Master and Fool

Drip. Drip.
Drip.
The waterclock turned another degree, sending a cup full of water
trickling to the bowl. One more round and the hour would strike. The same hour
on the same day that a month ago had marked her marriage to the duke.

Melli settled
herself in the most comfortable chair in the most comfortable room in the
house. Even as she drew her feet from the floor, her thumb found its way to her
mouth. With her other hand she cradled her belly and then began to rock back
and forth. She was a widow with no black to wear, no body to wrap, no wedding
night to remember through the mourning. Not a widow at all by Bren's reckoning.

Oh, but they were
wrong. All of them: from Lord Baralis to her father, from Traff to Tawl, from
the Duchess Catherine to the lowliest stableboy. Each and every one of them as
wrong as they could be.

Back and forth
Melli rocked. Back and forth, back and forth, back, back, back.

Back to the
wedding day. Back to the chapel. Back to the one single hour she and the duke
spent as man and wife.

The smell of
incense and flowers accompanied them as they turned from the altar and walked
down the aisle. The duke's hand was cool, his grip firm. The chapel doors were
drawn back and somewhere bells began to ring. One hundred pairs of eyes were
focused upon them, , yet Melli saw no one but Tawl. In a church full of people
feigning joy, the knight's face seemed too honest by far. He bowed as they
passed, and as his face fell into shadow, he gave everything away. Regret, raw
and unmistakable, was marked in each feature that he bent toward the floor.

Quickly, Melli
glanced at the duke. He had seen nothing; his eyes looked only ahead.

Through the palace
they walked; guards in blue to either side, Tawl's footfalls sounding from
behind. Melli felt as if she were dreaming, everything had happened so fast:
the courtship, the proposal, the marriage. Too fast. She felt drunk with the
sheer speed of events, dizzy with the importance of it all. This was more than
a marriage-this was a strategy for peace. The duke loved her, she did not doubt
that, but it was a love prompted by expediency: he needed an heir and a wife to
provide him with one. The marriage was as good as a treaty. And the wedding
night would be ink for the signing.

Melli knew all
this, but as she walked toward the duke's chamber it began to matter less and
less. Her heavy satin gown rubbed against her breasts. She could feel the
effects of the ceremonial wine on her cheeks, on the furrow of her tongue and
belly deep within. Such strong fare for a fastening, the priests must have
distilled it themselves. Melli shifted her fingers within the duke's grasp, and
he turned to look at her. "Not long now, my love," he whispered.

The richness of
his voice made up for the thinness of his lips. His hand now felt a little
damp, whether from her sweat or his own no longer mattered. Yes, this was part
marriage of convenience, but love and passion were equal partners at the join.
Indeed, tonight they would reign supreme.

They arrived at
their destination within a matter of minutes. The last quarter league had been
almost a race, with the duke speeding along the corridors just short of a
sprint. Tawl had matched him step for step. Eight men waited at the entrance to
the duke's chambers, spears crossed in honor, chivalrous in their averted
glances. The double doors were opened and the duke bore Melli forward. As he
guided her toward the doorway, Melli looked back. Tawl was gone. Her heart
fluttered a tiny warning, but the duke's presence-so solid and
reassuring-canceled out her feelings of unease. By the time the door closed
behind them, Melli couldn't even remember what she was worried about. Nothing
mattered anymore.

They were in a
small vestibule with a short flight of stairs leading up to the chambers. A
matching pair of double doors marked the top. As her foot found the first step,
Melli felt the duke's hand on her waist. With a firm grip he guided her round.

"I would kiss
my wife on the threshold," he said. His voice was unfamiliar to her: a
stranger's voice. Low and guttural, it was thick with something that Melli had
no name for. His lips were on hers, pressing so hard she could feel the teeth
beneath. His tongue followed after. Thin and dry and tough as old leather, it
bore the vestiges of his last meal on its length. Melli's foot hovered above
the step a moment longer, and then she brought it to rest against the duke's
leg.

Up came her tongue
from the bottom of her mouth, back arching inward, arms rising upward, lips
pressing forward jaw to jaw. Half-mad with newly discovered need, Melli leant
against the duke for support.

He pulled away.
"Come, my love, I will take you to our marriage bed."

Before the words
were out of his mouth, she was pushing them back down with her tongue. The
thing inside of her was too strong to be delayed. To be deprived of the duke's
body even for an instant was too long. He fought her at first, arms pushing her
forward, hand in the small of her back, but she fought back in her newfound
way, biting his ears and breathing moist hot breaths on his neck.

"Damn you,
Melliandra," he murmured as he drew her close. "You're enough to
drive a man insane."

The words excited
Melli more than any kiss. Throwing back her head, she offered him her breasts.
A sharp intake of breath, and then she found herself lying back against the
stairs. One solitary lantern lit the duke from behind. At first she was
surprised by his knowledge of her clothing: it didn't seem right that a man
should deal so deftly with .petticoats and underdrawers. An instant later she
was glad of it. Better a man who knew what he was doing than the fumbling
youths at court. The duke didn't bother to unlace her bodice or unfasten the
hooks on her skirt; he raised the fabric up around her waist and went to work
on the linen below.

The stone steps
bit into Melli's back. Consecrated wine ran heavy in her blood, carrying
fragments of memory along for the ride: kisses and caresses and touches from
the past. Jack, Edrad-Melli stiffened for an instant and Baralis. A long,
crooked finger drawn down a back raised with welts. Despite herself, Melli's
spine arched more.

Pain splintered
her thoughts. Her legs had long parted of their own accord, and she felt a
tearing between. She wanted to scream, but the duke's tongue was whip-sharp in
her mouth and Baralis' image was blade-keen in her mind. The pain seemed to
fold in on itself, creating a vacuum that demanded to be filled. Melli's
forgers no longer formed fists, they became claws. The comer of the step was a
hand upon her spine. The man above no more than a silhouette against the light.
Need was the only thing that counted, and everything-wine, pain, and
memories-served to heighten the need.

Too soon it came.
Too quickly it was over. Too little to justify the means. Melli's breaths were
ragged, irregular. She wanted more.

Something warm and
mercury-heavy trickled down the length of her thigh. Her gaze alighted on the
ceiling: stone capped with brass. The duke, for he was now himself once more,
stood over her and tore off the fabric at his tunic's cuff.

"Here,"
he said, handing her the length of heavily embroidered linen. "Clean
yourself up. There is a lot of blood." His tone was cold, almost
disapproving.

Melli turned away
from him and did what she was told. She was ashamed, confused, brought down to
earth with an unsettling jolt. Had she done something to displease him?

The blood was not
easy to wipe clean. It was dark and fast to dry. Melli had to spit on the cloth
to bring it off. As she rubbed away the last of it, the duke spoke up from
behind.

"Would that
we had waited for the marriage bed. This is not the place to show you love's
pleasures."

Melli stood up.
Her legs were weak, her senses slow to rally. A dull pain sounded in her side.
"You did not enjoy it?" she asked.

The duke came
forward and smoothed down her dress. He did not look at her as he said,
"It would have been better for you if you were comfortable."

Sensing something
close to embarrassment in the duke's voice, Melli stretched out her arm.
"Come then, let us try again."

The duke smiled,
his first since the wedding. "You bewitch me," he said.

Melli began to
ascend the stairs. "I've never been called a witch before, though I was
once called a thief."

"You steal
men's hearts?"

"No. Their
fates." As Melli spoke, a shudder went down her spine. The words were not
her own, they belonged to another woman. A woman from the Far South who was an
assistant to a flesh-trader.
"Where I come from, we call people like
her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And
what they can't bend they steal. "

Melli's hand was
on the door. The duke was just behind her. She pushed against the brass plate
and entered the chambers first. They were in the duke's study. Melli remembered
it well. Two desks were laid out with food. Cold roast beef, ham and venison,
sweetmeats, wafers, and pies. The crest of Bren was sculpted in spun sugar.

The duke made his
way over to the nearest table and poured them each a cup of wine. For the first
time Melli noticed his sword about his waist. Had he worn it through the
lovemaking? Surely not.

He held out the
cup of wine for her to take... "Let us eat a little to regain our
strength," he said, smiling gently. Melli was by his side in an instant.
She took the cup and set it down. With hands shaking, she felt for the hilt of
his sword. The duke's eyes flashed a warning. She igpored it and pulled the
sword from its loop. It was heavy, solid, good in the hand. "You won't be
needing this," she said, laying it flat upon the desk.

"Melli--"

She cut off his
protest with a kiss. "Let us eat later. The food is cold, a little longer
will do it no harm." What was started on the stairs needed to be
finished-for her at least. It seemed the duke had already taken his pleasure.
She clasped at his fingers. "Take me to the bedchamber."

The duke's eyes
were a match for his blade. He took hold of her arm, not gently. "Very
well," he said. "It seems I cannot keep my lady waiting." Twisting
her arm behind her back, he walked Melli to the bedchamber.

She saw the
assassin first. He was at the side of the door, knife up close to his chest.
Melli screamed. The duke pushed her forward with one hand and reached for his
sword with the other. It wasn't there. He hesitated for only a halfsecond, but
it was more than enough. The assassin was at his throat. His blade was long,
his hand was quick. It was over in less than an instant.

Melli screamed and
screamed and no one came. Blood soaked the duke's tunic even before his body
fell to the floor. The assassin's name came to her: Traff, Baralis' mercenary.
After that one last feat of coherence, her mind seemed to give in. She could
remember nothing that followed. Except Tawl. The knight came and although
nothing was, or ever would be, all right again, at least he made sure she was
safe. Tawl would take care of her always-she didn't need her mind to tell her
that. Her heart already knew.

Back and forward
Melli rocked. Forward, forward, forward.

The waterclock
turned another degree. One month to the minute now. One month a widow, one
month in hiding, one month with no blood to show.

There had been
more than a wedding that day, there was a union as well. The marriage
had
been
consummated, and she was the only person in the Known Lands who knew it. Not
for long, though. Melli's hand cradled her belly. The last time blood had
flowed between her legs had been on the stairs leading to the duke's chamber.
Breaching blood, not menses. There had been nothing since.

A child was
growing inside: the duke's child, and if it was a boy, his heir. Melli spread
her fingers full-out upon her belly. How would the city of Bren take the news?
The answer was quick to come. They would try and discredit her, claim the duke
was not the father, or that the child was begotten out of wedlock. Lies and
slander would be thrown her way-indeed, by many she was already counted an
accomplice to murder. None of it mattered anymore. The only thing that counted
was keeping the new life safe.

In eight months
time a baby would be born, and everything-her life, her strength, her very
soul-would be directed toward its protection. She had taken the duke's sword
and stolen his fate, and this was either penalty or payment.

Melli stood up and
put a hand to the waterclock, tipping the liquid from the cone. Prematurely it
struck the next hour: Melli wished that all hours would pass so fast. She was
impatient for the child to be born.