Chapter Text
Julien is forced down on his knees, hitting the ground with a grunt. Chest heaving from panic and pain, he strains against the cord binding his wrists.
“Be still,” the knight of House Seremai growls.
Julien knew his name once, but all his recollections are scattered to the winds by terror.
The first two times he was thrown down like this, made to rest in hovels in the pose of a slave, he fought. He looked around frantically and tried to scramble about. Now his ribs ache on both sides, one of his ears is ringing, and Aranessa’s cracked voice echoes in his throbbing skull: “Please, Julien—don’t fight! They’ll kill you if you fight!”
This place is no hovel, but he knows better than to take stock of his surroundings. He stares at the fine, wine-dark carpet beneath him. It is embroidered with a motif of birds bearing golden keys, all of them looking skyward. In his somnambulistic state, he wonders what falcon awaits them, and that makes him laugh.
The knight gives him a thump beneath the shoulder blades—not an attack, but a reminder. “Silence,” he mutters. “You await the entry of Sir Tachonis.”
Julien chokes back his hysteria. There are half a dozen men who serve under the title, from lesser cousins to Primus Tachonis’s own sons. Which one will soon enter? Who has been sent to impart the news of their judgement?
He hears footsteps approach the door: the now-familiar sound of two knights marching a prisoner. The door is thrown open on creaky hinges. He can hear Aranessa panting in terror.
The chair at the head of the table makes a shrieking sound as it is dragged back. He hears a discomfited huff as Aranessa is shoved down into it.
“Your ladyship, you will not be waiting long,” Sir Seremai assures her. “Sir Tachonis has already arrived to greet you. If you so choose, you are free to put your hands beneath the table.”
“How kind of you to let me hide the bonds he already knows are there,” she hisses.
Julien straightens up, holding his head up high. He might be on his knees, but he will show he is unbowed.
He realizes that there is a rheumy mirror hanging at the far end of the hall through which he can catch sight of Aranessa. Dark circles are etched beneath her eyes, but she has been allowed to change from her travel clothes into a dress befitting of her standing, and it seems she was permitted a lady’s maid to arrange her hair and makeup.
Aranessa addresses him. “Julien, are you alright?”
“I am fine, my lady,” he croaks.
“Keep your nerve,” she orders. “Whatever transpires here, you are to keep your nerve and hold your temper. Am I understood?”
He clears his throat, hoping to sound as if he hasn’t howled himself hoarse a dozen times in the past three days. “I will obey,” he replies.
Both of them jump at the distant sound of a heavy iron door closing. It is the front door of this lonely tower, a secondary holding of the Seremai.
Some point after Julien's second head injury, time became an indistinct concept. He knows the passing of day and night, but he cannot tell a minute from a year. They wait in gravid silence for what feels like a century.
At last, the unwelcome sound of boots approaching down the hall. The soldier in Julien numbers those in heavy armor between four and eight, but one can never hear those in finer footwear approaching from afar.
The oaken door of the room is thrown open again, and someone in leather boots enters. Even before he speaks, Julien knows he is a herald.
“I introduce Sir Ethrand Tachonis, Duke of Caer Sul.”
Julien maintains his proud posture, but his mind is reeling. What madness is this? Primus Tachonis orders the assassination of my father and the kidnapping of my lady, then shows her the respect of sending his favored son to welcome her to her captivity?
From the dim lamplight of the corridor, Julien watches the figure of Ethrand Tachonis step forth. He is tall and graceful, his dark hair coiffed, his stance prideful. In spite of his fine features, the cold contempt in his expression makes him ugly. He is too warped by his family’s greed for Julien to see anything of his face except that barely-veiled sneer.
Julien doesn’t dare to move a muscle with this great oaf of a knight still at his back, but he is still here, and there are standards to keep. It is shameful for the lord of a House to be heralded by a man on his knees, but unthinkable that she will go unannounced.
Julien clears his throat and speaks. “I introduce to you Lady Aranessa Royce, Lord of House Royce, Steward of the Golden Orchard.”
He sees a tightening in Aranessa’s posture. He understands why she fears the worst, but he will not see her be disrespected in this way, too.
Ignoring Julien like a buzzing gnat, Ethrand gives her a formal bow. Aranessa watches Ethrand through the mirror, but she offers him no acknowledgement.
Ethrand’s lip twitches, and Julien’s hand jerks toward a rapier that isn’t there. Yet Ethrand makes no response to Aranessa’s rudeness. Perhaps he feels the reality of the situation excuses a certain amount of impoliteness, or perhaps he knows the cruelty already awaiting her will satisfy him no matter what.
Flanked by two knights, he proceeds to the far end of the table, where he takes his seat. Now Julien can see him properly. His finery is impeccably selected, and his collar is well-starched, but his clothing bears the characteristic creases of a man who has spent all day on horseback. He came here in a hurry, then. They must not have expected to catch Lady Royce so soon.
It was a turn of bad luck, not a failure of judgement, but Julien still hates himself for it. He hates himself for many things, both actions and omissions. All of his fecklessness has led him here, a sorry path of predestination that began with his conception and ended with a lamed horse in an unforgiving bog.
The horse could ride no more, the riders were right on their heels, and they were forced to dismount in that treacherous peat bog. Wading into that bog meant certain death, but they both debated it. Was it better to be captured or be drowned? Aranessa decided she would take the small chance of a future escape over choking to death on muddy water, but at this point, Julien can tell she’s doubting her decision.
Julien is surprised when Ethrand’s gaze falls upon him. The expression Ethrand wears is the same analytical gaze of an arcanist beholding a new sigil. Julien feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but he refuses to let his eyes leave Ethrand’s face.
“I am pleased to see you here, Lord Davinos. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Julien feels like all the air is punched out of him. The tacit barb at the end is nothing compared to the title. He—he hadn’t thought about it. There hasn’t been time to think about anything, so he hadn’t thought about it.
There will be no feast of succession. There will be no bittersweet day when Aranessa stands above him and places the mantle on his shoulders. But all the same, he is his father’s son. His line goes on, and the fact he might be the last of it does nothing to change the fact that he is now Lord Julien Davinos.
Julien has kept his eyes on Ethrand all the while, not out of steadfast defiance, but because he is frozen in place. This seems to please Ethrand, who gives him a patronizing smile, then turns his attention back to Aranessa.
“And Lady Royce. I am sure your journey was not as pleasant as I would have preferred, but we are pleased to welcome you.”
Aranessa’s face is a cutting parody of congeniality. “We so appreciate your family’s beneficence, Sir Tachonis.”
His smile could freeze Hell. “You are too kind.” He sits back in his chair, assuming a pose of relaxation that sets Julien’s teeth on edge. “In the interest of being respectful of your time, I would like to address the main reason I requested your presence here today. Will you permit me?”
“You may proceed,” Aranessa intones.
Ethrand assumes a more affable smile, one that makes Julien’s blood run cold. “House Royce has a well-deserved place of honor in the annals of history, one which has not been diminished in the eyes of House Tachonis in spite of recent misfortunes.”
Aranessa nods. “We appreciate your acknowledgement of our standing.”
“We would like to offer our sincere condolences regarding the passing of your husband,” Ethrand states in a lofty drawl.
Julien sees Aranessa’s jaw go taut. “Thank you for thinking of us in our time of mourning,” she grates out.
“Of all Houses, House Tachonis would never seek to downplay or invalidate the importance of a mourning period. However, certain circumstances warrant a loosening of the proscribed timelines.”
Julien’s jaw falls ajar. He can't possibly mean...?
“I fear I fail to understand you," Aranessa hisses. "Elaborate.”
“All this recent unpleasantness was the consequence of years of unfortunate misunderstandings between our two houses. In contravention of what one might expect, I am pleased to say that I am here with an entreaty of peace.”
Aranessa allows a long silence to transpire, one that seems to make even Ethrand uncomfortable. “I will hear the details.”
“In exchange for a lasting peace, we only seek to solemnize this new alliance with a vow.” Ethrand smirks. “Accordingly, my father offers you the hand of my brother Occtis in marriage.”
Julien looks down at the rug. If he doesn’t look down at the rug, he’s going to start shouting.
All the color has drained from Aranessa’s face. “As I feel we have segued from an exchange of pleasantries into a negotiation between houses, I would like to address you with the candor expected of the latter. Will you permit me?”
“By all means.”
“Your father extends an offer of peace. What will happen if I refuse it?”
Ethrand’s tone suggests he is commenting on a matter no more consequential than the weather. “You will be hanged by dusk.”
Aranessa maintains her bearing, but when seen through the eyes of an old friend, her look is one of utter desolation. “And what of Lord Davinos?”
Julien does not flinch. He will not look away. He will accept the pronouncement of his fate.
“If you accept? He will remain your vassal, and you may direct him as you wish. If you decline? He will be offered an oath of fealty to House Tachonis. If he refuses that generous extension of our good will, then he will be hanged beside you.”
Aranessa has to clear her throat before she can speak, a nervous tic that makes a cold sweat break out on Julien’s brow. “This is a consequential decision for my house, and as with all consequential decisions, we are accustomed to the counsel of our advisors.” She clears her throat again. “Given the circumstances, I understand it is not possible for me to meet with them. However, Lord Davinos is already here. I request a few moments alone with him to confer.”
Ethrand inclines his head in a pantomime of respect. “My men and I will step out, but I hope you understand that I must leave someone to watch over you. They will stay at a respectable distance to permit privacy.”
Aranessa nods. “Very well.”
Ethrand looks at the brute behind Julien. “Get him up so that her ladyship may speak with him. We will be right outside.”
The towering knight hauls Julien to his feet. The pain in his ribs steals his breath, but he perseveres and finds his balance. He allows himself to be guided over to where Aranessa sits in silence. She does not look at either of them as they approach, instead following every step Ethrand takes until the door has fallen shut behind him.
She then looks at the knight behind Julien. “Sir, kindly take up your place at the opposite end of the room so that we may speak.”
The clank of the man’s armor indicates a bow. “As you wish, my lady.”
His armor indicates his progress, but Julien does not look at him. He only has eyes for his lord and master. He waits for her to speak with bated breath, praying she has already come up with some clever ruse.
They are still being observed by one of their captors, but this knight has already seen her thrown in the mud, and so she allows the mask of stoicism to fall away.
Julien is no longer looking at his lord and master. The woman before him is just Aranessa, and neither one of them is a lord of anything. Her eyes are full of fear.
“What do we do?” she whispers.
Julien wants to throw up, but he tells himself it’s just the head injury. “If this were any other decision, I would try to—I would try to take up my father’s mantle—and offer you counsel—but this is not a decision I can make.” He will not cry. He will not vomit. He will not scream. “If you accept it, this is an indignity that will be visited on you, not I—one I can’t protect you from.” He draws a shaky breath. “Both options are brutal. The only difference is that one will be over by nightfall.”
She takes a moment to process this pronouncement, as if she did not really absorb the options until a friendlier voice spoke them. “And if I choose death, what then?”
“You will be dead,” Julien tells her. “‘What then?’ will be irrelevant.”
“I was talking about what will happen to you if I am dead.”
He gives his old friend an unimpressed look. “If you hang, I will hang beside you.”
She sighs. “Julien.”
He hates to put on such a familiar affectation with her in public, but what is the purpose of adherence to protocol if they will both be dead by nightfall? “ I will not kiss the ring on a hand that still has my father’s blood on it. You may ask anything of me—except that.”
She lets out a slow breath, then nods. “Of—of course not. I would not ask this of you. I simply… had hope.”
He sighs. “There is no hope here.”
A flicker of something rekindles in her eyes. “For so long as there is life, I can find hope in it.”
He wants to tell her not to do it. He wants to scream at her that she cannot debase herself in such a way. She never wanted to marry anyone who would seek to control her, never gave a man the time of day if she thought he might relegate her to the role of wife and mother—and now this? This is the worst possible version of everything she has spent her life refusing to accept.
“What do I do, Julien?” she whispers.
He shudders. “It is not a man’s place to say.”
“Well, that’s tough luck for both of us, then,” she snaps, “because you’d look ridiculous in a petticoat, but you'll be telling me your thoughts regardless. That’s an order.”
He gulps. In truth, he has been so repulsed by the mere suggestion that he has been trying his best not to think through the particulars, but if he has been asked, then he must force himself to consider them.
“Well, the hanging is straightforward. The risks and benefits are clear.”
She snorts. “Indeed.”
“As for the other option… the benefit is the one you have stated already. You might not have your freedom, but you will be alive to fight another day, and I know how resourceful you are.” He tries to take a steadying breath, but it only makes his ribs hurt more. “The first indignity is the simple fact that the entire peerage will know you have been coerced into this. It will tarnish the name of your house.”
“If I die, then there will be no House Royce left to speak ill of, and my remaining vassals will be rounded up to face the same fate as their lord.”
Julien cringes at the thought, which hadn’t occurred to him until now. “I cannot argue with that last point.” He forces himself to move on to the real issue at hand. “The main question you must ask yourself is whether or not you can bear the baser indignities implied.”
She groans. “Ugh.”
“I apologize for being so coarse, but—”
“You aren’t the one who suggested it. They did.” She sighs, hanging her head. “Which one is Occtis again?”
Julien’s gut churns, but he gamely tries to recall the information. “Ah—the young one.”
She looks up at him in surprise. “The youngest? He hasn’t been at a gala or the like in years. I’d assumed he was living abroad.”
“He was at the execution,” Julien points out.
“Was he?” She looks bewildered. “How strange.”
Julien had marked this reappearance as a curiosity as well, especially as the boy hardly looked well enough to be out and about, but it hadn’t exactly been a priority. “I think he’s about 20 years old now, and by the looks of it, not in the best health.”
She perks up at the lattermost statement. “You don’t say.”
Julien drops his voice to a bare whisper. “Thin, pale and tired.”
“And young, too,” she muses. “Perhaps he won’t have the nerve.”
Julien doesn’t know what Aranessa has heard about how being 20 years old impacts a man’s libido, but he feels she might be misinformed. “He will do what his father tells him to do. You need to be prepared for that.”
She gives Julien a cagy look. “Is it too uncouth to ask Ethrand if…?”
“If?”
“If it will be expected of me.”
“If they want to put you in such a revolting situation, I think they can suffer through a few pointed questions.”
Her forehead pinches as she thinks through the options. “If I am only expected to sit there and be pretty and silent, I can bear it. If I am expected to produce an heir for the Tachonis boy, I’ll skip to the gallows singing a song.”
Julien loathes that he has to bring this up, but he needs to make sure she thinks this through. “Regardless of what his father wants, the youth might consider himself entitled to your affection.”
“He will not be anywhere near me unless it is required for a public appearance,” she hisses. “I will wall myself up in the top room of the highest tower if I have to.”
“If you say so,” is all Julien has the heart to tell her.
She straightens herself up, once more holding her head up high. “Let me bring the son of a bitch back in here, then,” she mutters. Raising her voice, she calls out, “Sir Tachonis—I have a few more questions for you.”
The door opens, and the retinue reenters. Julien tries not to glower at Ethrand for fear of inviting an accusation of impertinence, but he can’t help but stare at the man’s back as he passes.
After what feels like ages, Ethrand finally resumes his previous seat at the end of the table. “You had additional questions for me, my lady?” he prompts.
“Every marriage is different,” Aranessa begins, “and when determining the appropriateness of a match, a prospective wife must decide if she can meet the expectations of the family. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course. Do you seek clarification about our expectations?”
“Your father is not short on potential heirs. I would suggest that your youngest brother doesn’t need one.”
Ethrand fields the question with an unruffled demeanor. “We are aware that the prospect of marriage is no doubt distasteful to you so soon after your husband’s passing. Provided you enter into this marriage, and remain in the keep apportioned for your use, what you do or do not do there is at your discretion.”
“I see.” Aranessa takes a breath, then slowly lets it out. “And I will be expected to cohabitate with your brother at this keep?”
“You will.”
“I will require my own quarters.”
“That has already been arranged for.”
“You said my vassals would remain my own.”
“They will.”
“Then Lord Davinos will remain with me for my protection.”
Ethrand taps his gloved fingers on the table, pursing his lips. “I had presumed you would request this.” He turns his eyes to Julien, and for the first time, he at least pretends to gaze on him as an equal. “What do you say to this, Lord Davinos?”
Julien holds his gaze, wanting a long moment to take in the features of one of many men he intends to kill. “If she wills it, then it will be done,” he replies in an oily tone.
“Very well. You will remain at her ladyship’s… pleasure.” Ethrand has the gall to look amused with himself. Turning his attention back to Aranessa, he offers what he probably thinks of as a winning smile. “Do you have any other questions?”
“Many,” Aranessa tells him, “but none that are pursuant to the negotiation at hand.” Her eyes are unerring, boring into Ethrand with an intensity that Julien knows well enough to fear. “I would like it stated unequivocally that I participate in this conversation under duress, and so my answer to your father’s offer is provided under duress. Nonetheless, I see no other option. I accept the proposal of marriage tendered by your father on behalf of his son, Occtis.”
“Excellent,” Ethrand replies. “You will depart at dawn. Three days’ travel to the mountains.” He slaps his hand against his knee, looking so very happy. “I’m thrilled we were able to come to an arrangement. Little Occtis, engaged to be married! What a pleasant surprise.” His smile becomes far crueler. “I have a ‘one hanging per week’ rule, and I’m so glad you didn’t make me break it. Too much fun is terrible for the heart.”
The bastard is so lucky that Julien promised Aranessa he would hold his temper, because tied hands are no impediment to this kind of rage.
****
That night, they are locked in the peak of the tower. The windows were bricked up centuries ago, and the weight of the locks and bars on the doors suggests this isn’t the first time House Tachonis has used this as a prison.
In spite of this, this is the closest to a sanctuary that they’ve had since their capture. Until now, Julien has been thrown in horrible cells, and Aranessa has had armed men hanging over her like gargoyles at all hours.
The moment the door is locked behind them, what little had remained of Julien’s strength leaves him. The most he can do is totter over to an ancient couch and collapse on it instead of ending up on the floor.
“Julien!” Aranessa gasps, rushing to him.
He can’t breathe too hard, or else it hurts. “I’m alright, Nessa,” he whispers.
“You’re pale as a ghost!” she exclaims, sitting beside him. “Julien, please, speak to me.” She is clasping at his hands with clammy fingers, and he can tell that she is shaking like a leaf. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Two sets of broken ribs, two concussions...." He probes around his mouth with his tongue. "And one less molar than I started the week with." He sighs. “I’ll mend.”
She heals him, because of course she does. She’s always looked out for him, and the fact she’s being gifted to the youngest son of a megalomaniac like a fine steed hasn’t changed that.
“I can’t do anything about the tooth,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at her, and all he feels is shame. “I’m sorry. I should have done better. I should have picked a better route.”
“There was no better route,” she tells him. “We were never going to make it to the Orchard, Julien. Not without our men.”
“We could have made it. We could have.” His ear has stopped ringing, but his head feels like someone stuck a hot iron straight into his left eye. “What a mess.”
“We’re in a bit of a fix,” Aranessa concurs. “I’ve never—I thought many things of House Tachonis, none of them complimentary, but I never—I never thought—?”
She is always eloquent in her speech, and the sound of her like this makes Julien want to weep. “They have left us alone. I am certain that they’ve left nothing that can be used as an improvised weapon, but if you have rethought your choice… I am sure we can make do.”
“Why would I hang myself when I just sent away a man who was willing to do all the work for me?” Aranessa snaps.
“I am offering options.”
“Everyone is offering options today.”
He grimaces. “I apologize.”
Her expression softens. “I’m the one that’s sorry, Julien. I have nothing but gratitude for how you’ve conducted yourself. It’s unbecoming of me to take out my anger on the man who deserves it least.”
Julien’s sure there are men who deserve it less, but he’s too tired to argue. “I’m just… so sorry that it’s come to this.”
Her lips part as if she means to say something else, but before the words form on her tongue, her resolve crumbles. For the first time since it happened, she folds in on herself and begins to silently weep.
Julien hasn’t seen her cry in such a long time, and perhaps that’s why he reacts the way he does. He pulls her into his arms, and she does not resist him. She just buries her face in his torn, sweat-stained lapel and cries.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “Shhh. Just try to breathe, Nessa.”
A weak fist thumps against his chest, an attempt at chastisement that falls flat when she cannot muster words to go with it. All she can do is cry, and all he can do is hold her.
His mind is hazy from lack of food and lack of sleep, but he finds himself wondering what happened to them. They were young once, weren’t they? Indeed, by most standards, they still are.
Yet he feels like an old man: too addled to think, too weak to fight. And she acts like an old woman: resigned to a fate she cannot control.
“I will be with you,” he whispers into her hair. “I will be with you.”
She shudders, her hand clenching in his shirt. When she speaks, her voice is a ghost of itself, hushed and harrowed. “Please don’t leave me alone with him,” she pleads. “Please. I can’t bear it if he—if he—”
Julien shushes her. “I won’t let him. If you do not wish to see him, you will not see him. That much, I can promise.”
“You know you can’t promise me that,” she hiccups. “You know you can’t. What if he’s—what if he’s like the older ones? What if he’s like me?”
Julien sighs. Denial is a silly thing to voice when speaking on a matter so certain. “Of course the vile creature will be a sorcerer, just like all his wicked kin. Why else would his father be willing to send him off with two people like us, two people who want nothing more than revenge?”
“Do you think he’s as powerful as the older ones?” she insists.
“I can’t answer that, Nessa,” Julien whispers. “If you wish to follow this course, I will follow it with you… but so much will remain in the shadows until we seek it out and see it for ourselves.”
“Do you know the place they mentioned?”
He repeats the name, but the syllables feel strange upon his tongue: “Farid-ul-Dur.” He fights to place it, but he cannot. “I cannot say for certain. Perhaps I saw it once on a map, or perhaps I simply saw another Orcish name much like it. Regardless, I know nothing about the place.”
“I think it means something strange,” she tells him. “I think it means ‘Center of the Sky.’”
Julien’s nerves are so far gone that what is probably just a mistranslation slides under his skin like a razor. He tries not to think about it. If he thinks about just one more thing that doesn’t make sense, he’s going to have an episode.
He can’t do that to Aranessa. She’s torn up enough already. She doesn’t need to see him like that again—not now, not ever.
The shakes stopped two days ago, but the need rises in him again, the way it has countless times over so many years. It is less acute than it was in the miserable first three days, but he is desperate for it. The growling of his stomach means nothing compared to this miserable type of thirst.
He just needs a little. Just enough to calm his nerves. Yet there is none—and even if there were, he would best serve his lady if he had none.
Right now, Aranessa clings to him, holding onto him as if she were drowning and he was the one here to save her. He cannot help her, though. He is in the ice cold water up to his neck, and he is so very, very tired.
He has no right to touch her, and yet she sought this out, needing the warm memory of their childhood days more than she needs propriety.
“You will remain at her ladyship’s… pleasure.”
Ethrand’s words return to him, and he grits his teeth. People always talk about them like this, but in this setting, it is particularly vile.
Rumors about a man and a woman normally leave the man unscathed while dragging the woman through the mud, yet in speaking this one aloud, Ethrand was impugning them both. Not only does he think that Aranessa would fall into bed with Julien a few days after being widowed, but apparently, he also thinks Julien would make an advance on a terrified woman still reeling from loss.
Ethrand thinks these things about them not because of who or what they are, but because Ethrand is the kind of man who thinks forcing people to marry strangers is just fine. He thinks all kinds of awful things about people, because it helps him feel better about himself.
“I hate him,” he mutters into Aranessa’s hair. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”
Aranessa looks at him, her face just inches from his, and it is terrifying. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, tears running in rivulets down her blotchy cheeks, but the same resolve she mustered during that wretched “negotiation” has returned redoubled.
Her voice is tremulous, but her expression turns her shaky words into a vow. “I have never given much thought to revenge—but Julien, they will pay.” She sits up, wiping her face on her sleeve. “I swear to you on my husband’s grave: they will pay.”
He has never loved her more.