No.” The tall warrior withdrew to the chamber entrance. “If you need anything, shout. I’ll be directly outside.”
The door latched behind him. Yvenne wasted no time shedding her soiled robe and stained linens. Never had sinking into heated water felt so fine. A moan of pleasure escaped her, the sound apparently unusual enough that the wolves’ ears pricked forward and they drew closer to investigate. Curiously they sniffed the rim of the tub and her cake of soap before thrusting their shaggy muzzles into the water, long tongues lapping.
Laughing, Yvenne pushed at their big heads with dripping hands. “Go and take your rest.”
They trotted over to the fire, where they curled up on the wooden floors that had felt so much warmer beneath her feet than the polished stone of her tower chamber. Coarse linens covered a mattress stuffed with straw, and the bedposts were roughly carved. Nothing like the silks and pillows that had adorned the tower. But in truth, there was little difference. Her mother had made certain Yvenne would recognize that. For what was the luxury in the tower but the labor of Syssians? She washed now with soap made by Syssian hands, perfumed with anise grown by Syssian farmers. Her comb was made of Syssian silver, mined and smithed—and when she finished washing her hair, she dunked soiled linens woven by Syssian weavers, then scrubbed a silk robe sewn by Syssian seamstresses.
Her father never understood that. He saw the luxury as his due—not the debt that it truly was. A people’s efforts made a realm strong, and a ruler’s duty was to dedicate all of her efforts toward protecting her people’s safety and freedom.
For freedom was the greatest luxury. Freedom and a full belly.
Now her belly was full of Gogean meat. Wrapping her body in a coarse Gogean cloak, Yvenne hung up her clothing to dry. Warmed by the heat of a Gogean peat fire, she sat on the edge of a Gogean bed, leisurely threading her comb through her hair.
Had she ever been more content? Yvenne could not recall a time. Content in her purpose, though so much remained undone. Content in her choice of husband, who was angry and grieving, yet who still listened when she claimed he was not a king—and who had defended her to his warriors, despite reprimanding her in the stables for failing in her duty to them all. She had not been mistaken when she’d chosen Maddek, though their marriage would never be an easy one. And nothing would ever be settled between them unless he allowed her to speak of his mother.
Perhaps when the grief was not so sharp, when Maddek learned to trust her, he might rescind that vow.
Perhaps.
Sighing, she carefully wrapped the soft perfumed soap in waxed parchment before tucking it away into her satchel. At the bottom lay a heavy velvet pouch containing her gold and jewelry. She wore no jewelry now but would don one item in that pouch after her marriage to Maddek: a silver crest, much like the one he wore upon his thumb.
Ran Ashev had worn the crest that now rested in her jewelry pouch. Yvenne would place his mother’s crest around her own thumb . . . if he ever allowed her to say how she came by it. For just as her fury and pain were all but impossible to separate, so his rage and grief seemed entwined. While still heartstricken by the murder of his parents, if he saw Yvenne wearing Ran Ashev’s ring he might cut off her thumb rather than listen to her explanation.
And she did not want to lose more fingers. Or her tongue.
A tap sounded at the door, followed by, “Are you still in the bath? It is Danoh.”
Coming to sleep. “I am finished,” Yvenne called.
Beyond the request to enter, Danoh did not speak and Yvenne did not expect her to. From her perch on the edge of the bed and behind the thin curtain, she could not clearly see the rest of the room, so it almost seemed as if she were alone. In the quiet, she strapped her jeweled dagger to her calf again, then admired the glint of the hilt’s rubies and sapphires against her brown skin. How well she liked the feel of the weapon—especially now, when she had no other protection but her cloak.