• • •
He snatched the hand from his face, snarling in fury, his knife coming up to press into her throat. “Never!” he hissed into her face, pressing the blade deeper.
Lemera whimpered, eyes wide with horror, her face quivering with terror, her head drawn back by the fist that grasped her hair, the smooth flesh of her throat exposed and vulnerable.
The air rushed from his lungs as he dropped the knife, twisting away from her to slump on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “What . . . what is it?” he said when the shaking had faded from his limbs.
Her reply was barely more than a whisper. “I heard shouting . . . You were dreaming . . .”
He glanced over his shoulder, taking note of the thin cotton shift that barely covered her, and the depth of fear lingering in her gaze. He turned away, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He had taken over the master’s bedchamber, a spacious display of wealth and luxury, the walls liberally adorned with various paintings, most depicting battles of implausible orderliness. The master himself featured in several, a more youthful version standing tall and proud, sword in hand as he commanded his men with stern-eyed courage, a singular contrast to the bloodied, begging ruin that had been left to expire in the courtyard when the slaves tired of him.
“I . . . have nightmares sometimes,” he told Lemera. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“I’ve been hurt worse.” He felt her weight shift on the bed then a hesitant touch to his back, her fingers spreading to explore the flesh. “You have fought so much, and yet no scars.”
“I had scars, they healed.”
“Weaver?”
“No.”
She drew back a little but made no effort to leave. Her face was shadowed but he had a sense she was smiling. “The sister said you were forbidden the touch of a woman. I thought she must be joking.”
“The Faith requires all we have.”
She shifted again, drawing her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, her head angled as she studied him, now more curious than amused. “And you are so willing to give it?”
“The Order is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“So the world beyond your Order offers no enticements?”
“I’ve seen the world, with all its enticements. I find myself content with the Order.”
“After training yesterday, Draker punched a man for telling a story. A strange tale of how you were taken to the palace, along with a woman possessed of vile magics. And together you killed your king. Was he lying?”
“No. He wasn’t lying and Draker shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yet your queen let you live and sent you here.”
“My actions were not my own. The woman’s magics bound me, compelled me to do terrible things.”
She straightened and he felt her eyes roaming his face. Although he couldn’t see her expression the intensity of her scrutiny was unnerving. He was about to tell her to leave again when she said, “So we are not so different, you and I.”
She uncoiled, lying down on the bed. “May I sleep here? Just tonight. I have dreams too.” She breathed a soft laugh at his evident hesitation. “I promise I’ll offer no . . . enticements.”
“There will be no victory for us, will there?” she asked in a whisper.
“Don’t say that. My queen sails to these shores with a great army. If we hold to our cause . . .”
“I was a slave, but never a fool. This empire is vast beyond imagining and we have killed but a fraction of the force they will bring against us. They will kill us, all of us, for we are slaves and we cannot be allowed even the barest hope of freedom. Without us, they have no empire.”
