Crimson's Captivation (15 page)

“But how will you remember? They say horror’s
can’t remember much of their past and who’s to say you won’t forget
me?”

Sena sighed. “Tell me all about this Viktor.
Make me remember.”

Crimson rolled to her side and rested her
head on her outstretched arms. She could barely make out the shape
of Sena. “The thing is … he’s beautiful. Not the strong-featured
beauty you’d suspect, but an easy, delicate beauty. And he’s
determined, Sena. I’ve never seen someone so determined. It’s
actually intimidating at times. I know he’s trying to find me. I
can feel it like a breath if I concentrate. I can feel its warmth,
its vapor flow over my lips.”

“Yes, he sounds lovely and in love. How would
I know it’s Viktor if I were to find him?”

“He has a birthmark, the shape of Cygnus on
the left of his neck. It’s the shape of a large cross. And on his
right collarbone, another birthmark, the shape of a crescent
moon.”

Sena sighed. “Sounds enchanting. How many
times have you kissed each?”

Crimson giggled. “I have, many times. My
tongue knows the shapes of each birthmark as if they were each
words.”

Sena shifted. “Then, kiss me, Crimson. Kiss
me as though I were Viktor. Make me retain him.”

“Kiss you?”

“Yes, kiss me and tongue the shapes of his
birthmarks.”

Crimson closed her eyes, rotated toward Sena
and found her lips with her own. She kissed Sena softly and placed
her hand on Sena’s waist. Soon the tenderness parted, Crimson’s
tongue found Sena’s and she traced Viktor’s birthmarks.

Sena’s breathing labored, her legs entangled
in Crimson’s and her hand found the soft skin of Crimson’s throat.
She could feel the base muscles of Crimson’s tongue as she traced
the shapes over and over on her own tongue.

Sena’s eyes closed, and she lost herself in
the shape of a cross then a moon, a cross then a moon.

* * * *

Tor woke to find his wife sleeping beside
him. Earlier that evening, as they prepared to retire, she told him
of the lashing she ordered for Sergen and Darya, how she felt that
the punishment for Sergen was appropriate, but wondered if she had
done the right thing with Darya.

“She doesn’t respect my orders, Tor. She’s
completely insolent and feels she can do as she pleases,” she said
as she stretched out on their bed and stared at the ceiling. “How
am I to run this palace if she doesn’t respect me? My orders were
clear. She was not to have Sergen. Yet she undermined my
authority.” She pulled the covers to her chin. “Now I’m certain she
hates me, but what could I have done differently?”

Tor knew her questions were rhetorical. He
knew she was only venting and didn’t really want an answer. He knew
she certainly didn’t want to debate the unpleasantness of
punishment, whether it was an incentive to reform or not.

“I agree,” he kept repeating when the answer
was expected. “I see,” he’d respond when he wasn’t sure of the
correct response, but all the while his thoughts were of Crimson.
Since the auction house, all he wanted to do was take her, have his
way with her, but asking the countess for permission required
proper timing and she definitely wasn’t in the mood this evening.
The countess had a jealous streak. If she for a moment felt as if
someone had bested her, was one notch above her, her temper would
burn for all to see and no one would have any fun. But the thoughts
of Crimson plagued his mind and he had waited patiently for days.
He wanted her. It was an urge as strong and compelling as hunger
and seemed to rumble in his psyche.

He sat up in bed, whispered that he was going
to the bathroom, and waited. The countess didn’t respond. He
slipped out of bed, stopped at the threshold of the door, and
waited again to see if the countess would stir. When she didn’t, he
softly closed the door behind him and snuck down the hallway. He
stopped at Darya’s room and creaked open the door. She wasn’t in
her room and this concerned him, but it was a selfish concern. If
the countess woke to find him and her daughter missing, she would
not hesitate to wake and search the entire palace. She would demand
answers and none given would be satisfactory until everyone was
miserable. Then in the direction of the courtyard, he heard Darya
and someone else, a female it sounded like, whispering. He stepped
into Darya’s room, silently closed the door.

Moments later, Darya slowly opened her door
and crept in. She was shocked to find her father in her room.
“Father, what are you doing here?”

“Where have you been, Darya? Your mother
would have a fit if she found you had left your room. She’s already
on edge with you.”

Darya closed the door and sat on the edge of
her bed. She flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling, “Mother
would throw a fit, regardless. Honestly, father, I don’t see how
you’ve managed to stay with her all these years.”

Tor sat on the bed and placed his hand on his
daughter’s knee. “Listen, a house, a palace even as big as this one
is, isn’t meant to house two women. Your mother hasn’t changed.
She’s still the same woman you loved as a child, but you’ve
changed. You’ve gotten older and have come into your own. I think
it’s time we try to find you a suitor. What do you think?”

Darya sighed and sat up, she noticed that her
feet barely touched the floor and it made her feel small. “I’ve
already found one, Sergen. He’s magnificent.” She rubbed her left
foot over her right and thought of Sergen’s touch on her skin.

Tor wrapped his fingers around hers. “Of
course, he is, he’s suppose to be. That’s why I bought him, Darya.
But he’s not a suitor. He can’t provide beyond the physical and
that just isn’t enough. What of Prince Grigory from Harkov? I’ve
seen the way you blush when he is near and his father is of great
nobility. Grigory is a proper suitor.”

Darya thought of her last brush with Grigory.
“He is cute, but he never pursued me. Sergen just took me. Grigory
is a boy like Uric, but Sergen is a man.”

“I see.”

“You do?” Darya responded in disbelief.

“Sure, who wouldn’t want to be pursued? To be
taken? Pulled along by invisible reins of destiny. But you can have
both, you know. You’re in a position that the commoners of our
country are not. You too can one day administer a palace. You can
have the security a noble name provides and stock all the Sergen’s
that you want. Do you not see that?”

“But what about love?”

“Yes, what about love. You know what I’ve
learned?”

“What?”

“Love fades. By nature, love changes. It has
to because it grows just as you have and I’ve watched you change
over these last few years. And sometimes, even though we are in
deep, deep love at the beginning, the change is not satisfactory.
You love Sergen now and those emotions are powerful, even blinding,
but it may not be because he’s your soul mate. You’ve only just met
him. He may have just awakened something inside you, something you
love to feel. Something you love about a moment that you were able
to share with each other. Wisdom, one day, will teach you that
isn’t a love that lasts.”

He patted her on the knee, stood, and made
his way to her door. Before exiting, he turned and said, “I’ll
arrange a party so that you and Grigory can meet. In the meantime,
stay clear of your mother for a while. Let her dwell on what
happened today. She feels bad about it, but she’ll never let you
know.”

“Thanks, Father.”

“Darya?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you whispering with earlier? Before
you returned to your room?”

“No one, really. It was nothing.”

Tor closed the door behind him and made his
way back to his bedroom. He climbed into bed, still thinking of
Crimson as he kissed his wife on the forehead. He thought of
arousing her, but knew it was pointless. Love had long ago
abandoned them.

Chapter V

~ Safe in the Morning Sun ~

King Charles awoke and brushed the freshly
fallen snow off his blanket. The sun sat on the horizon of Russia
and the sky overhead was clear, not a single cloud, just the
blueness of the heavens above. It was a perfect morning to make
their way southwest and he hoped the trip would be uneventful. He
pulled off his wool socks and checked his toes, relieved that they
were pink and not the black of death he had feared. At most, he
might lose a toenail or two, a small cost to pay for the rescue of
his sister. He replaced his socks, pulled on his boots, and
stretched his limbs, surprised that alarms didn’t blare throughout
the night.

After rousing himself, he searched and found
the rather rotund soldier who prepared the meal the night before.
He shook him awake. “Find some root and make warm fluid,” he
ordered.

The soldier stirred and responded without
looking at the king, “We have tea leaves as part of our
provisions.”

“Find a local root and do as I say. Do you
want to know why?”

“Yes, sir,” he responded when he realized he
was speaking with the king, “but I’m not a cook.”

“First, because it’s an order. Second,
because consuming local herbs boosts immunity. You’re our cook now.
I suspect by your girth that you know a lot about food. Do as I say
and be quick about it.”

“Yes, sir.” The young soldier found his
civilian clothes were dry and after he dressed he trudged off into
the woods looking for something, anything to please the king. He
found a Tilia tree but no flowers with which to make tea. After
removing snow to expose the ground around the base of the tree, he
hacked off several sections of Tilia root. Its scent reminded him
of lime blossom and it would have to do. Back at the camp, he
placed the root and several feet of snow into a pot and set it on
the fire. The other men started to wake and move about.

The king found his commander near the banks
of the river. “No alarms last night? Sentry reports are good?”

“Yes, sir, nothing but silence in the woods
this last evening.”

“Very well. A group of men are out looking
for game?”

“They have already returned. They felled a
moose, field dressed it, and it is being prepared as we speak.”

“Splendid! Ensure the men get their fill. We
ride south in a bit. Did the men check their feet?”

“Yes, sir, six men are not well. Their feet
have been in bad repair for some time, even before we left Narva.
I’m afraid the trek through the frigid river only made matters
worse.”

The king slammed his fist on his thigh in
anger. “Damn! Send the six injured and one healthy one back to
Riga. Instruct the healthy one to care for and preserve their
state. He shouldn’t let their injuries get worse.”

“Yes, my king. Do you want replacements in
return?”

“No. No replacements. I plan to move quickly
through this forest. The quicker it lies behind us, the better.
Have the healthy one report to Rehnschiöld our position, progress,
and expected return date. Tell him there are strange wolves on this
part of the map.”

King Charles made his way to the grave of the
horror that was buried the night before. He was delighted to see
the wild rose branches still in place. The horror hadn’t escaped
death, as he had feared. He had dreamed he would find the burial
plot burst open like a backside of a gunshot wound. But something
did concern him. All around the grave plot were footprints--paw
prints, really. It was as if an entire clan of wolves came to the
site to pay their respects. And what he noticed next dumbfounded
him and brought about feelings of fear. The revelation ran through
his body and activated every small muscle attached to every single
hair on the back of his neck. He double checked to make sure but
was certain they arrived on paws but departed on feet.

The injured men were collected, the worst of
the injured were placed on quickly fabricated sleighs, and there
was no shortage of volunteers for the lone position of caretaker.
After the injured repacked their provisions, they headed northwest
towards Riga. Out of earshot, the men silently thanked God for the
simple reprieve of not having to endure this suicide mission.

The remaining men filled themselves with
moose meat and warm tea. The camp was torn down. A horn blew and
they mounted their horses and headed southwest towards Pinsk. All
were in good spirits and joking with one another—everyone except
the king. He kept a stern eye out for trouble. He was convinced
there were unknown horrors in these woods.

At first, they made good time through the low
hills and around the mire of lakes that spattered the landscape,
but their travel south was slowed by the dense spruce and pine that
seemed to appear from nowhere. The woods were so thick at times
that the canopy seemed to capture all the light and left the forest
floor in complete darkness.

When they were deep in the woods, the king
raised his hand, balled it into a fist, and the troop of men behind
him halted. The commander rode up to his side.

“Is something wrong?”

“Shush …” The king implored, his eyes probing
the darkened path ahead.

The commander held his breath and listened
intently. He didn’t hear anything. “Sir, I don’t hear anything?” he
whispered.

“I heard howls to our left,” the king
whispered back as he brought his forefinger to his lips denoting
silence.

“So, wolves, sir. Nothing to be afraid
of.”

The woods were eerily quiet. No sound at all,
only the occasional neighing of a horse. The commander backed
around the king and came up on his right side. “Sir, I still don’t
hear anything. Should I call the men to formation?”

“Shush …”

And then the commander heard it. He heard the
same thing the king had heard moments earlier. A howl deep in the
woods, then a return howl echoed through the dense forest, but the
howls had a human quality as if they were speaking, communicating.
It sent shivers over the commander’s arms and his horse bucked and
backed away. He reined the animal in and situated himself beside
the king. “Sir, that is, in a word, unnatural. I sensed them, the
wolves in the distance. It’s almost as if they are speaking to one
another?”