Chapter 15: The Rut

The next morning, Sasha woke up on the plush daybed by the window in the breakfast nook. He was half in armor, half in wraps. The knight’s helmet was still on his head, slightly askew.

He sat up and righted it, squinting through its unfamiliar slits to reacquaint himself with the room. The hazy morning light was peeking in through a crack in the curtains.

Lark was on the floor beside the bed, swaddled in blankets, twitching to escape a dream. Why had neither of them slept in the bed?

Right. They bickered about that. They were too stubborn to share it or have one take it while the other slept less comfortably. In the end, nobody won.

Sasha reacquainted himself with his body next. He didn’t feel terrible, but he didn’t feel peak either. His head sat a bit heavier than usual. Did Lark operate like this all the time?

Speak of the devil, and he shall snort himself awake. Lark flopped onto his back, limbs splaying like a starfish. “Baise-moi à mort,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“What?” Sasha grunted back, just as rough.

“Fuck me to death.”

“In what language?”

“Any – every language. As long as I die before this hangover sets in, preferably mid-climax.”

“I won’t be doing that.”

Lark’s messy head poked up to glare. “It’s a jest, Sasha. I’m a jester. Also, you should be so lucky. I happen to be a legend lover.”

Sasha grunted again, hoping that one conveyed how little he cared. Then he stood, the joints of his armor (and his actual joints) creaking, and went about drawing the curtains.

As if the blood-red wine had induced vampirism, Lark hissed and recoiled from the light. His voice was muffled by the blanket he yanked over his head. “Ça me fait chier!”

Sasha scowled. “What is that?”

He received no response. Annoyed, he snatched up his other helmet (not the cursed stag) and stalked into the washroom to freshen up.

By the time he emerged, Lark was upright. Swaying a little in his seat by the window, maybe somewhat green, but definitely conscious.

“I need you today,” Sasha said. “To help with the staff. They won’t talk to me alone.”

Lark’s face pinched. “And you think they’ll talk to me?”

“If you are such a ‘legend’ lover, then yes. I do.”

༻❁༺

They checked out the barn first, where the cows were kept. They found nothing of interest, and the farmhands and milkmaids were unaware of any illicit milk usage or note-writing.

They had plenty to say to Lark, though. Insults, mostly. One even slapped him with a glove.

Seemed he wasn’t as legend as he claimed. Something about him always leaving in a rush? No kissing on the mouth, which was…bad, Sasha guessed? Not really his wheelhouse.

They went to the kitchens next, a bustling network in the belly of the palace. Lark brought them to the robust woman in charge. She was pulling fresh hand pies from the oven. Meat.

“Sweet, succulent Shona,” Lark simpered, draping himself across her counter. “May we have the cheekiest little peek in your pantry?”

The woman, ‘Shona,’ scoffed. “Another one? I trust you’ll keep it brief, as usual.” She turned to Sasha. “Manage your expectations. He’s like morning dew – vanishes with the sun.”

The look on Lark’s face was priceless. “Who bunched the collective knickers today?”

“We just want to look around,” Sasha edged in. They were on a time crunch.

“Aye, aye,” Shona said. “Grab a pie from the basket on your way out. Miss Prissabelle said the first batch was overdone.”

“Thank you,” Sasha replied, “but I can’t eat meat.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Lark asked as they entered the vast, multi-room pantry. “All I’ve seen you eat is – what do you call it?”

“Pocket soup.”

“Pocket soup. Ugh. What about sucking the bone of a nice, juicy–”

Sasha’s stomach rumbled. “Will you focus?”

Nothing in the pantry. He stepped into the larder: stained floors, animal droppings, a black cat nibbling on an old rind of cheese. The scent of rancid dairy touched the air.

Based on how infrequently Shona and her crew cleaned the place, the chances of finding something from over a week ago were high.

Lark greeted the cat. The cat meowed. He gasped. “Langue d’or?” It nodded. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Est-ce qu’une femme violette est passée par ici?”

In response, the cat hissed (something awful, judging by the way Lark clutched his proverbial pearls) and scampered through a half-open window. What a sideshow.

“Fuck your mother!” he called after it. “Cats, I tell you. Incorrigible.”

Sasha was about to ask after that guttural gibberish, again, when his attention was drawn to the ceramic jugs stacked under the windowsill. Milk jugs. One was knocked over.

He knelt and picked it up by the handle. Pasted to the side that had been sitting in a lumpy puddle of spoiled milk was a scrap of fine lavender cloth.

Lark regarded the cloth with horror. “Is that..?”

“Maeve’s,” Sasha confirmed, heart sinking. “She wrote the note.”

༻❁༺

Sasha got Lark to leave by simply reminding him of the pre-party, which started in a few short hours. Lark hustled out, allowing Sasha to walk Maeve’s path alone.

He started from the larder and worked backwards. She’d entered through the window, clung to the outer walls to remain hidden on the way. She must have done this at night.

When he reached the center of the courtyard, he lost the trail. Her footsteps had been walked over hundreds of times in the last week.

He was sure someone was hurting her, messing with her memory. He knew of plants and mushrooms that could induce amnesia, hallucinations, headaches.

Who was it? Another noble? He should go to the pre-party, observe them all in action.

He had yet to set eyes on the queen. Maybe she was involved.

What would he do if she was? That was a far grander scale than he was used to.

He chose not to dwell, instead returning to his quarters. He undressed, wound down with a tepid bath, and splayed on his bed the way Lark had earlier.

His legs hung off and his fingers curled around either side of the mattress, but it was a nice way to stretch out.

He remained like that until dusk. Might have fallen asleep. When his eyes reopened, he felt rested and ready to glower at some nobles until he perceived their darkest secrets.

He donned the wraps, the clothes, the padding, the armor, and a faded, ocean blue cloak he found hanging in the armoire. It smelled faintly of rum.

༻❁༺

The decor of the pre-party was sleeker than that of the pre-pre-party: less candles in the ballroom, more curtains draped between the pillars, more sexy, secluded nooks to get lost in.

Sasha preferred this decor, but – as the queen pointed out in last night’s letter – he preferred to be hidden. He started in the outlooks on the second level, got a nice aerial view.

He might not have been the brightest nor the quickest, but he liked to think he was at the very least observant. Too bad there were so many people (and elves, lots of elves) to observe.

Also, for some reason, he could only focus on the one. Where was Lark? Why did he care? Why wasn’t Lark performing yet? Did it matter?

“I had no idea you were so flexible,” a familiar voice reached Sasha from far below. Predator. “How much?”

“Sorry?” The second voice was Lark’s. Where were they?

“To see how far you can bend,” Nathair purred. Somewhere downstairs. Out in the open. “How much? Five gold scallops?”

“Five scallops for a night in your creepy sex dungeon?” Lark scoffed. “Yeah, I heard all about it. I’ll pass.”

“Are we pretending you have a choice?”

“Do you see an apron, Nathair? No, because I’m not a fucking servant for you to buy–”

“Ten scallops, and the queen will not hear of your insolence. Final offer.”

Sasha had heard enough. He descended the stairs two at a time; he could still hear Lark and Nathair through the walls.

“Look, I…actually took a vow of celibacy. Just now. Very sacred.” Lark sounded nervous, a far cry from the man who said he would ‘fight anyone.’ Sasha’s blood boiled. “Why not, right? It’s never too late to live life un-oppressed by cravings of the–”

Nathair cut him off. “Flesh?”

“Yes, exactly tha–”

Sasha burst into the ballroom’s lower level in time to see Nathair cut Lark off again, crowd him against one of the pillars, and boldly cup the front of his trousers.

“You humans,” Nathair sneered, “and your pathetic flesh.”

Anger flashed in Lark’s eyes. He stomped down on Nathair’s boot, hard, and shoved him off. Outraged, Nathair raised a bark-clad hand.

Sasha caught his arm mid-strike. Lark had braced for it – when it didn’t land, his eyes went wide. “No, Sasha–”

Nathair tried to jerk free, to no avail. He was still looking at Lark. “Tell your dog to heel,” he spat.

“Sasha, let go.”

“Will you walk away?” Sasha asked, demanding Nathair’s attention.

Finally, those cruel, half-moon grey eyes shifted to him. There wasn’t a scrap of real, sympathetic emotion in them. Only amusement. This was a game.

The voice threw itself against the walls of Sasha’s mind. Predator. Predator. Kill.

“That’s not how it works,” Nathair said. When his arm creaked in Sasha’s hand, he didn’t grimace – he grinned. “You will walk away, and maybe – maybe I won’t ‘slip’ and snap the little pissant’s neck–”

Sasha wasn’t sure what happened next. He wasn’t positive he was even in control.

One moment, he was restraining Nathair. The next, he was squeezing with all his might.

Nathair’s forearm snapped. Like a tree falling where everyone could hear – because everyone was listening, watching – his hand and wrist flopped over, limp and useless.

Sasha let go. Nathair clutched the broken limb to his chest. A thick amber liquid that was undoubtedly his blood started oozing out. Someone screamed. Again, the music cut short.

Nathair’s grin had faltered, but it came back wilder than ever. He whipped a rapier from the flowing depths of his robes with his uninjured hand and assumed en garde position.

“Very good,” he hissed, enunciating with a sharp beat on Sasha’s breastplate. “You better be human under there. This tacky floor could use a splash of red.”

“Put that away,” Sasha said. Only seemed to fuel the fire. Nathair lunged, that time jabbing at the thin gap between gorget and helm. Sasha smacked the blade away, inadvertently initiating the duel.

He heard Lark cry out his name as he stumbled to dodge Nathair’s savage, rapid-succession strikes. They were relentless, all aimed at the gaps, the weaknesses in his armor. If a single drop of his blood was spilled…

No weapon. Nathair’s was moving too quickly to catch and disarm. A flurry of steel, it slashed and poked and slashed and poked. The crowd moved with Sasha as he blocked with his arms and staggered, blocked and staggered, back and back.

He fought witless, slobbering monsters. He could count on one hand, one finger, the number of times he had faced an armed enemy. Nathair clearly had training. His stance was flawless, footwork light, bearing the grace of a dancer.

Sasha’s stance was clumsy, unevenly distributed. To dodge the next stab, he jerked back and knocked into a server, used the tray they abandoned to block the following sequence. No openings. He needed to create one.

In a last-ditch effort, he chucked the tray at Nathair’s head; it connected with a stunningly hollow bonk. Then, taking a page from Lark’s book, he viciously stomped on Nathair’s leather boot with his metal one. There was a crack. Nathair howled and hopped.

Finally, an opening. Only because Sasha knew a broken foot wouldn’t stop his foe, not because it felt so righteous, he punched Nathair square in the jaw and sent him sprawling into the middle of the ballroom. The crowd parted to avoid him.

From the sidelines, Lark whooped. The rest followed suit, laughing and cheering as Nathair, on the ground, held a handkerchief to his cracked wooden lips.

“Heathen!” he seethed. Sounded like he had swallowed most of his teeth. “I will dethtroy you! I will perthonally prithe the teeth from your–”

“Stop,” a voice chimed from behind Sasha, smooth and clear as a silver bell. Though it wasn’t particularly loud nor unpleasant, it cooled his blood.

It had a similar effect on Nathair, whose eyes bulged. He dropped the handkerchief and shifted to his knees.

One by one, the rest of the crowd followed suit. Even Lark; he almost sprained his own neck signaling Sasha to get down.

Sasha was in shock. He couldn’t get his body to move, much less kneel. After an insufferable number of seconds, he managed to stiffly turn around.

He didn’t understand human attraction, no, but the woman in the ballroom entrance, flanked by four attending ladies (Maeve suspiciously absent), possessed a lethal amount of allure.

Her bones were sharp, yet in person they formed a harmonious square. And her hazel eyes, large and heavily hooded, held more depth than a brushstroke could ever capture.

She was mesmerizing. Almost magnetic. Sasha had a hard time looking elsewhere, particularly because she was somehow holding his gaze through his helmet.

“Breathe,” she instructed. He tried. Her attention shifted to the elf. “Nathair.”

Nathair went rigid. “My queen?”

She glided past Sasha, a vision of copper and gold, and trapped Nathair’s fallen rapier beneath her heel. “What is this?”

“A…weapon.”

“And what is my rule?” she – we’re among friends, we can simply call her Hellebore – asked. “My only rule?”

Nathair gulped. “No weapon.”

“No weapon.”

“My liege, I–”

“Tamsin?”

Tamsin emerged from behind the queen, sullen and storm-faced in comparison. Together they looked like a sad rain cloud and a brilliant shock of lightning.

“Yes?” Tamsin asked.

“This one has gone astray,” Hellebore stated. “He needs correction.”

Tamsin sighed. “As you wish.”

Sasha didn’t know what ‘correction’ entailed, but Nathair seemed to have some idea. He blubbered, kissed Hellebore’s heel. In minutes, he was gone, escorted out of the ballroom.

Hellebore remained standing with quiet authority until the excitement settled and the festivities resumed. Then she turned to Sasha. “May I have the next dance?” she asked.

Lark had been wandering closer smidge by smidge, spinning those clear juggling balls on his fingers for some enthralled onlookers. At that, the balls toppled.

With no other choice, Sasha nodded. Hellebore beamed and it was as if all the candles in the ballroom flared to life.

“Very good.” Her words were an echo of Nathair’s. “These floors are due for some new blood.”

༻❁༺

Their dance turned out to be a contra, or country dance. The floor cleared to make way for two long, parallel lines. Sasha tried to recall the steps of a contra: meet in the center, spin, return to start…switch partners at some point? Shit.

Stuck in the middle, he was clearly out of his depth. The queen, his first partner in the line directly across, offered him a reassuring (surprisingly effective) smile. Follow my lead, she mouthed.

Thankfully, the dance started out slow and plodding. When he reached the middle, Hellebore raised her hand and beckoned with molten gold eyes. He tentatively placed his palm flat against hers.

“Curious choice in cloak,” she observed about his blue one as they walked a lazy circle around each other. “It once belonged to one of ours – a soldier. He stayed in your very room.”

“Where is he now?” Sasha asked. He was sure he looked ridiculous tripping over his own feet; any distraction was welcome.

They parted, returned to start, then met for another spin. Faster than the last. “My father sent him to his death,” she said. “I consider it a great loss.”

“I’m sorry,” Sasha replied.

Rinse and repeat. Part, meet. She smiled on the third spin. Dizzying. “What is it they say in Balg? ‘Every oyster has a pearl?’”

“Never been,” he managed. Her brow raised in question.

Time to switch. He would have messed up had Lark, through sheer force of will, not ended up his next partner. Lark caught his hand and seamlessly steered him along as the group jumbled and rearranged, all different pairings now.

“How are you not shitting yourself?” Lark whispered. The steps had quickened with the switch; they returned to their starting lines before Sasha could respond.

“I am,” he whispered back when next they met in the middle.

Something about that hit Lark right in the funny bone. Laughter burst from his lips in a giddy peal that caused him to fumble his next steps. Those around him fumbled theirs. This rippled out, affecting a good chunk of the line. Absolute disaster.

It only made Lark laugh harder. He gave in and doubled over in hysterics as those around him struggled to regain rhythm. Delight, cathartic after all the ugliness, seized his features, dimpled his cheeks, crinkled his eyes. He had never looked so bright.

That laugh was beauty, Sasha caught himself thinking. He’d gladly pursue Lark anywhere just to hear it again.