There were touches of him in there, too. A bright red kilim rug he’d given her took pride of place in the room’s center. And, as usual, it had the fold marks from where it had been hurriedly spread-out and placed on the newly scrubbed floor just before he arrived. At all other times, it resided in an intricately carved wooden chest, another gift, well away from spills and dust and dirty feet. And no amount of persuasion on his part had been able to change that.
But other things were used. A pretty wooden ladle he’d bought her at a fair, now on a nail by the fire. A pile of scented soaps. An ivory carving of a camel that she kept on the mantle but refused to believe was real.
“You lie to me,” she’d declared from on top of him, her dark hair falling about his face, shielding him from the firelight, the rest of the room, the world.
“I don’t.” His hands moved up her back, marveling as always at the satin texture of her skin. “I bought it in a bazaar—”
“Then they lied to you.”
“—from a man who had worked on a caravan in his youth. The Turks use them as pack animals, and sometimes in combat, too—”
“Nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense,” he grinned. “You act like it’s a dragon.”
“I have the only dragon I want here,” she said, making Mircea’s hands tighten. “And anyway, dragons are real.”
“Of course they are.”
“It’s true! My mother saw one once.”
“Far be it from me to dispute a lady’s word.”
She sat up, giving him a view of her beautiful breasts painted with firelight. “If you ever saw one, my dragon, you wouldn’t bring me a statue of this kam-el!”
Mircea hadn’t had a response to that. Except to roll her over into the furs. And to stop their argument in the usual way.
He had tried to give her other things, expensive things, but she didn’t want them. Said they would only cause her problems in the village, which already suspected that her suitor wasn’t the traveling merchant he claimed to be. Of course, it wouldn’t matter for long. Soon, when things calmed down a little, he would tell his father about her, and this clandestine life would end. And then she would have everything he’d ever wanted to give her, everything she deserved; he would see to that.
But at the moment it was too risky. When you took a throne by force, as his father had, there were always going to be those who felt they had a right to do the same to you. His father was more worried about foreign threats: the growing power of the Turks, the increasingly insane demands from his suzerain in Hungary, the fluctuating politics of the surrounding states. But Mircea . . .
He was more worried about internal dangers.
Like distant family members with claims to the throne easily as good as his father’s. Like nobles with too much power, who were susceptible to bribes from those who offered them even more. Like courtiers who smiled and charmed and pleaded absolute devotion, yet could turn on them at a moment’s notice.
And while family was where a man took refuge, it was also where he was most vulnerable. Mircea wanted the country settled, pacified, calm, before he brought her anywhere near that snake pit of a court. And it was nowhere near that now.
But one day, it would be.
And then this would be his life, instead of a few stolen hours whenever he could break away.
A chunk of wood in the hearth shifted with a soft hiss. Fingers of light and shadow jumped over the bright wool blankets and soft gray furs heaped high on the bed, and highlighted the softer body snuggled against his. Mircea spread out his hands, to close them on velvet skin—
And felt only cold tree bark instead.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Didn’t understand why it was suddenly dark, with only the dim shapes of trunks all around. Didn’t understand where she’d gone.
Until he saw her, still standing in the doorway, talking to Horatiu. Not even knowing he was there. And it all came back again in a rush, the pain like a knife blade shoved between his ribs, the shock enough to knock the breath out of him and leave it hanging on the air.
Snow was falling, thin and icy. He hadn’t felt it. Could still only just feel it if he concentrated. Cold didn’t matter now, to what he was.
He leaned his head against the rough bark of the tree, panting. Trying to find something to rest his eyes on besides that seductive rectangle of gold. He didn’t find much, just boughs hanging heavy with yesterday’s snow, the boiling gray mist overhead, and, through it, the pale circle of the moon, fuzzy and indistinct.
The peasants told a story about the moon. They said she was once a beautiful girl, the sister of the sun. In fact, she was so beautiful that the sun was jealous of any other suitors, preferring to marry her himself. But as this was a sin, God stopped the wedding. And set them to rule over different parts of the day, so that they should never meet again.
Mircea had never thought much about the story. Until he had suddenly found himself living it. Only the positions were reversed: he couldn’t walk in day and his lover—how could he ask her to share this?
The hand resting on the trunk beside his face was a rash of red and flaking skin—healing blisters. Although they weren’t healing very fast. His new body seemed to prioritize, and it had needed most of its strength for clawing its way out of the grave his nobles had kindly dug for him.
And for other things.
His fingertips tentatively traced the red sickle of a wound that curved across his right cheekbone. He could still feel the bite of heat, still smell the smoke where the poker they’d used had scored his face, gouging a line almost to the bone. That was how his hand had been hurt, pulling it out of one of his captor’s grips, trying to shield himself. But they’d wrestled him to the ground, tied his arms behind his back, fisted a hand in his hair.
And used the poker to burn out his eyes.
The wound hadn’t become a scar yet. Still livid and puckered, it felt like a line of fire across his skin. But after a night of sightlessness and then another of grainy blur, his vision had returned. Too soon.
He could see her if he tried. Concentration seemed to focus this strange power of his, redirecting it however he chose. But he’d deliberately kept things soft. As vague as the forest seen through the fog.
Like what was left of his emotions.
He’d spent most of the last three days half mad, horror-struck and terrified. His nobles were still scouring the area for members of his family; he had to get away. But once he met up with his old tutor, he’d had presence of mind enough to send him to her before he fled. Along with most of the money he’d had with him when he was taken.
He wished it could have been more, but he couldn’t risk going back for anything. Not in his current shape. But it was a fortune by peasant standards, enough to keep her well for years to come.